Free Collision Force by C.A. Szarek Page A

afterthought, but he didn’t feel as weak as he had, so he didn’t go back for the thermometer. The fever had broken for now, but all sorts of bad things were headed his way if he didn’t get some meds. No other options.
    He looked down as he limped along the hallway. His leg wasn’t seeping anymore—at least his pants appeared to have dried—for now. The pain still radiated with every step he took, but it wasn’t as bad as before. He needed to move on. Now.
    Reaching for his forty, he checked it, even though he knew damn well it was locked and loaded. He smiled and tucked it into the small of his back. Too bad he didn’t have a holster handy. Last thing he needed was to shoot himself in the ass. Carlo took one last look over his shoulder and winced. He couldn’t clean the blood off the couch cushions, but right now he needed to look out for his own ass. Hopefully the local police weren’t the brightest crayons in the box. Either that, or he was fucked.
    He slipped out the back door, kicking the glass he’d broken in the lowest windowpane out of the way so he didn’t have to step on it.
    If more of Caselli’s goons found him in this condition, there was no doubt he wouldn’t get away again. Berto…that was his ticket. He had to make it to the rodeo. There had to be medical supplies there, even if they were meant for horses or bulls.
    He slipped into the sleek black BMW in the driveway. The keys had been in the kitchen, so Carlo didn’t have to break in or hot-wire it. He’d have to ditch it in a few, but first he had to get out of the neighbourhood unnoticed. A stranger limping down the street would be conspicuous.
    “Here’s to hoping there’s no nosy neighbour who knows when Mr Beemer will be back in town.”
    That would just be his fucking luck.
    Rounding the corner, he kept the luxury sedan at exactly twenty-five miles per hour, as the speed limit signs posted. He was in a stolen car, in a residential area, and even though the police would likely be scarce, Carlo wouldn’t chance it. No ID, a gun and an acquired vehicle wouldn’t go over well. And there was that little federal fugitive problem to consider, too.
    Two streets over from where he’d been staying, and well on his way to a main thoroughfare, he saw a blue, modern-day hot rod in a driveway, one house from the corner of the street. The car itself wasn’t what caught his eye. The tall, dark-haired guy who got out of it was. Carlo’s heart took a dive for his stomach. Mike Amato—no, Cole Lucas.
    An attractive woman with her hair in a ponytail got out of the passenger seat. Carlo winced as he passed them, but neither looked up from their conversation to notice the black BMW driving by.
    So the FBI agent had figured out where he was and given chase. But who the hell was the woman?
    Well, well, well. Didn’t things just get interesting?
     
    * * * *
     
    “Who is that?” Bella whispered loudly to Andi as Cole walked into the kitchen with Ethan on his hip. Her son’s infatuation with Cole was firmly in place, and Ethan had actually greeted him before Andi.
    After working with Cole all day and not bickering with him, she could maybe see what Pete and Ethan had noticed. As much as she tried to deny it to herself, she was drawn to him. Her partner’s words in the hospital about locking herself away echoed through her mind. She didn’t want to admit how that sentiment had hit home.
    Andi shot her seventeen-year-old babysitter an amused look. Subtlety was lost on the girl. She was obviously ogling Cole, but to his credit, he didn’t react. He was probably used to it—no one was born with that ego.
    “Cole, this is Bella. She takes care of Ethan for me after school,” Andi said.
    Cole flashed a dimpled smile as he set Ethan to his feet. Andi grinned, imagining what that smile was doing to the teen. He put his hand out to shake Bella’s hand, and she took it—shyly, for her—cheeks crimson.
    “Nice to meet you, Bella,” Cole said,