The Patriot by Lynn Michaels

Author:Lynn Michaels [Michaels, Lynn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary Romantic Suspense
Publisher: Belgrave House
Published: 1992-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

At the Sully Road junction Maxwell fell back to lead the pursuit in the opposite direction. Caught in the horrific, slow-motion replay of Quade’s backspin into the juniper playing over and over again in her mind, Hallie made a fishtailing turn off Route 50, only dimly aware of the farewell flash of the Jaguar’s headlights.

When she reached Dulles, she parked the Mustang in the first space she found, switched off the lights, swept the gun off the floor, shoved it in the black nylon bag Quade had left in the back, shut the door and ran for the terminal. She hardly felt the cold or the wrench in her ankle when her right heel broke, just kicked off her shoes, scooped them up and kept running.

Hallie trashed the pumps in the first ladies’ she came to, opened the bag, pulled out a denim jacket and jeans, a white turtleneck, socks and leather high-tops, a purple tie-on baseball cap, a single plane ticket and a folded sheaf of twenties. There was nothing else in the bag.

Hands shaking, she ripped out the fake bottom. Nothing underneath. The pockets held only the gun, a pair of sunglasses and a cosmetic bag. She unzipped it and shook out a hairbrush, toothbrush and paste, deodorant and soap, a compact of powdered foundation, blush, eye shadow, a bottle of Chanel No. 5.

There was no second plane ticket and nothing for Quade. The items in the bag were all for her, all her size. Quade had never planned to come with her; had either known or guessed he wouldn’t make it out of the compound.

The part of Hallie that felt betrayed wanted to tear the sink out of the wall; the guilt and grief-stricken rest of her wanted to throw her head back and howl like a banshee. She didn’t do either, just picked up the ticket.

“Honolulu,” she read through a blur of tears.

Quade was sending her to Arnie. She had barely twenty minutes to make the flight to San Francisco, a ten-hour layover there, and the rest of her life to mourn.

She stripped, pulled on the jeans, sweater and jacket, brushed her hair under the cap. Stuffing the ticket and money in her pocket, she tied the high-tops, put on the shades. Everything but the gun she zipped into the bag.

She could dismantle it but hadn’t a clue how to hide the cartridges from the X-ray machines and no time to figure it out. Quade had wanted her to have it, but she’d wanted him to kiss her for any reason but to provoke the Admiral.

Hallie trashed the gun along with her mother’s dress and her panty hose, wadded the clip in a paper towel and tossed it into the first trash can she came to on her breakneck run to the trolley. She made the flight on the last call and fell into her seat, chest heaving, ankle throbbing, heart aching.

The plane was only a third full, which meant she had no seatmates and all the coffee she could drink.

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