Nowhere to Run by Nancy Bush Page B

put the Jeep in park, and switched off the engine.
    â€œNow what?” he asked, pulling the key from the ignition.
    â€œStay in the car. Hands up. I’ll come around.” She opened her door, the gun still trained on him, then walked around the front of the Jeep and stood outside the driver’s door, her muzzle aimed at him through the window. “Let yourself out,” she said.
    Carefully, he opened the door, his hands raised in front of him. She took the keys from his hand.
    â€œGet the twine from the back of your car.”
    â€œThe twine?”
    She nodded.
    â€œYou’re not going to tie me up,” he stated flatly, challengingly.
    â€œYes. I am.”
    â€œIt won’t work. What are you running from? They’ll find you.”
    â€œ No.”
    â€œDon’t take offense. But I don’t think you’re good at this.”
    Liv barked out a harsh laugh. “I’m only as good as I need to be.”
    He thought that over, then walked around to the back of the Jeep and pulled up the hatch as far as the twine would allow. He untied the twine, gathered it together and put it into Liv’s outstretched hand.
    She said, “I’m going to put this gun into my jacket pocket now, but I’ll shoot you through it if you do anything while we walk across the breezeway to the back door.”
    He made a movement of acquiescence and then headed out the garage’s man-door, across the breezeway and up two concrete steps. At the door, he said, “I’m going to need the key.”
    Carefully, she put the full set in his upturned palm.
    â€œI usually close the garage door,” he told her.
    â€œI’ll do it later.”
    There were no neighbors directly across from him. In fact this stretch of road was winding and covered with fir trees, with a wide stretch of sun-scorched lawn beside the cracked cement driveway. If she had to stay out of sight a while, it was not a terrible hideout.
    He threaded a key in the lock. Twisting the door open, he stepped inside, but Liv was right on his heels, just in case he planned to slam the door in her face and lock her out.
    They were in a kitchen with a small wooden table and two chairs. “Sit down,” she ordered, holding the length of twine.
    He eyed the twine and said disbelievingly, “You plan to tie me to a chair?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOh, come on. I’m not going to do anything. I don’t really care what you’ve done. Let’s just sit down and talk about it.”
    She gestured with the muzzle. “Sit down. Put the keys on the table.”
    He eased himself into one of the chairs, set the keys on the table, then slid them away from himself toward her. She picked them up and put them in her pocket.
    â€œThis must be a first offense,” he said.
    â€œIt’s not,” she lied. “Put your arms behind you.”
    â€œOh, come on.”
    â€œJust do it,” she snapped.
    â€œSo, you’re a hardened criminal? Is that what you’re saying?” He put his arms around the back of the chair, though it was clearly hard for him to comply.
    â€œThat’s what I’m saying.”
    With his arms behind him, she threaded the twine through the lathed spokes of the chair’s back and around his wrists, tying them tightly, testing the twine’s strength.
    â€œThis is gonna get damned uncomfortable real fast,” he muttered.
    â€œBe quiet. Please.”
    â€œFirst offense,” he said. “You’re way too polite.”
    â€œShut up.”
    She’d set the .38 on the table out of his reach while she tied him up, but if he made a move for it, she was pretty certain she could beat him to it. He might be able to take her down with brute strength, but there was the chance she could get a shot or two off were it loaded, and since he believed it was, he let her truss him to the chair with no resistance though the dark, mutinous look on his face