Hit: A Thriller (The Codename: Chandler) Read Online Free PDF Page B

him.
    The car screeched around another turn, its tail skidding, back tires hitting the curb. I flattened myself to the seat next to Bratton. Grabbing the seatbelt, I pulled it across my chest and secured it just as Heath took another sharp turn.
    Now facing front, I could see through the windshield, although a part of me immediately wished I couldn’t.
    Heath was gunning the limo up a ramp and onto an expressway…an expressway where traffic was heading straight for us.
    He met my gaze in the rear view mirror. “They would be loco to follow us, bonita , no?”
    I said nothing, not sure if I was impressed or horrified.
    Cars swerved one way and the other, skidding, crashing into their neighbors. Ahead, a pickup barreled straight at us, the driver either not paying attention, playing a demented game of chicken, or looking for a convenient way to end it all.
    Heath veered to the side. Bratton slumped into my shoulder, holding his stomach, groaning.
    I pushed him upright.
    A screeching roar filled my ears, and almost before I could identify it as semi brakes locking up, I spotted the truck. It veered, jackknifed, then flipped onto its side, skidding toward us like a squeegee blade ready to wipe a window clean.
    Bratton made a strangled sound deep in his throat. He slumped toward me, and I pushed him away.
    If I was going to die, I didn’t not want to do it covered in puke.
    Heath slammed the brakes and cranked the wheel, pirouetting like some punk doing donuts in the high school parking lot.
    “Go, go, go,” I yelled despite myself.
    He hit the gas and the limo’s eight banger responded, flattening us against the seat, the squeal and smell of burning rubber filling the passenger compartment.
    Flowing with traffic now and with an open road ahead, Heath gunned the engine. Sirens screamed, the sound audible above the whipping wind.
    “Mr. Bratton?” Heath said. “Call Cullen. Tell him to have the plane ready and take off cleared.”
    Bratton didn’t answer.
    “Mr. Bratton?” I said.
    Bratton leaned over and deposited his steak dinner all over his shoes.
    “Take his phone, bonita . The number is under pilot.”
    I fished the phone from the pocket where I’d felt it earlier and did a quick search of recent calls. He’d taken four in the past two hours: one from Heath, one from his wife, and two noted simply as unidentified caller, one bearing the 631 area code I recognized as being from the eastern portion of Long Island, and one sporting Las Vegas’s 702 area code.
    The winning bid?
    “You find the number, Simone?”
    “Yeah. It’s here.” I quickly memorized the two unknown numbers and Heath’s number. I could call Bratton’s wife and tell her what a creep her husband was, but I was betting she already knew. As long as she was slated to inherit his fortune, I figured I was already doing her a favor.
    I hit the number for Cullen.
    He picked up on the first ring. “Mr. Bratton?”
    “Heath says to have the plane ready and takeoff cleared.”
    “Who is this?”
    “The entertainment.”
    “Let me speak to Mr. Bratton.”
    I held out the phone, and Bratton retched again.
    “He can’t talk,” I said. “Something’s come up.”
    Ditching the interstate just as the beat of police and news helicopters started to pound the air overhead, Heath slowed to a more normal pace, Football Face and his muscle-bound boss nowhere to be seen. I leaned my head back, breathed through my mouth, and prayed the ipecac was out of Bratton’s system.
    I was wrong. Before I could turn away, I couldn’t help but wonder what possessed Bratton to eat what had to have been an entire bushel of peas. As I did, the John Lennon song inappropriately popped into my head.
    All we are saying… is give peas a chance.
    Between bouts of projectile hurling, we reached the airport. As I helped the CEO from the car—which was among the grossest things I’d ever had to do and I’d killed people in horrible ways—Heath spoke to the driver.