Free Dangerous Curves by Pamela Britton Page A

Resignation. Uncertainty.
    “Me, too, Cece,” he said. “Me, too. But c’mon. Maybe we can pretend everything’s normal.”
    B UT IT WASN ’ T AS EASY as all that.
    Not only was Cece battling concerns that a killer might be on the loose—Blain’s crew suddenly all suspects—but she didn’t like how nervous she felt at the prospect of being on pit road. During a race.
    “Just make sure you stay outside the pit stall,” Blain said, his blue headset off one ear so he could listen to her and his crew members at the same time. “When we come in for a stop, stay out of the way.”
    She had stared killers in the eye, looked down thebarrel of a nine-millimeter, but suddenly she felt as tense as a rookie on her first bust.
    She nodded, tempted to wipe her suddenly sweaty hands on her black jeans. They passed through a chain-link fence that separated the garages from pit road, a swarm of humanity immediately enveloping them. Cece went on guard. Lord, it was like a rock concert, only more colorful, yellow-shirted crew mixing with spectators, family members and network personalities. Between bodies she could spy the race cars, a few crew chiefs squatting down by their driver’s window, some drivers just sitting in their car alone, staring straight ahead. Busch racing wasn’t the same level as Cup racing, but a lot of the same drivers drove both kinds of cars. So while there weren’t as many people in the stands, she imagined most of the rest looked and felt the same as the big leagues.
    Chaos. Crowds. Confusion. The perfect cover for a killer.
    She tried not to think about that, or to lose Blain as they wormed their way among crew members and TV personalities. More than one person caught Blain’s arm, wishing him luck, slapping him on the shoulder or the rear as he passed by. It all seemed surreal.
    “Sit over here,” he said when they found his stall. Someone had set up a bright red tent opposite Blain’s pit. Stacks of tires were piled beneath the canopy, the black rubber turned a deep purple by the red, radiantlight. Opposite them was a matching red toolbox as big as a car, which housed wrenches of every size and shape. On top of the whole thing sat a chair, a TV and an umbrella to cover it all.
    “You’ll know when we’re about to pit,” he said, “because everyone’ll start moving around. Just stay back.”
    Got it. Stay back.
    “I’ll check in with you from time to time.” But instead of turning away, he held her gaze. “Thanks for staying, Cece.”
    She nodded, struck by this stranger who stared down at her. Gone was Blain the Jerk. In his place was Blain the Nice Guy—Blain who tipped one side of his mouth up in an odd sort of smile before turning away from her, stepping into the stream of people and entering his pit. One of the crew members caught her eye, the man’s mouth obstructed by his microphone. He winked. Cece nodded back at him, wondering…was he their perpetrator? Was there really a crackpot out there trying to knock off drivers? If so, was he here today?
    A look at Blain confirmed he might be thinking the same thing. Sure, this was race day, but she had no doubt some of the tension in his eyes had little to do with competition.
    A TV crew came up to him. To her surprise, a reporter shoved a microphone in his face. Somehow amid all the pandemonium she’d managed to forget that he was famous. They filmed him first, then aman Cece assumed must be the Busch car crew chief.
    Another suspect?
    Damn it, this drove her crazy. She was seeing bad guys everywhere.
    That’s what you’re trained to do, Cece. So just do it.
    She was a federal agent, a protector. It was her job to keep people safe. And if forensics’ initial findings proved true, she’d make darn sure she did exactly that. She had to…for Blain.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    “R OLLING, ” Lance said, his voice sounding tense, even to Blain’s ears. They were all on edge. Race day, tense under normal circumstances, had reached new levels