Ware cried, and the escapees broke into whoops and cheers.
Even as Charlie looked beneath the seats toward the rear door to try to see something, anything, of what was happening, there was the distant sound of a severe impact. The siren cut off abruptly.
Oh, no.
Her head dropped to rest on her hands, which were fisted on the floor. Her shoulders slumped.
It didn’t require a psychic to conclude that the cop car had gone off the side of the mountain.
That both cops were almost certainly dying or dead.
“Doyle, get this thing moving,” Abell yelled.
“Now.”
There was a grinding sound: the gearshift being engaged. The bus jerked and bounced and rumbled as it took off again. The tires rattled over gravel, then swooshed onto pavement, and they picked up speed. In the distance, she thought she heard the wail of a siren. Was another cop car out there? Was it chasing them? Or was she imagining things?
“Damn
sucio
marranos
must’ve called for backup,” Torres said and groaned as Charlie caught her breath.
Her stomach tightened. Her head came up.
And her widening eyes immediately fixed on what was planted in the center aisle only a few inches in front of her face.
A man’s scuffed brown cowboy boot, attached to a long, muscular leg encased in faded jeans, attached to a—
Charlie kept on looking up, and then her heart stood still.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Michael.
He stood there, in spirit form, looking as solid and real as any living, breathing human being on the bus.
If Charlie had been able to say anything, his name would have flown out of her mouth like it had wings.
“So what’s your plan B?” Sayers yelled, belligerence in every syllable.
Abell or one of the others replied, but the words didn’t register. All the pandemonium in the bus, the rattling and jolting and shouting and burst of feverish activity as they tried and failed to catch and close the wildly swinging rear door, even her own fear, fell away, blocked by a wave of emotion so strong that it rocked her.
Michael.
If she’d been able to move she would have flung herself at him. Not that it would have done any good, because throwing herself at ectoplasm was pretty much the same as throwing herself at thin air, but that’s what she would have done anyway. Instinctively. Because she had never, ever been so glad to see anyone in her life.
Fortunately, shock paralyzed most of her muscles, including her vocal cords. In those first critical seconds she could neither move nor speak.
Having traveled up over his wide, white T-shirted chest, her eyes stayed fastened on his face.
There was no mistake. He was
there,
all six-foot-three hunky golden inches of him. Aggressively masculine despite the outrageous good looks. Seriously badass.
He wasn’t looking at her. He was glancing around, frowning, and seemed maybe a little dazed, like he was having to work to get a handle on exactly where he was. She had a really good worm’s-eye view of the underside of his square jaw, of the stubble that darkened it, of the flat planes of his cheeks, of his chiseled nose and high cheekbones, of the firm lines of his beautifully cut mouth. From her angle, she couldn’t see his eyes. She didn’t need to.
Michael.
She had no doubt whatsoever about his identity, couldn’t believe she had ever in a million years mistaken Hughes for him. She recognized him with something more accurate than anything her eyes could tell her. She recognized him in some deep, atavistic place in her soul.
For a moment, an agonizing moment, she wondered if he was some kind of illusion, if he would vanish as suddenly as he had appeared, if this was a repeat of the quick vision she’d had of him the previous twilight.
Her hand shot out on the thought and grabbed the nearest part of him, which happened to be the instep of his boot. At least, she tried to grab the instep of his boot. Of course her hand sank right through.
But the tingle, the electric tingle that accompanied any contact she had
Even as Charlie looked beneath the seats toward the rear door to try to see something, anything, of what was happening, there was the distant sound of a severe impact. The siren cut off abruptly.
Oh, no.
Her head dropped to rest on her hands, which were fisted on the floor. Her shoulders slumped.
It didn’t require a psychic to conclude that the cop car had gone off the side of the mountain.
That both cops were almost certainly dying or dead.
“Doyle, get this thing moving,” Abell yelled.
“Now.”
There was a grinding sound: the gearshift being engaged. The bus jerked and bounced and rumbled as it took off again. The tires rattled over gravel, then swooshed onto pavement, and they picked up speed. In the distance, she thought she heard the wail of a siren. Was another cop car out there? Was it chasing them? Or was she imagining things?
“Damn
sucio
marranos
must’ve called for backup,” Torres said and groaned as Charlie caught her breath.
Her stomach tightened. Her head came up.
And her widening eyes immediately fixed on what was planted in the center aisle only a few inches in front of her face.
A man’s scuffed brown cowboy boot, attached to a long, muscular leg encased in faded jeans, attached to a—
Charlie kept on looking up, and then her heart stood still.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Michael.
He stood there, in spirit form, looking as solid and real as any living, breathing human being on the bus.
If Charlie had been able to say anything, his name would have flown out of her mouth like it had wings.
“So what’s your plan B?” Sayers yelled, belligerence in every syllable.
Abell or one of the others replied, but the words didn’t register. All the pandemonium in the bus, the rattling and jolting and shouting and burst of feverish activity as they tried and failed to catch and close the wildly swinging rear door, even her own fear, fell away, blocked by a wave of emotion so strong that it rocked her.
Michael.
If she’d been able to move she would have flung herself at him. Not that it would have done any good, because throwing herself at ectoplasm was pretty much the same as throwing herself at thin air, but that’s what she would have done anyway. Instinctively. Because she had never, ever been so glad to see anyone in her life.
Fortunately, shock paralyzed most of her muscles, including her vocal cords. In those first critical seconds she could neither move nor speak.
Having traveled up over his wide, white T-shirted chest, her eyes stayed fastened on his face.
There was no mistake. He was
there,
all six-foot-three hunky golden inches of him. Aggressively masculine despite the outrageous good looks. Seriously badass.
He wasn’t looking at her. He was glancing around, frowning, and seemed maybe a little dazed, like he was having to work to get a handle on exactly where he was. She had a really good worm’s-eye view of the underside of his square jaw, of the stubble that darkened it, of the flat planes of his cheeks, of his chiseled nose and high cheekbones, of the firm lines of his beautifully cut mouth. From her angle, she couldn’t see his eyes. She didn’t need to.
Michael.
She had no doubt whatsoever about his identity, couldn’t believe she had ever in a million years mistaken Hughes for him. She recognized him with something more accurate than anything her eyes could tell her. She recognized him in some deep, atavistic place in her soul.
For a moment, an agonizing moment, she wondered if he was some kind of illusion, if he would vanish as suddenly as he had appeared, if this was a repeat of the quick vision she’d had of him the previous twilight.
Her hand shot out on the thought and grabbed the nearest part of him, which happened to be the instep of his boot. At least, she tried to grab the instep of his boot. Of course her hand sank right through.
But the tingle, the electric tingle that accompanied any contact she had
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