“Damn right,” I say with a laugh, feeling lighter than ever. I'm eager to talk to her, to tell her it doesn't matter about the money, that I need her in my life.
We're just about to cross the street when my phone buzzes again, and I pull it out, wondering who's texting me now. My heart jumps into my throat when I see that the text is from Peter.
Never, ever lie to me again. You're next.
“What the fuck?” I ask, but before I can show the text to Nathan, a red sports sedan pulls into the parking lot, the side windows rolling down. “No... NO!”
The shooter fires four times, the shots loud in the muggy Miami air, one of them catching Katrina in the forehead, where a giant fountain of blood goes flying. She crumples to the ground, and I'm trying to jerk the handle on my door, but Nathan's already slammed his foot to the gas, throwing me into my seat. “What are you doing? She's hurt!”
“She's dead!” Nathan yells, following the red sports car. “But we can get this bastard!”
His words sink in, and I look out the front window, nodding. “Get him.”
Nathan's Tahoe is big, and he's kept it in good shape, but the sports sedan is thousands of pounds lighter, lower to the ground, and more agile as it weaves through the traffic in front of us. We chase for over a mile, and in the distance, I can hear police sirens approaching. The car whips around a corner, and Nathan tries to follow, but his Tahoe is too big, and we spin out, nearly tipping over.
“No... no, NO!” Nathan yells, getting out of the driver's side and reaching to his hip, but his gun isn't there, and he realizes it. I'm out too, but the red car is gone, out of sight turning another corner, and I sink to my knees, going into shock. Nathan comes up and grabs me, dragging me to my feet. “Come on, Jackson. There's nothing we can do here. Let's go.”
“Go?” I ask, stupefied. “Go where?”
“Out of here for one,” he says, pulling me toward the Tahoe where Maverick is up and barking loudly. “You can't get whoever did this if the cops find us. Let's go.”
Chapter 25
Jackson
It takes Nathan eighteen hours to get us back to New Orleans, mainly because we couldn't just get on the road and go. First, he drove me quickly back to the hotel, where I spent ten minutes grabbing my shit before we peeled out. In the panhandle, at around one in the morning, he pulled into a rest stop to crash for a few hours, power-napping.
I'd like to say I was helpful during the drive, or at least coherent. Instead, I was sitting in a state of shock, sleeping some of the time, staring blankly out the window the rest. I ate when Nathan passed me a cheeseburger, and I drank from a straw, but that was it.
About an hour outside New Orleans, Nathan pulls into another rest stop, and shuts off the engine. “Jackson, we need to talk.”
“About what?” I ask listlessly. I just saw the woman that I wanted to make a future with catch a bullet to the brain, and now you want to talk? What the fuck is your problem?
“About what we're going to do when we get back to New Orleans. I was thinking... I'd like to drop you off at Katrina's place for a few days. I know it's going to have painful memories, but you don’t need to be at the plantation right now.”
“Why not?” I ask, turning my dead eyes to Nathan. “I just need five minutes. Go in, you lend me your 1911, and I put five rounds in Peter. Last one in the brain, just like he had the shooter do to Katrina. Balances out.”
Nathan shakes his head slowly and clears his throat. “Do that, and you'll be dead before you even reach the front door. You know I'm not the only person working security at the house, and I am sure that he's got someone else watching his back now at all times.”
“Who gives a fuck?” I protest, anger at least somewhat burning the lethargy of the past hours away. “She got her fucking brains blown out, Nathan. He deserves to die simply because of that.”
“Is that what she'd want you to do?” Nathan asks quietly. “She was willing to die, I know that. But did she want you to die, too? Or did she do everything she could to make sure that you stayed safe and protected as well? I know what I saw, even if it was from a distance.”
I think about it and shake my head. “It doesn't matter. She deserves justice.”
“That may be, but I'm going to say something else, and you may not like it, but I'm doing this because I've come to respect you, Jackson,” Nathan says quietly. “Katrina trained for what, nearly a decade, and she was still caught dead by Peter's men and money? You're pissed off and untrained. You need time to let this soak in, and to plan what to do next.”
I think about it, and nod. “Fine. Take me to the loft. But keep me up to date with what's happening at the house. If things calm down, or if I think I can tolerate it, I'll come back for a bit.”