Page 35 of Stolen By the Billionaire
In just another few seconds, they had the rail down.
Nobody had to tell HowNow twice that she was free. The small brown cow bounced over the downed rail and set off at a healthy canter down the clearing between the cornfields, probably on her way to visit her Holstein friends.
Charlie shied, hopping on his front hooves and snorting.
Sarah grabbed a handful of his mane near his ears and dragged his head down to shush him, and then she led him over the rail, guiding him as he stepped over the lower post. Once he was steady on the other side, she swatted his haunches and stood back.
Charlie took off at a gallop, shaking his mane and racing literally unbridled through the mowed aisle between the fields of corn.
Her guy took her hand and set off running back into the cornfield.
Sarah ran hard to keep up with the guy. He kept near the edge, running just inside the rows until he jumped through. Sarah followed him out, and the solid walls of cornstalks gave way to the sky and a wide-open space.
A totally black car, even the bumpers and trim were onyx, was parked over on the side of the field. The sedan appeared to be a Ford Fusion with a large, black trapezoidal grill, but it somehow looked different. Squashed. Squintier.
The man opened the passenger side door and grabbed her shoulder, nudging her inside.
Sarah sat and pulled the door shut.
The hot summer air inside the two-seater coated her skin and lungs and suffocated her. New-car smells of rich leather and the tang of steel filled her nose. The car didn’t have a back seat, just a narrow space for tossing a purse or reclining the seats.
As the door thunked closed, the corn-rustling and bird-cawing and airplane-growling of the world stopped.
It was quiet inside.
And still.
And safe.
Probably.
Inside, the car didn’t look like a cheapo Ford Fusion.
Arrays of buttons studded the wood-inlaid console and dash, and an iPad-like screen dominated the center. The steering wheel was wrapped in hand-sewn leather. The center of it was embossed with silver wings like airplane pilots wore but no brand name.
She looked for a handle or a button to roll down the window to let the greenhouse-heated air out.
Fifty yards in front of them, guys wearing black suits crashed out of the cornfield and saw the car.
They ran toward her, raising their guns.
13
What All Serial Killers Say
Blaze
Blaze sprinted around the car, his trail-running shoes sliding on the rich farm soil in the clearing between the cornfields. He didn’t steady himself by slapping his palm on the hood of his car. He’d done too many tours of Afghanistan and Mosul, and the aversion to grabbing scalding hot metal was ground into the seams of his body like fine yellow sand.
Mary Varvara Bell’s assassins must be closing in on them, especially after he and Sarah had side-tracked to exfiltrate the cow and horse from the corral.
Just a few more steps separated Blaze from the car, but a gunshot bang behind him and a machete-slice sting on his arm told him he hadn’t been fast enough.
At least those assholes hadn’t hit his car with their poor aim.
He lunged into the driver’s seat and yanked the door closed.
Sarah Bell was staring out the front window. “They found us.”
