Free No Law (Law #3) by Camille Taylor

hadn’t meddled with her car. If they had, she had no idea what her next move would be.
    No flat tires that she could see, and the hood was still down, her fuel cover closed. So far so good—no discernible damage. She didn’t dare look back, fearful at how close they were. If she tripped or lost her way, they’d catch her for certain.
    She was closer to the car now, but she didn’t dare slow her pace. Her side burned since she was not used to such vigorous exercise. She was running out of breath and her legs were getting wobbly. She had to come up with a plan, a good plan.
    She was screwed. She had no idea what to do, drawing a blank. Detective Harrington didn’t believe her and would probably think she was after attention if she went to him, or worse, that she was trying to throw suspicion off her. Not that he’d listen to her anyway. He had already made up his mind about her and nothing would change it.
    Thank you very much, Brian . The only selfless thing he’d ever done was get her out of that room last night. Not that it was helping her much today, but at least she was alive—for now. She certainly wouldn’t have been had she stayed in that room.
    Carey concentrated on breathing in through her nose and out her mouth, already breathless. She wasn’t the fittest person in the world, her work schedule not allowing any time for the gym, and the only exercise she got was lugging crates around for the museum. The building was a large enough structure that she had to run all the way around it to get to her car. Stumbling on the loose pebbles of the driveway, she almost lost her footing. Her hand flailed about in front of her as she regained her balance.
    Heart in her throat, she made her body move faster. Perspiration slid down her back, her messy ponytail bouncing up and down against back. She pressed down on the central locking release button on her keychain and her indicator lights flashed. She vaulted into the car and slammed the door, hitting the locks again.
    Mikhail’s men were a few feet away, their expressions murderous. She started the car, not about to hang around, and hit the accelerator, kicking up the white pebbles as she navigated the fountain turn-around.
    She let out a shaky breath, her nerves shot. Her legs, like jelly, barely managed to stay on the accelerator. She blinked back tears. There’d been few times in her life that she’d truly been terrified, and now was definitely one of them.
    She moved her SUV into the mainstream of traffic. She sped up, pushing well past the limit, and hoped that no cops were about. The last thing she wanted was to be pulled over or arrested for speeding or dangerous driving.
    What was she going to do?
    Come on, Carey, think. You’re smart, so do something .
    Her mind flashed to Alan, her husband, and she swore she could hear him scream. She blinked rapidly to clear the vivid vision from her mind. Thinking about Alan only brought back the memories of Russia. It hadn’t all been bad. She had loved the architecture and the culture, acclimatizing herself into their way of life. It had been hard to leave the museums and history she had found there. She had met some really nice people too, some of whom she was still in contact with today. Not all of them close friends, most of them contacts she used and the others she’d ignored after Alan’s death—like Elena Ivanova.
    It hadn’t been her fault, but she just couldn’t see Elena without thinking of Alan. Even to this day, thinking of Alan was remembering him in his last minutes. She still hadn’t been able to move past that terrifying moment. Someday she hoped to think of Alan and smile, to remember all the good times she’d had with him.
    Elena.
    She had tried to help her so much but couldn’t.
    Elena.
    The name repeated itself in her head.
    Elena.
    She was in America now—the CIA of all places, practically down the road. If anyone could understand her predicament right now it was Elena. Years ago, in