Free Assassin's Express by Jerry Ahern Page A

stomach. “All right—stop the car. Now!”
    She did, and Frost almost smacked his head against the dashboard. “God, woman!”
    He ran around to the front of the car, thinking better of it—what if she hadn’t set the parking brake? He climbed in behind the wheel, almost injuring himself, forgetting she had the seat forward.
    Frost adjusted the seat, released the emergency brake, and started to move the selector into drive. “Sucker,” she snapped.
    Frost looked at her. “What?”
    â€œI suckered you good, Hank—ha!”
    â€œYou—”
    â€œI not only went through CIA’s counterterrorist driving course, I went through the same thing for the KGB—and I taught regular driving when I was working my way through graduate school. It supported my habit out at the drag strip. I used to race class—”
    Frost cracked, “You—”
    â€œHa!”
    â€œWhat the hell is this thing?” Frost pointed to a brown box with a blinking red light mounted near the base of the steering wheel.
    â€œIt’s an electric trailer brake—expert.”
    â€œOhh.” Frost lit a cigarette and rolled down the window, staring into the rear-view mirror—all he could see was the trailer behind him. It was, he decided, going to be a long drive to Phoenix....
    Frost sat at the larger of the two tables in the trailer, the one forward by the awninged front window. Jessica Pace was cooking something that the one-eyed man grudgingly admitted smelled good. But most of his attention was on the small, black-and-white portable television they’d brought along. The news was almost over. He stood up, shut off the set, and walked the few steps to the screen door, feeling the evening cool, listening to the night noises. There had been nothing on the news about the manhunt for himself and the girl, nothing about the affair at the hospital. The absence of coverage confirmed for him the broadness of the conspiracy which they were up against—news blackouts weren’t easy to come by.
    â€œDid you say something?”
    Frost turned around, looking at Jessica Pace for a long moment, then only shook his head, no. She turned back to the stove and he studied her back. She had changed from the blue jeans she’d worn—changed into something that was apparently a sun dress, but wore a heavy coat sweater over it. She was pretty, he decided, watching her move her head. The red hair undulated as she did, almost like a living thing pressed against her back. He felt a smile raise the corners of his mouth. With the size and caliber of the opposition, he wondered just how long either of them would remain a living thing. . .

Chapter Six
    â€œPull over at the rest area—I can use the john in the trailer,” Jessica Pace said. Frost was not watching her, his fists were wrapped so tightly around the Ford’s steering wheel that his knuckles were white. He’d decided that in another day or so of driving he might get the hang of hauling a trailer—at least not feel so terribly nervous about it.
    â€œWhat did you say?” Frost asked her, having only half-registered her comment.
    â€œI said I wanna go to the bathroom, Hank. Pull over into the rest area up there before we miss it, so I can use the—”
    â€œOhh,” Frost began. “Right—yeah,” and he craned his neck far to the right trying to get a better look in the right-hand west-coast mirror—just in case anything was coming up along the shoulder, he told himself.
    â€œMaybe it’s because you only got one eye, Hank,” Jessica told him.
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œThe problems you’re having with the trailer.”
    â€œWhat’s one eye got to do with it?”
    â€œCuts down your field of vision—right?”
    â€œSo?” Frost snapped, by now tired of the conversation.
    â€œSo—you feel less secure with the trailer behind you