Halloway dropped the cruiser into drive. Instead of flipping the light bar back on or turning north toward the county seat and the official precinct house, he jerked the steering wheel hard to the left, cutting across the oncoming lane and turning down an unpaved service trail marked only by a rusted metal sign: *NO TRESPASSING — COUNTY WATER AUTHORITY*.
The cruiser’s suspension groaned as the tires hit deep ruts in the sun-baked clay. Dust rose behind them in an impenetrable screen, blotting out County Road Nine, blotting out her stranded car, blotting out the last civilized connection to the world she had left behind.
In the back seat, Victoria leaned her head back against the cage wall and closed her eyes.
She wasn't afraid. Fear was an emotional tax she couldn't afford to pay, not when her tactical clock was running. Instead, she began running the physical audit of her situation.
Her wrists were numb from the lack of circulation. Vance had ratcheted the left cuff directly over the radial nerve, sending tiny, stinging needles of fire shooting up into her thumb and forefinger. She rotated her wrists slowly, sliding the flat edge of her right forearm against the left cuff to create a microscopic fraction of slack.
In the waistband of her denim shorts, nestled horizontally against the small of her back just above the beltline, was a secondary tool: a plastic-coated, ceramic universal cuff key, no thicker than a toothpick. It was standard issue for deep-cover field agents operating in high-risk rural districts where local law enforcement was compromised.
She didn't reach for it. Not yet. Unlocking the cuffs inside the cruiser while two armed deputies sat three feet in front of her would be suicidal. As long as they thought she was restrained and helpless, they would treat her as cargo rather than an immediate physical threat.
The car rattled over a wooden cattle guard, the timbers booming under the weight of the SUV.
Victoria opened her eyes and looked through the side window.
The scenery had turned desolate. The open pastures had given way to dense, tangled thickets of cedar and scrub oak, pressing close against the single-lane dirt track. The limestone bluffs rose sharply to the right, towering fifty feet above the trail like ancient, scarred teeth. This was the old quarry district—land abandoned thirty years ago after the limestone ran thin and the drainage ponds filled with toxic industrial runoff.
No cell service out here. Her phone, even if Halloway hadn't turned it off, would have dropped from three bars to zero three miles back.
"Greg," Vance said from the front passenger seat. He hadn't stopped turning his head to look back at her every thirty seconds. "What are we doing? Tell me what Uncle Ray said. Exactly what he said."
"He said bring her to the shed," Halloway muttered, his hands gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles were chalky white. "He said he’s coming out from the lodge."
"Why the shed, man? Why not the courthouse? We could have processed her into the system, claimed she assaulted you during a stop, called the county attorney—"
"The county attorney isn't going to fight the state Attorney General, you idiot!" Halloway snapped, slamming his fist against the center console. "Did you look at that badge? Did you read the division? Public Integrity! That’s the tiger team! They don't send Public Integrity unless they already have a grand jury convened in the capital! She didn't stumble across us, Bobby. She was *hunting* us!"
"Then we’re dead," Vance whimpered, his face gray. "We’re done."
"Shut your damn mouth and let me think!"
Chương 7
Victoria leaned forward as far as the handcuffs permitted, speaking through the perforations in the plastic partition.
"He’s right, Deputy Vance," she said smoothly. "You are hunting partners with an elephant, and you're the one who’s going to get stepped on. Ask Halloway how many bank accounts he has in his wife’s maiden name. Ask him where the ten thousand dollars from the Miller case went last October."
Halloway’s eyes shot to the rearview mirror, wide and bloodshot. "Don't you listen to her, Bobby."
"You remember the Miller stop, don't you, Vance?" Victoria pressed, her voice a calm, rhythmic hammer striking an exposed nerve. "A young mother driving an old station wagon through from Missouri. You found three hundred dollars in cash in her purse, took it as 'suspected drug proceeds,' and let her go without a receipt. You thought it was petty cash. But the Attorney General’s financial unit flagged the deposit in Halloway’s private account forty-eight hours later. You took the risk, Bobby. Halloway took the money."
Vance slowly turned his head to stare at his partner. "Greg... what is she talking about?"
"She’s lying!" Halloway screamed, spitting against the windshield. "She’s trying to split us up! That’s what these state spooks do! They get inside your head!"
"Check your own bank records when you get home," Victoria said quietly. "If you make it home. Because Raymond Vance didn't tell you to bring me to the bluffs to protect you, Bobby. He told you to bring me here because once an officer is involved in an off-the-books detainment of a state agent, that officer belongs to him forever. You aren't his nephew today, Deputy. You’re his collateral."
"Shut up!" Halloway slammed on the brakes.
The cruiser skidded to a halt in a wide, limestone-dusted clearing.
Ahead of them sat the old processing shed: a squat, windowless structure made of corrugated steel and water-stained cinderblock, half-swallowed by creeping kudzu and wild sumac. The rusted corrugated roof sagged in the center, and a heavy padlock hung from a chain wrapped around the double doors.