Next Exit, Quarter Mile Page 4

  “I just came back to Jersey not long ago,” Alina said vaguely.

  “Welcome back.” Lani lifted her beer in a silent toast. “We can leave Jersey, but it never leaves us. I spent four years in Florida and thought I’d moved on. When I came home, though, I realized how much I missed it.”

  “Don't let her fool you,” Dutch said behind them. Alina turned her head to watch as he advanced out of the shadows, holding two unopened bottles of beer in one hand. He threw his other arm around Lani's shoulders. “She missed her family.”

  “That too,” Lani admitted with a grin.

  “Where's John?” Dutch asked, handing Alina one of the beers.

  “The Colson sisters showed up,” Lani told him.

  “Ah!” Dutch chuckled and looked at Alina. “Don't take it personally, Raven. Those girls would tempt a saint, and John's no saint.”

  “No, he's not,” Alina agreed as Dutch reached over and popped the cap off the beer with a bottle opener. “Thanks.”

  “People want to see what you have under that hood,” Dutch told her, taking the cap off the other bottle. “Are you going to pop it open and give us a peek?”

  “No,” Alina answered bluntly.

  Lani burst out laughing.

  “I knew I liked you,” she exclaimed. “Don't give in. Dutch can be persuasive, but if you open that hood, you'll be under it for the rest of the night. He'll find something to do under there.”

  “You're going to play hard to get, aren't you?” Dutch asked, a grin stretching over his face. Alina sipped her beer and was silent. “That's OK. I'll find out, one way or another, what you're running under there. In the meantime, why don't I show you mine?”

  Alina glanced back at her car, surrounded by another group of curious drivers.

  “Don't worry about her,” Dutch advised, seeing the look. “Nothing will happen. Maybe a few extra palm prints. Come on.”

  Alina sent one last assessing look at the crowd and turned to follow Dutch and Lani. They led her past the bonfire and around the house to the back. The noise of the party out front faded and Alina grinned when she saw the backyard. There was no yard. Instead, a huge four-car garage stretched across the back, built to the left of the old shed she had glimpsed from the driveway. As they entered the back, floodlights switched on, washing the area with fluorescent white light. Dutch pulled out a set of keys and clicked a button on a fob. One of the garage doors started to slide up.

  “Now, I'm not trying to say mine's better...” Dutch began as they walked toward the opening door.

  “Yes, he is,” Lani interjected.

  “...but I got no problem showing you what's under my hood.”

  Alina glanced at him and chuckled.

  “Not everyone hangs it all out there for everyone to see,” she murmured.

  Dutch's grin widened and he nodded.

  “Touché.”

  Alina looked forward and caught her breath as the round headlights of the '67 Shelby GT 500 peeked out of the darkness. Dutch reached into the garage and hit the light, washing the pony with a crisp, white light. The Mustang was classic white with blue racing stripes and dual air intakes in the hood. Wires attached both corners to gleaming chrome clamps, securing the hood, and Alina could almost hear the powerful growl the engine would make.

  “Oh!” she breathed, moving forward. “Now, this is beautiful.”

  “I restored her myself,” Dutch told her, sipping his beer. “She was a shell when I got her. Someone found her in a desert in New Mexico, half-buried behind some abandoned buildings.”

  Alina glanced up from where she was looking into the open driver side window.

  “My brother had a Cutlass 442 that he got the same way,” she said without thinking. “Not a spot of rust on it, even though it sat outside for years.”

  “Because there's no humidity out there,” Dutch said. “Did your brother do the bodywork himself?”

  “He started to,” she answered, straightening up, “but he never finished. He was a Marine, killed in action.”

  “Oh man, I'm sorry.”

  Alina glanced at them, her gaze hooded.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “What happened to the car?” Lani asked.

  “I think my parents have it,” Alina murmured. “To be honest, I haven't thought of that car for years.”

  “I've always wanted a 442,” Lani said, glancing at Dutch. He grinned.

  “I think that was a not-so-subtle hint,” he told Alina. “If you find it and want to sell, let me know.”

  “How long did this take you?” Alina asked, motioning to the Shelby.

  “About seven years,” Dutch answered readily. He set his beer down on a tool box and came around to slide behind the wheel. “I race it occasionally. I have a car I run down at Atco, but I do a lot of local street racing.”

  She watched as he inserted the key into the ignition and cranked the engine over. The Shelby growled to life, the sound filling the garage. Alina couldn’t help the smile of pure enjoyment that pulled at her lips as she listened to the legendary growl. That was the sound that made her fall in love with cars before she could even drive. Dutch glanced up in time to see the look on her face and he grinned, pressing the gas and revving the engine. The wire clamps vibrated against the corners of the hood and the roar was almost deafening as the Shelby seemed eager to surge forward. Alina laughed despite herself, shaking her head.

  Dutch let up on the gas and the engine fell back into a rumbling idle. He reached down and pulled the hood latch, then got out of the car, coming around to unhook the wire clamps.

  “I have a couple cars that run a fast quarter mile, but none of them as quick as this. When I race her, nothing can beat it,” he told her.

  Alina smiled slightly.

  “It's not the car that wins,” she murmured.

  Lani glanced at her as Dutch unhooked the wire clamps.

  “What?” she asked.

  Alina shook her head.

  “Nothing.” She watched as Dutch raised the hood, exposing the engine. “Nice.”

  “Not bad for a fifty year old, huh?” he asked, stepping back and gazing at the engine proudly.

  “Not bad at all,” Alina agreed.

  “I knew I'd find you under a hood!” John exclaimed from the door. “You showing off, Dutch?”

  “Always,” Lani said with a laugh.

  “What do you think?” John asked Alina, advancing to stand next to her. “Gorgeous, isn't she?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “You didn't tell me she came from a family of gearheads,” Dutch said, looking at John. “I like this one. Why haven't I met her until now?”

  “She just came back into town,” John replied, unconsciously echoing Alina's words.

  “Do you race that Shelby of yours at all?” Dutch asked her. “Aside from against this tool, that is.”

  “I haven't, no,” Alina answered, sipping her beer.

  “Well, we'll have to change that,” Dutch said with a grin. “I can teach you to run the quarter mile and win. I never lose.”

  “Oh Lord,” Lani groaned. “Here we go.”

  Alina chuckled, her dark eyes glinting.

  “There's a first time for everything,” she murmured.

  “Admit it. You're glad you came,” John said a few hours later as they walked down the driveway toward their cars.

  Alina glanced at him in the darkness and smiled faintly.

  “Admit that you bribed me with his '67 Shelby,” she retorted and John laughed.

  “Guilty.” John glanced at her. “I thought you needed the night out. You looked pretty beat when I showed up.”

  Alina was silent, breathing in the smell of wood smoke and fresh pine. John was right. She had needed this. She needed time away from herself, time away from her own company. Most of all, she needed time away from dwelling on how someone found out she was en route to Damascus to kill a terrorist.

  “What do you think of Dutch and Lani?” John
asked her, breaking the silence again.

  Alina glanced at him and smiled.

  “I like them,” she said simply. “They're real.”

  “They're good people.” John nodded. “Dutch said to tell you he was serious about getting you out to the track. He wants to see what you've got behind the wheel.”

  “Maybe someday,” Alina murmured, uncommitted.

  They approached their cars and Alina was pulling her keys out of her pocket when the sound of a distant engine reached her. She glanced up and cast a sharp glance down the driveway toward the road. Headlights pulled to a stop on the other side of the road, across from the drive, and Viper paused in the shadows near her car, watching with narrowed eyes as the car sat idling. From this distance, she couldn't see much, but the sound of the engine told her that it was an older car, and one with a lot of power under the hood.

  “What's wrong?” John asked, glancing over as he opened his door.

  Alina shook her head and disarmed her security system, opening her door.

  “Nothing,” she answered. “I'll see you later. Thanks...for this.”

  John smiled at her over the roof of the Shelby.

  “Anytime, Lina,” he said softly. “It was nice to hang out with you again.”

  “And I didn't want to drop-kick you once. We must be getting better at this.”

  “Not even once?” John teased. “I'll have to work on that. Are you good getting back from here?” Alina looked at him and he grinned. “Just checking!”

  “If I can make my way through Afghanistan,” she muttered, “I think I can find my way back to route 73.”

  “I wouldn't be too sure of that,” John retorted. “You are in Jersey.”

  Alina chuckled and slid behind the wheel, closing the door and sealing out the night. She started the engine, listening to it roar to life, and sighed in contentment. John's Firebird growled next to her and he revved the engine before pulling out with a wave. Alina waited for his taillights to clear her front end before she pulled out behind him. Glancing in her rearview mirror, she saw Dutch and several others turn to watch.

  John pulled out of the driveway and Alina rolled up to follow him, glancing at the car idling across the street. It was a '67 Camaro. She paused at the mouth of the driveway, her attention caught. A man sat behind the wheel, watching the party. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully and she hit the gas, pulling out onto the road. She accelerated, roaring after John and leaving the car behind. When she glanced in her rearview mirror a moment later, the Camaro was still sitting across from the driveway, idling in the darkness.

  Chapter Four

  Michael O'Reilly set his beer down on the workbench and turned back to the wood laying across the saw horses. The scent of freshly cut pine was comforting, soothing his soul. Picking up a sanding bar, he bent over the wood and began to sand down the edge he’d just cut with even, steady strokes.

  Work had been hectic this week. Chris Harbour, his boss, was on vacation and Michael was doing twice the work-load. His time in the Marines taught him to embrace challenges, and Michael was used to working hard. However, the Secret Service was teaching him diplomacy, and Michael was fast coming to the conclusion that he and politics did not get along well together.

  His cell phone rang a few moments later, breaking the silence. Michael straightened up with a slight frown, glancing at his watch. Tossing the sanding block onto the workbench, he picked up the phone and glanced at the caller ID. He raised an eyebrow when he saw his old friend Blake Hanover's name on the screen.

  “I thought you were in Miami, surrounded by co-eds,” he answered, picking up his beer. “What are you doing calling me at ten o'clock on a Saturday night?”

  “No rest for the wicked, gunny,” Blake retorted cheerfully. “How's the bookshelf coming?”

  Michael grinned and glanced at the wood on the saw horses.

  “Am I that predictable?” he asked.

  “Is the Pope Catholic?”

  “Hmm.” Michael sipped his beer and leaned on the workbench. “It's coming along fine.”

  “Good!” Bake paused for a moment, then dove right in. “Have you checked your email?” he asked.

  Michael frowned.

  “Not since last night. Why?”

  “I sent you something,” Blake told him. “I don't know how much chatter you hear in your agency, but the FBI has a lot, even on the weekends. I heard something today that threw me for a loop. I did some digging and sent you what I found.”

  Michael set his beer down slowly, a sense of foreboding creeping over him. He had known Blake Hanover for years. They served together in the Marines, occasionally worked together as civilians, and drank together as friends. In all that time, he had never known Blake to be dramatic.

  “What is it?”

  “You know how we don't negotiate with terrorists?” Blake asked, his voice deceptively mild.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we did.”

  Michael froze.

  “Excuse me?” he asked softly.

  “The United States just negotiated a trade,” Blake said grimly. “We're releasing three terrorists in exchange for a scientist the Taliban have had in custody for five years.”

  “No freaking way,” Michael muttered, turning and heading toward the door to the house. “No way they would have done that!”

  “Oh, but they did,” Blake replied, “and it gets better. Remember Sergeant Ethan Curtis?”

  Michael froze, his mind going back to a mountainside in Afghanistan.

  “The missing Marine that walked off-base?” he asked. “What about him?”

  “He's not missing anymore,” Blake said. “He's the scientist being exchanged.”

  “What?!” Michael roared.

  “Yep. Before he joined the Marines, Ethan Curtis studied biochemical engineering at Berkley. When he walked off-base five years ago, he took a lot more with him than just his uniform.”

  “Are you for real?” Michael demanded, striding up the two wooden steps leading into the house. He went through the door into the kitchen and straight to his laptop, sitting on the island. “And he's been with the Taliban this whole time?!”

  “That's what they say.” Blake was silent for a moment. “The news will break tomorrow. The administration is saying that Sgt Curtis has a brilliant mind in biochemical research and that the exchange is a triumph in diplomacy. They're saying the prisoners being exchanged for this big brain are harmless.”

  “For the love of...diplomacy? Harmless? Are they kidding? Those prisoners probably killed hundreds of US soldiers!”

  “Apparently, a deserter is worth more to them right now than a couple of terrorists,” Blake answered bitterly. “Anyway, you can read all about it yourself. I wanted to give you a heads-up before you saw it on the news tomorrow.”

  Michael grabbed the laptop and strode over to the table.

  “I appreciate that,” he said. “When are you coming home?”

  “I'm catching an eight o'clock flight in the morning,” Blake answered. “Dinner at your place to discuss?”

  “Sounds good,” Michael said, seating himself at his kitchen table and opening the laptop. “I'll pick up pizza.”

  “I'll bring the beer.”

  Michael hung up and stared at his screen. Blake had to be wrong. There was no way this administration would have negotiated the release of terrorists, especially in exchange for a Marine who deserted his post five years before and whose rescue attempt led to the massacre of twenty-four soldiers. Would they?

  Michael pulled up his email, scanning through it quickly until he came to Blake's. Opening the attachments, he read with a growing sense of disbelief and disgust.

  Good God! They had negotiated with terrorists!

  Michael stared at the screen, stunned. The three prisoners about to be released were top Al-Qaeda leaders captured in Afghanistan. They were directly linked to the deaths of hundreds of American and Allied soldiers, two bombings of US embassies and six mili
tary convoy attacks, as well as the deaths of hundreds of women and children across Afghanistan. They were sworn enemies of America, and all of them had vowed to bring death to her on a scale larger than 9/11.

  And they were going to just let them go?!

  Rubbing his forehead, Michael tried to tamp down the growing surge of angry frustration building inside him as he read the brief. He didn't know what the hell the administration thought Sgt Curtis was capable of doing in the realm of biochemical research, but he was pretty sure it wasn't as important as the hundreds of American soldiers that had been sacrificed at the terrorist's hands. Harmless, his ass!

  “For the love of God, what the hell is going on?”

  Alina pulled her coffee mug out from under the spout of her super-automatic espresso maker and sipped it. The sun was cresting over the trees and she had just finished her morning yoga practice on the deck. She was glad the long, harsh winter was over and she was able to move her yoga back outside. It was easier to connect to the energy within her when she was part of the energy outside.

  A chime from her cell phone broke the blessed silence of the morning and Alina frowned, moving forward to pick it up from the bar separating the kitchen from the dining room. She skirted around the black, marble-topped surface and went toward the sliding doors leading to the deck. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her. A cool breeze blew her hair off her forehead, and she inhaled contentedly. She carried her coffee over to one of the Adirondack chairs and sank into it comfortably. After another sip, Alina set the mug on the arm of the chair and glanced at her phone. The message light was blinking. She swiped the screen and raised an eyebrow when she saw Hawk's number.

  Damon Miles, AKA Hawk, was in Russia, or had been the last she heard. She hadn't seen him since just after Christmas, when he blew into Philadelphia for a few hours en route to his horse ranch in the middle of Nowhere, USA.

  Alina opened the text, reading it with a frown. It was short and to the point.

  Check the news.

  Her frown deepened and Alina opened the browser on her phone, pulling up a news syndicate. She stared at the screen, her blood running cold as the headline jumped out at her.