He dialed Saint. “I’m on I-10. How far ahead of me are they?”
“They got on the Interstate twenty minutes ago. She just asked where they’re going and he didn’t answer. She’s starting to sound scared. We don’t think she knows for sure if we’re listening, and I’m guessing she’s beginning to think she’s on her own.”
How could she not know he’d come for her no matter what? “Call me if anything changes.” He dropped the phone onto the passenger seat and swerved into the right lane, passing a van traveling at least five miles under the speed limit. “Slower traffic keep right,” he yelled as he moved ahead of the idiot. What was wrong with these people?
Hoping she’d keep to the seventy-mile-per-hour limit or under, he calculated how long it’d take to catch up with them if he drove ninety miles per hour. In a little over an hour—as long as no cops got in his way—he’d have her in his sights.
That she’d thought to turn on her phone was impressive. Although the tracking device would lead him to her, it helped that someone was listening and evaluating her stress level. So far, it appeared she was keeping her cool, but how long would that last?
Less than twenty minutes later, his phone buzzed and he grabbed it, punched “Speaker” and set it on the console so he could keep both hands on the wheel. “Whatcha got?”
“We’re listening in on all the police radios . . . city, county, and state. The owner of the Ford reported his car stolen so the cops have the model and tag number. It’s a 2009 Fusion, moss-green metallic, and they’ve got an APB out on it.”
Jake memorized the tag number Saint gave him. Another forty minutes at most and he should catch up to them. He glanced at the speedometer and eased off the gas, bringing his speed back down to ninety. As much as he’d like to push the Mustang to its limits, someone would probably call 911 on him if he blew by them doing over one-twenty. Last thing he needed was a cop on his ass.
“Uh-oh.”
He heard someone speaking in the background. “What? Talk to me, Saint.”
“A state trooper just radioed in and verified the tag number. He’s behind them.”
“Does he know the bastard’s got a gun?”
“Hold on a sec.”
To hell with watching his speed. Hoping people would assume he was an undercover cop, he turned on his lights and his hazards, then pressed the pedal to the floor. The Mustang shot ahead as if it’d been catapulted out of a slingshot. Thank God Maria loved fast cars.
“Okay, the trooper turned on his siren about two seconds before his supervisor told him to wait for backup. Fortunada’s ordering Maria to run, but she’s refusing. I’m putting Maria on speaker so you can listen for yourself.” Jake steeled himself to hear her voice, wishing there was some way to let her know he was listening.
“He’s probably stopping us because I was going a little too fast. If we run, he’ll have every cop in the area after us, maybe even helicopters. You need to stay calm, Mr. Fortunada, or he’ll get suspicious. And keep that gun out of sight.”
Good girl, just keep staying cool. Hearing her voice, Jake wanted to crawl through the phone and snatch her out of danger. A car changed lanes in front of him and he laid on the horn, passing it on the shoulder. Once a year, Kincaid signed all of them up for a week of intensive race car driving school, and Jake suddenly felt a deep appreciation for the man’s foresight.
“Take that exit, then pull over.”
Damn, Fortunada sounded panicky. “How far away am I from them?” he asked, knowing Saint would be tracking his phone.
“As fast as you’re moving on my map, I’d say twenty minutes.”
Too much could happen in twenty minutes. “What exit are they taking?”
“The Caryville exit, 104. Unfortunately, it’s isolated. No stations or food joints.”
Jake had a bad feeling the situation was headed south fast. This was no traffic violation stop, and the trooper would be as on edge as Fortunada. As he listened to the heated conversation between Maria and Fortunada, it was obvious they were both losing it.
“What the hell’s going on?” he asked when their voices faded in and out.
“Either her battery’s dying or there’s spotty service where they are. Ken thinks it’s a service problem.”
If their tech geek said it was the service, then that’s what it was. Straining to hear over the static, he could only make out a word here and there. With what he could pick up, it sounded like the trooper was ordering them out of the car and Fortunada was refusing.