Page 113 of The Cajun Doctor

“Shit!” he said. “No way we’re going there. Well, there’s nothing to be done about the laptop then. Just need to get the gold and leave the country.” He was talking to himself, not her.

He steered her toward his Mercedes, opened the passenger door, then forced her to slide over the gearshift and onto the driver’s seat, then he followed after her. Apparently, she was going to be driving the getaway car. He clicked the lock lever on a remote he held in one hand. The other hand still held the pistol, aimed at her. He shoved the remote into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone which he manipulated with one thumb, calling someone.

“Misty, where are you?”

“Good. Don’t go near the medical building. Pack a bag for both of us.”

“Yeah, a major fuck-up, caused by my ex-wife.”

She said something that made him laugh. “I agree. Listen, call Jerry at the airfield and tell him to have the plane ready in—” he glanced at his Rolex“—an hour. I’ll meet you there. It might take me a little longer than that, but we’ll leave immediately once I hit the tarmac.”

How could Nick think he had an hour to get the gold out of the bank and get to an airfield without the cops picking him up? But wait. Nick didn’t know the FBI and law enforcement were already on-site. He must think it would take a while for the receptionist to go into the office and discover Angus’s body. He would speculate that the receptionist’s first reaction would be to call an ambulance and then the police to whom she would report that her boss was missing.

She felt somewhat relieved to know what Nick didn’t. The good guys were probably already tailing them. She hoped.

“Love you, too, babe,” Nick said into his phone.

When he clicked off and shoved the phone back in his pocket, she asked, “Is that your muscle-bound marathoner girlfriend?”

“Angus talks too much,” Nick said and motioned for her to start the car. It had a keyless ignition, and he had the key remote on his person; so, it was easy to start. The Mercedes motor purred like Maddie after a tasty meal of Starr Foods albacore tuna. Why wouldn’t it? The vehicle had to cost a hundred thousand dollars. But it was probably leased. Otherwise, Nick wouldn’t leave it behind. He’d find some way to stow it on an airplane or arrange its transport.

“Where to now? The bank?”

He grinned evilly at her. “No, darlin’. We’re going to visit dear ol’ Aunt Maire.”

“What?”

“The pink lady is going to be the grease on the wheels of my escape. Pink grease. Ha, ha, ha.”

“What are you up to, Nick?”

“Your sweet aunt is going to sit in her pink Cadillac in her pink garage with the motor running. I figure it will take forty-five minutes for her to die from the carbon monoxide poisoning. A little added incentive for you to help me get the gold out fast and return to rescue your aunt. Ingenious, huh? And I just thought it up now.”

Samantha was becoming very, very afraid. This was not one of the possible scenarios that the feds had sketched out for her. Not even close.

And suddenly Samantha wished she’d listened to Daniel and let him come with her. How much more dangerous could it have been? Would she ever have the chance to tell him, “You were right, honey.”

In fact, would she ever see Daniel again?

Because, sure as sin, Nick was never going to leave her alive as a witness to his crimes.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Storms come, and storms go . . .

When Daniel stomped off, he was so blindingly angry that he stomped in the wrong direction. Instead of heading for his car, he ended up by the ice cream truck, which was, in fact, an ice cream truck and not a tricked-out FBI surveillance vehicle. He’d been watching too many Die Hard movies with Aaron.

“Whatcha want, bud?” some old codger at the window asked him. He wore a Polly’s Pralines cap and a T-shirt advertising his ice cream, Sweet Scoops. He had little or no teeth. Too much of his own product, Daniel assumed.

He ordered a vanilla waffle cone. Yes, boring vanilla for a boring ex-doctor who’d made a boring effort to rescue his woman, who wasn’t his woman, at all. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Boring, boring, boring.

“Dontcha want sprinkles on that?”

“No, I don’t want sprinkles,” Daniel said, barely restraining himself from saying something rude. It wasn’t the old guy’s fault that Daniel was in a foul mood.

Fuming, he leaned against the wagon. He watched as Samantha exited the Comcast van and headed toward the building, unaware that he was still hanging around like a . . . boring . . . stalker. For once, he wasn’t ogling her ass as she walked in those high heels, not even thinking of Aaron’s theory of women and high heels. Well, hardly at all.

Instead, he watched as the landscaper moved closer to the building, and the jogger entered one of the side doors. All was quiet in the parking lot then with normal activity. People coming to and leaving doctor appointments. A few coming up to the ice cream truck.