Page 2 of No Lies No Promises

When footsteps crunch the gravel behind me, I swivel for the ambush. Finger on the trigger, I turn, ready to fire.

“Jesus, Lillian.” My weapon lowers, heart racing. “I told you to stay put.”

“Someone needs to guard your sorry ass.” She scowls, her Beretta pointed at the puddle. “Let’s go. I’m freezing. Police are on the way.”

Argument tabled, we drop into the drainage ditch beside the road. While our sneakers squish in the ankle-deep, sewage-scented water, I aim at the truck’s back window. The driver doesn’t move. It’s possible the airbag knocked her out. Just as likely, she’s dead.

We inch past the pickup’s bed, inhaling fresh manure on our way to the door.

“She could be armed. Stay low.” Heart pounding, I shove Lillian behind me when the driver stirs.

“Help me.” The airbag muffles her cries.

No fool, I sweep the flashlight beam inside the cab. “Show me your hands.”

“I’m stuck.” Twentyish, dressed to party, bleeding from the mouth, she struggles to lift her arms above her head.

When I see her hands, I lower my weapon.

Lil does not.

“She moves, you shoot, babe.” I tug on the door handle. When that doesn’t work, I place one foot on the vehicle, yanking with all my might, but the crushed metal refuses to budge.

“I’m going back for a tire iron. You good?”

Lillian frowns, her Beretta steady. “Uh-huh. Who is she?”

“Damned if I know.” I race to the Ferrari, return with a lug wrench, and whack the window.

As the glass shatters, Lillian taps my shoulder. “Ambulance is ten minutes out.”

“She may not have that long.” Pocketknife in hand, I stab at the inflated canvas while the trapped woman coughs up blood.

“Sean?” Streaks of black mascara run down the driver’s attractive face. “Is it really you?”

“You know him?” My fiancée’s brows lift. Not at her. At me.

“You bitch.” Our attacker’s face skews. “He’s mine. I sold everything for him.”

When her bloody arm reaches through the crumbled glass, I step forward so her cold fingers clamp onto my forearm instead of Lil’s.

“I moved to the city like you asked.” Tears mix with blood as they run down her pretty face. “It was all a lie. How could you?”

She must’ve banged her head. Clearly, she’s delusional.

“Are you injured, miss?”

“I’m fine. And don’t shoot. I want to show you something. I’m going for my phone.” Turning, she reaches toward her purse, lodged between the front seats.

“Don’t pretend you don’t remember me,” she says. “Christmas? Brooklyn? Nondenominational Holiday Balls?”

My face heats. Not from guilt, but from what my fiancée must be thinking. “I’m sorry, Miss, you must have me mistaken for—”

“You fuck so many women, you can’t even remember? You bastard.” Face triumphant, she holds an old flip phone in the air, thumb over the enter button.

“Dammit!” My heart races as I recognize the eerily familiar body language.

Suicide bomber. Afghanistan.