An oncoming car’s brakes squealed and the driver flipped him a finger as he sped past. “Yeah, yeah, back atcha,” he said as he floored it up the entrance ramp. He dialed Saint. “I’m on I-10. How far ahead of me are they?” “They got on the Interstate twenty minutes ago. She just asked where they’re going and he didn’t answer. She’s starting to sound scared. We don’t think she knows for sure if we’re listening, and I’m guessing she’s beginning to think she’s on her own.” How could she not know he’d come for her no matter what? “Call me if anything changes.” He dropped the phone onto the passenger seat and swerved into the right lane, passing a van traveling at least five miles under the speed limit. “Slower traffic keep right,” he yelled as he moved ahead of the idiot. What was wrong with these people? Hoping she’d keep to the seventy-mile-per-hour limit or under, he calculated how long it’d take to catch up with them if he drove ninety miles per hour.
