He found himself in the rear of the Jeep, sunbaked and streaming sweat, his clothes sodden. Feeling as if the sun had drained away half his strength, he reached up and grabbed the roll bar and pulled himself to his feet. He stood there, hanging on to it. Marta’s purse and clothes were piled on the driver’s seat, Sue’s on the passenger seat. Never should’ve let them do this. The slimy, scheming bastard and his fucking hard-ons . . . Neal stepped up onto the side of the Jeep. From there, he jumped to the pavement. Leaning over the top of the driver’s door, he reached for the steering wheel. ‘Put a stop to this shit right now,’ he muttered, and shoved the wheel’s hub. He expected a blast from the horn. He got silence. He pressed the wheel’s center again, felt its give, but heard no horn. ‘Great,’ he muttered. ‘Terrific’ Why the hell didn’t Marta tell me her horn’s on the fritz? Now what? he wondered. How about going for the money, stupid? That’s what you were supposed to do in the first place, not wimp out and go for the damn horn.
