Second Chance Read Online Free PDF Page B

huge favor. Run out the rear exit and never look back.”
    She frowned—not completely unexpected. “Who the hell are you anyway?”
    “Look, I don’t know you, but from the little I’ve seen, you don’t seem like the kind of girl who should be messing around with a dangerous character like Donovan.”
    “And why not?” she huffed. “So you can make a move on him yourself? Go find your own money tree.”
    Sure, that’s exactly what I had in mind; getting horizontal with a fat, sweaty Jamaican gangster like Donovan, who doesn’t wash the barbecue sauce off his lips before giving you a kiss. “No, because he just slipped something into your drink. So unless you’re okay with being unconscious while he waters your lady garden with his love fertilizer, I’d get lost real fast.” She stared at me blankly. “You don’t get it? You’re about to get raped!” The color drained from her face, and then she ran past me out of the restroom.
    Okay , I figured, not subtle, but I got the job done. I took a deep breath and made my way to the door. I glanced over at the VIP area as soon as I was out of the restroom.
    Oh shit! I had figured it wrong, dead wrong. Lily or Ivy or whatever her name is stood in front of Donovan, stomping her foot, and pointing in my direction. I ducked out of sight just as Donovan turned toward me. I didn’t think he saw me, but I knew it was only a matter of seconds before his men closed in around me.
    I glanced at the front entrance and the avalanche of people surrounding it. Not that way. I was about to make my move to the rear exit when I felt a huge hand grab me by the wrist. I expected to look up into the eyes of Arnold Schwarzenegger and hear the Terminator say, “Sarah Connor, take my hand if you want to live.” I was pretty damn close.
    “Hurry!” a man said. “Let’s get out of here before they kill us both.”

Chapter Seven
    I glanced at the man who had me by the wrist, and I yanked my arm free. “Your friend sent me,” he said with urgency. “Ambler.”
    Ambler. Thank God. I love that man. He had sent someone to my rescue, and it was a good thing because I hadn’t planned an escape option. I followed my rescuer through a nearby doorway, which led into a storage room filled with cases of beer and liquor. I was on his heels as he weaved around the aisles of stacked booze. We hit the street on the side of the club. A car was parked just outside—I’m an enthusiast, but even if I wasn’t, I would have recognized the make and model instantly. It was an ’86 Buick Grand National, an old high-performance muscle car. He cranked the ignition. The exhaust burble sounded like the rumble of an approaching storm.
    “Get in,” the man yelled.
    “I’ve got my own car.”
    “There’s no time,” he warned. He signaled for me to get in. I heard the club door creak behind me, raced around the Buick, and jumped in just as the wide tires squealed and caught on the pavement. A billowy, white cloud of smoke rose from the burning rubber. I heard the crackle of gunfire as we hit the road and sped off.
    “You’re Chalice, right? Just want to make sure I didn’t risk my life for the wrong person.”
    “Yeah, I’m Chalice. Thanks for coming to my rescue. And you are … ?”
    “Rick.” He checked the rearview mirror, shifted, and mashed the accelerator. The Grand National accelerated like a torpedo. I checked the speedometer—we were over a hundred. “Short window of opportunity,” he blurted. “I hope you’re not afraid of high speeds. We need to create some distance while we still can.”
    “High speeds?” I said through chattering teeth. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
    After about ten minutes, he switched off the lights and downshifted. The car jerked and slowed abruptly. He swung the car onto a small road, and then his foot was back on the gas. He shifted the car twice, and the main road disappeared behind us. We were now thundering forward on a road that wasn’t built for speed.