Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) by Karen Rose

            Seemed like Mercy’s team had upped their game. They were being a lot more careful. They had to know he was watching. Not from where he was watching, otherwise he’d have been surrounded by Feds already. But they knew he was watching.

            Mercy could have been in one of the SUVs. She could be nearby, in the Sokolovs’ house, even now. So could Gideon. And Amos.

            A well-placed explosive could take care of the entire house, but he wasn’t sure he could get close enough to plant a device, even if he could get his hands on one. Kowalski could, if he weren’t actively trying to kill him.

            But DJ was getting closer to finding Kowalski’s family. Once he did, he’d put that on his list of conditions. He wanted Kowalski to back off from trying to kill him, first and foremost. But some weapons would also be good.

            He frowned when one of the black SUVs passed by again, on its way to the Sokolovs’ house. Suddenly restless, he grabbed the keys to his truck, his rifle and his handgun, a new magnetic sign, and a new set of license plates. Tonight he’d be a septic service technician.

            He’d left his truck parked up against Smythe’s privacy fence with signs for a landscaping company prominently displayed, but he wasn’t really worried about his truck being reported. In the three days that he’d been there, none of Smythe’s neighbors had come outside. The closest house had the lights come on at the same time every night, clearly on a timer.

            It was hotter than hell and it was Memorial Day weekend. Maybe the rich folks went to the mountains where it was cooler. It was what DJ would do when he became rich.

            Eyes on the prize, he thought as he lined up the edges of the new magnetic signs on each of the truck’s doors. The license plates were next, and within minutes he was pulling onto the deserted street. He’d drive to the entrance to the neighborhood and wait there.

            If the SUVs stuck to their pattern, the one that had been on its way to the Sokolovs’ house would soon be heading out again. Sure enough, within five minutes, the SUV passed by on its way out of the neighborhood.

            DJ waited until the SUV had turned toward the interstate before following, keeping a safe distance. From the height of the truck’s cab, he could see over ninety-five percent of the vehicles on the road. He put five cars between himself and the SUV, then settled into a steady pace in the right lane. DJ made no move to get closer. It would only draw attention to him.

            He followed for miles, hoping the SUV wasn’t going to take the exits into the city. It would be harder to follow them there. His wish was granted when the black vehicle exited onto I-5, toward the airport. DJ continued to follow, now directly behind the SUV, assuming the airport would be their final destination when the vehicle exited onto Airport Boulevard.

            And then everything went to hell.

            “Fuck,” he growled, his pulse shooting to the moon when a police cruiser came up on his left, lights flashing. He’d been made.

            “Pull over,” came the command from the cruiser’s speaker.

            “I don’t think so,” he muttered, glad that he had the truck. He swerved, forcing the cruiser off the road into the median. He then rammed into the back of the SUV in front of him, causing it to veer off the shoulder. He stomped the gas pedal to the floor, the truck accelerating so fast that it fishtailed, but he got it under control and thundered down the highway.

            He made the most of his lead, knowing the cops wouldn’t give up. After a minute of the fastest driving he’d ever done, he slammed on the brakes and turned onto one of the roads that led to the river. There was no place to hide the truck, so he’d use it to buy more time. He parked the truck sideways so that it blocked the road, then grabbed his rifle out of its case and ran into the trees that lined the river.

            Slipping the rifle’s strap over his shoulder, he let it rest on his back as he slowed his pace, trying to find a tree that he could easily climb. His arm was so much better since he’d been resting in Smythe’s soft bed, but it still didn’t have a lot of strength.

            He found a tree with low-hanging limbs that appeared strong enough to support his weight and, one-armed, hefted himself to the first limb. He didn’t need to climb high, just enough to be out of the cops’ sight when they came looking for him.

            It didn’t take long. Within minutes, a pair of SacPD uniforms appeared, searching among the trees, shining their flashlights along the ground.

            Surprise, he thought. Bracing his rifle on a tree limb, he got a line on the first cop’s head, then the second’s. Both were wearing vests over their uniforms, but neither wore a helmet. He pulled the trigger on the first, then the second.