Don’t Bite the Messenger Read online

  I hit the gas and shifted with a lurch. The little coupe in front of me tapped its brakes. I roared past, hands firm on the wheel. I’d bought the Bronco because it could hold a surfboard and a cooler and climb Haleakala without sputtering, but it wasn’t what you’d call an easy handle.

  I passed the spot where the Impala had gone off the road. A big man sat there, idly rubbing a hand over his face. My broken-faced chauffeur must have gotten him to stop—almost nobody on the islands would drive past someone in need—and then Tasered him. Only a dick would take advantage of the Aloha spirit. I swung around a minivan full of tourists all facing the other way and snapped back into my lane in time to avoid a little work truck. Then I put the pedal to the floor, hunching down as the wind grabbed at my hair, smiling from ear to ear.

  The truck dogged me, skidding about and running the minivan off the road onto gravel. I gained a little distance, but it didn’t matter. He knew where I was going, and there was only the one road. I couldn’t outrun him.

  My tires squealed as I slid onto the Hana Highway without stopping. The Tundra fell back as it leapfrogged through a cluster of traffic. My cell phone sat beside me, still and useless. Had they already gotten to Malcolm? Surely he would have sensed them coming, and he was ruthless when he fought. Still…I looked down at the sun reflecting off the ocean far below, and my chest went so tight I had to open my mouth to breathe. I’d finally found someone I could be hopeful about. I couldn’t lose him the same damn day. I just couldn’t.

  I raised my foot from the accelerator and let my speed ease off. The truck kept coming, and the vehicles behind him fell back, collectively agreeing to let the crazy man pass. I spotted a couple of cars around the next bend, but I had some space, about a minute in which to maneuver. There was no guardrail, just a narrow shoulder and a grassy patch about fifty yards deep, followed by the drop-off to the ocean. It was a long way down.

  I flexed my hands and leaned forward against the seat belt, reassuring myself that it would catch. The Tundra closed on me, and the driver laid on the horn. I hit the gas again, letting him think I was startled, then swerved into the oncoming lane.

  He drove up beside me, window down, yelling. His left hand held the wheel, his right hand a gun. Blondie must have had a suspended license for this guy to have been the designated driver.

  “Two and ten,” I yelled. His bloody brow furrowed. “Two hands. Ten fingers. On the wheel at all times.” He could have put the gun down. Hell, he could have let me go and driven himself to the hospital. But his self-preservation instincts didn’t outrank his greed. He leveled the pistol at me. I cranked the Bronco and rammed him.

  Metal screeched. One of his tires burst and flubbed. Still, he fired the gun with surprising accuracy, blowing the stuffing out of the headrest of the passenger’s seat. The steering wheel jerked in my hands, but I fought to keep the angle until my tires hit the loose shoulder. I snapped back onto the road. In my rearview mirror the truck floundered, hit a dip and rolled. It stopped twenty feet short of the cliff’s edge. I glanced at the remains of the seat beside me, flopping in the wind, and blew out a breath.

  “Still winning.” I held the wheel tight until the shaking subsided.

  ***

  I stopped behind a silver SUV with rental plates parked halfway up my driveway. I didn’t hear anything, didn’t see anyone, but the hard, black cases in the back and the heavy footprints around the vehicle set my heart pounding. I jogged up to the carport, and sorted through the various tools Hiro kept there until I found a crowbar, then headed toward the back of the house, under the cover of the edge of the forest.

  I paused behind the trunk of a large pine tree. Everything looked just as I’d left it. The door was closed and, more importantly, intact. The screens all looked secure, and I could make out the dark outline of the heavy curtains around the bed. Still closed. No burly mercenaries wandered around, checking my fridge and playing in my underwear drawer. The team had been offline a half hour earlier. Surely they’d already tried to…whatever it was human commandos did when they hunted vampires.

  Maybe they’d already achieved their objective and taken off in a second vehicle, and I was coming home to nothing more than a pile of ash. Or maybe Malcolm had displayed his peculiar ability to not get dead in terrible situations and taken care of them. I reversed the crowbar so that it was hidden behind my arm, and stepped out from under the trees. Patience wasn’t my strong suit.

  I reached the bottom of the stairs and slowly leaned my weight on the first step, hoping to avoid its customary squeak.

  “What are you doing?”

  I screamed, swung around and pointed the crowbar in the direction of the voice. Which was coming from the shadows beneath the house. Malcolm leaned back against the central column, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on the end of the tool I held like a sword.

  “Were you in the mood for prying?” he asked. Behind him, three men lay in the dirt, bound with familiar-looking zip ties. Their eyes were open, but glazed. Under the influence of a heavy suggestion and, from the look of one of them, a dislocated shoulder.

  I threw the crowbar into the dirt, marched over to Malcolm and pulled his head down until our lips met. He was smooth and crisp and whole, and tears stung the backs of my eyes when his arms wrapped around me. That effervescent sensation that meant Malcolm covered me from head to toe. I could get used to coming home to this, so long as I didn’t have to be shanghaied first. Malcolm drew back after a moment and I pressed my forehead against his chest, unable to let go of him.

  “Sydney.” His hand ran down my arm, to the fabric wrapped around it. His energy intensified until it prickled, and my arm started itching like crazy. “Tell me what happened.”

  I stepped back and cleared my throat, resisting the urge to scratch my arm into oblivion. “I see you had some visitors while I was gone.”

  “Some nice young men got lost, stopped by to ask for directions.” He smiled, his teeth bright and pleasingly devoid of human flesh. His dimple showed, and I almost threw him on the ground and tore his pants off right there. Not that he was wearing pants. I frowned.

  “Are you wearing a sarong? And my Shinzu Cormera T-shirt?”

  “It’s a sheet.” He sighed. “And I’m glad that you wear clothes five times your actual size. I didn’t have a lot of options. Also, I owe your landlord a new floor.”

  I looked up, and blinked at the sight of a large hole torn in the floor of the living space, exposing pipes and a clear view into my bedroom.

  “You tunneled out? Like a rat?”

  “I prefer gopher. On account of their cuddliness.” He cupped my face, fingers stroking along my hairline. “What happened?”

  I gestured at the prone, occasionally groaning men. “Your boys had a couple of friends. We had a minor disagreement. They work for…”

  “Richard Abel.” Malcolm’s energy rippled around him and his voice hardened. “The Vasiliev family’s hatchet man. I don’t have resources here, Sydney, which means that we need to leave. When I can, I will kill him for you. But you must go with me today.”

  Aww, nobody had ever offered to kill a sucker for me. I looked up at him, noticing the smudges on his cheek, the streak of blood across the white lettering of the T-shirt. His eyes were dark, his face pulled tight.

  “Bronson still has a mole,” he said. His hand fell away from me. “By coming here, I led them to you. I will take you anywhere you want. But you aren’t safe here anymore. I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault.” I unwrapped the scrap of cloth around my arm. The cuts were scabbed over. Interesting. I looked up. “I had a run-in with Abel before I left. Cut him while he was trying to pull a burning two-by-four out of his back. He might be carrying a grudge.”

  “You stabbed a vampire while he was on fire?” Malcolm asked, incredulous.

  “Well, he wouldn’t let go of me.” I grimaced at the memory, then tuned it out, replacing it with the irritation of having to move again. I wasn’t truly
upset though, because somewhere between finding that car in my driveway and picking up the crowbar I’d made up my mind as to where I wanted to go. “Is Santiago dangerous this time of year?”

  Suddenly I was in his arms, crushed against him. He kissed me softly. I raised my chin, flicking my tongue between his lips.

  “At least I would be close,” he replied. “And have assets at my disposal. I have no doubt that, given enough time, you’ll find trouble wherever you are.”

  “And if I wanted to be a runner again?” Being chased by an angry mercenary in a stolen pickup might not have been fun for most people, but I’d found it invigorating. I’d spent a couple of years extracting myself from the job, but working as a vampire courier satisfied my craving for control and danger. Plus it paid well.

  “Then you’ll be a runner.” He kissed me until I had to pull away to breathe.

  I held up a finger, and one of his eyebrows rose in response. “I’m not going to give you a list of rules. And my going with you doesn’t mean anything.” Yet. “This isn’t a happily-ever-after.”

  “Of course not,” he said. “If it was, I’d be wearing better clothes. So what is this then?”

  I grinned. “A test-drive.”

  About the Author

  Regan Summers lives in Anchorage, Alaska, with her husband and son, and occasionally coerces friends to race her through the city at night “for research purposes.” She likes her fiction fast and dangerous, and admires punctuality, most fashions involving the color black, and a good charcuterie plate. Visit her website at www.regansummers.com.

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  ISBN: 978-1-4268-9307-0

  Copyright © 2012 by Hillary Jacques

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