The Nightmare Thief. Meg Gardiner

road, bouncing like a runaway covered wagon. To their left, an eroded gradient dropped into the depths of the gorge. There was no guardrail.

      Jo whispered, “Dustin, look outside. Don’t be rash.”

      They had no margin for error. The gorge was so deep that she couldn’t see the bottom. The light swept across the interior of the limo as they continued to bowl around the long, sweeping bend.

      Friedrich’s hands jerked back and forth on the wheel like a cartoon character’s. “We are screwed. Royally.”

      “Shut up.”

      Von got out a cell phone and punched numbers. As he did, a chime echoed from his pocket. Jo recognized the sound: It was her phone, sending a message. Von pulled her cell out.

      Dustin’s breathing accelerated. “He’s distracted.”

      Dustin tensed. Gabe shot out an arm to grab him, but Dustin was beyond reach and in motion. Shouting like a wild man, he threw himself at the front seat.

      Von heard the disturbance and turned, phone to his ear. Dustin lunged into the driver’s compartment and tackled him.

      Friedrich’s head whipped around. “Shit—”

      Gabe moved too, fast as a snake. Ritter was a beat behind him.

      Jo saw Dustin’s flailing legs and grunting face. He was fighting Von for control of the gun. Noah scrambled toward the melee. The pistol waved in Von’s hand. Jo watched it swing. She couldn’t possibly reach it. She couldn’t get anywhere close to helping.

      Friedrich gaped and lifted his foot off the gas.

      “No,” Von yelled.

      “Faster—don’t let them jump out.” Friedrich slammed on the power again. The Hummer leapt forward.

      With Dustin in the way, Gabe couldn’t get close enough to grab Von’s gun. Instead, he swept his right arm around the headrest, grabbed Von by the hair, and smashed his head against the door frame.

      “Dustin, aim the gun away from us,” Gabe said.

      Von twisted and submarined and kicked like a trapped bull. Gabe slammed his head against the door frame again. With his left hand he gouged at Von’s eyes. Von’s knees came up and his feet kicked the dash and the gearshift and the windshield. Friedrich turned his head.

      Von’s boot connected with it. Hard.

      Friedrich’s head snapped sideways. He jerked the wheel.

      Jo had a sick, falling sensation. No, don’t. Stay on the road.

      Friedrich hauled the wheel back and straightened out.

      The gun in Von’s hand fired.

      Jo ducked. Peyton and Lark screamed. The windshield spidered and the Hummer swerved. Von kicked furiously. The pistol waved in the air. Dustin clawed at Von’s hand, trying to grab the gun.

      “No, turn the barrel away from us,” Gabe repeated. “Pin his hand against the dash and aim the gun away.”

      Von’s legs muscled wildly back and forth. Ritter dived for his knees. Gabe continued battering Von’s head against the door frame. Von weakened. The Hummer veered left.

      Jo yelled, “Steer. Hold the wheel and stop the car.”

      Lark threw herself onto a seat and grabbed a seat belt. She wrapped her arm through the shoulder strap and gripped it like a vine. The Hummer shuddered. The left front wheel caught the lip of the hill. Friedrich jerked the wheel, fighting, foot still to the floor. Jo saw Autumn’s eyes gleaming with fright.

      From the driver’s compartment came grunts and shouts. The gun boomed again. Then again. Glass shattered and Friedrich’s hands dropped from the wheel.

      The Hummer straightened momentarily and tilted. The light turned in the sky, shadow overtaking the window.

      “Oh my God,” Autumn said.

      Then everything went sideways, fast. Jo hit whoever was next to her. She cried out. She saw Gabe, arms around the headrest, gripping Von’s head. He let go, grabbed a seat belt, and braced himself. He snapped the buckle and grabbed for Lark.

      The front of the Hummer angled down, sliding, fast. Through the window Jo saw the slope, covered with trees and boulders.

      They flipped.

      The Hummer capsized, hard. The roof of the car hit the slope with a crunching sound. The windows shattered. People flew around the interior of the limo. Jo hung on to the shoulder strap of her seat belt like a commuter in a subway car that had just been kicked into a tumble cycle. The gorge steepened, and upside down, they slid forward down the slope. Jo saw light, shadow, felt the roof crushing. Dust blew through the shattered windows. She saw boulders and the silver glint of water at the bottom of the gorge. Her mind went firework white. They were going down, all the way.

       Chapter 12

      Evan Delaney paused at the foot of the marble staircase. She wanted to look meek and inconspicuous. Luckily, in the vaulted echo chamber of San Francisco City Hall, that wasn’t hard. City Hall looked like the U.S. Capitol, but gaudier. It had a gilded dome. It flashed a little leg. She backed against the banister and watched the man in the pin-striped suit descend the stairs toward her.

      The word ambush had a lovely ring to it. It was full of hope.

      The man came down the stairs slowly, his white hair bouffanting like a televangelist’s. He was surrounded by minions. He was a mortgage banker who had been testifying before the San Francisco Board of Supervisors. He had also been a client of the dead lawyer Phelps Wylie, and he was her last hope for an interview.

      He drew near. She stepped out from the banister.

      “Mr. Higgins, I have some questions about Phelps Wylie,” she said.

      The minions rushed to block her, like a flannel wall. She persisted, batting them away as if they were Brooks Brothers moths.

      “Mr. Higgins, do you have any comment on your lawyer’s death?”

      He swept past her, down the stairs, into the cavernous foyer, and out the door.

      She followed him to the street. Higgins climbed into a waiting car and zoomed away. The car disappeared into traffic, followed by the minion swarm.

      Ambush? Strikeout. None of Wylie’s clients wanted to speak to her. Only a few had even bothered to give her a no-comment. The rest had deflected her calls. Higgins had been her final shot.

      Maybe it was time to go home. She turned and headed for the parking garage. She could already hear her credit card, shrieking in pain. And then her phone beeped.

      It was a text message from Jo. She slowed. No—it was three messages. She opened the first, and stopped.

      I found Wylie’s 2nd cell. He was carjacked. Drove to Sierras under DURESS.

      Evan’s lips parted.

      Wylie recorded conversation during drive. 2nd person in car. FORCED HIM.

      “Oh my God.”

      More to come.

      She opened the second message. It included Wylie’s cell phone number and forwarded his call list. Data corrupted, Jo warned, and, indeed, Recent Calls turned up as incomplete phone numbers. But most had the first seven digits, including area codes.

      Jo’s third message included the log-in information for her voice-mail service.

      Sent Wylie’s recording to my voice mail. Log in and listen. Must take cell to Tuolumne sheriff s in Sonora. Will call when get better signal.

      She smiled at her phone. “Oh, Jo. I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

      Pulse racing, she tried to phone Jo back.