Shifting against the seat, she took her pea coat off, groaning at the discomfort. There was a tear in her coat and her bloody blouse. Crimson stained the pale pink material. She ripped the side of her shirt open a little more to eye the wound fully. A strip of skin was gone, blood trickled down her side, and a dull throb pulsed from the gash. The bullet had literally skimmed her body.

She looked back up and saw Simpson still talking to the cop, laughing at something the man said. Making a split-second decision, she looked in the rearview mirror and reversed. She needed to get home, get the safe deposit key to her bank and retrieve the evidence she’d found regarding the Chemagan company. She’d show it to the police and explain everything that had happened this morning.

Her stepfather had been a cop—an asshole who’d used to shove her mother around until he’d finally killed her in a drunken rage—and Taylor knew how the system worked. Her mom had been murdered because of a department that looked the other way. Once she’d died they’d been all apologetic and talked about how no one had seen the signs, blah, blah blah. When she came to the police she needed irrefutable proof, especially since she wouldn’t put it above Neal to try and twist this whole situation, to frame her. He’d probably claim he shot her in self-defense. And it was clear he had contacts in the department. It turned her stomach.

By the time she made it to her condo complex, the adrenaline rush from earlier was fading. Her hands were clammy and her body was numb as she pulled into the parking lot. When she saw two uniformed police officers standing guard at the entrance, another spike of fear jagged through her like lightning. She kept driving as if she was looking for a parking spot and exited out another entrance.

In the five years since she’d lived here she’d never seen the police here once. No, they had to be here for her.

Which meant Neal had done something to set her up. No way was she getting arrested and railroaded. Shit, she needed to think, to clear her head and come up with a game plan. And she couldn’t do that here in Oceanside. She needed outside help. There weren’t many people she trusted, but her friend Vadim Sokolov in Vegas would be able to. And the drive wasn’t too far.

She turned onto the street and headed away from her building. As soon as she ditched Hugh’s SUV and found another vehicle, she’d be on her way. At least Hugh had a couple hundred bucks in his center console or she’d be totally screwed. It was good she didn’t have a phone though. No way to trace her.

* * *

Almost six hours later Taylor pulled up to Vadim’s house, dust from the long, dirt road behind her kicking up. He lived out in the desert, a good distance from any neighbors. The man was a loner. Or had been until recently when he’d gotten married. She’d hated that she hadn’t been able to make it to the wedding but at least she’d gotten to meet his new wife, a sweet, adorable woman aptly named Angel.

She tried calling Vadim again from one of the burner phones she’d picked up at a Podunk gas station but it went to his voicemail. Again.

Damn it.

She parked in his driveway and turned off the engine. She’d ended up stealing a beat up, pale blue Pinto. The radio had been sketchy and the passenger door had spots that were almost rusted all the way through, but the engine had been good enough to make the drive to Vegas so she had no complaints. Even if someone reported it stolen—and the owner was probably secretly thanking her for taking it—there was no way to track it electronically.

She’d almost kept Hugh’s SUV because he’d disabled his GPS tracking. The man was—had been—paranoid of too much government power and the ability of so many, not just the government, to track others’ whereabouts. He’d disabled the GPS tracking in anything, even his phone. But in her shock-filled haze she’d remembered that she could be tracked through the OnStar system regardless of what Hugh had done.

God, she missed him and his quirkiness. A fresh wave of pain swept through her and her throat tightened as she opened the driver’s side door, but she refused to cry. Not yet. Not until she had help and a game plan.

On the drive from Oceanside to Vegas she’d stopped twice; for gas and to get supplies which included a first aid kit, burner phones, and new clothes. Considering her current attire was from the first gas station/truck stop she’d stopped at, she looked ridiculous wearing a Golden State T-shirt snagged from the teenage boys’ section. The sweatpants with the word California down the outside of both legs were actually made for women, but they’d only had them in long sizes so she’d rolled them up at the ankles. With her zombie heels she looked as if she was doing the walk of shame.

Whatever, she was alive. The bandage she’d put on over her wound was holding and the ibuprofen she’d taken had helped with her headache and lessened the throb in her wound. Unfortunately she was exhausted and running on fumes. She’d been so eaten up with worry the last few days she hadn’t slept at all. Combined with the shock of seeing her friend killed and being shot herself, she was about to pass out.

Not to mention the freaking cops wanted her for questioning. She’d called two friends from work on the way to Vegas and each of them had said the police wanted to talk to her. One had even asked if she’d killed Hugh. Fucker. She’d used one of her burner phones to call both friends before ditching the phone. And she’d called while she’d still been in Oceanside. So if the cops somehow triangulated where she’d been calling from, they’d have no leads. She wouldn’t be taking any more chances now by calling anyone because she had a feeling they’d be ready to track her.

Besides, she already knew what she needed to. Neal had somehow set her up. She couldn’t figure out how he could have changed the evidence, but she couldn’t think very clearly about anything right now.

After knocking on the front door and ringing the bell with no answer, she had the childish urge to stomp her feet. But she’d come this far. She wasn’t turning around now. And the truth was, she felt safe here.

She tried pulling up the garage door up by hand, but it didn’t budge. No surprise. Fortunately for her, she knew how to release the safety latch. It was completely criminal but right about now she was thankful for her less than savory skills.

Returning to the Pinto, she drove it right up until it was almost touching the garage door. Then she unbent the metal hanger she’d gotten with the T-shirt she was wearing. She was just glad she hadn’t tossed the thing. Climbing onto the hood, she slid her hand through the top part of the garage, breaking a nail as she pulled the vinyl material down as much as she could. Not much, but there wasn’t a foamy seal in place so she was able to slip the thin hanger through. Later she’d yell at Vadim for this lapse in security.

Sliding the hanger around, she wiggled it until it caught on something. On her second try, she felt and heard the latch pull free.

Bingo.

Once upon a time it would have taken her exactly six seconds to do this. Now, it took her fifteen. Not bad.

After reversing the car away from the garage door, she tested it again and breathed out in relief when it slid upward. Leaving the door halfway open, she grabbed her two plastic bags from the vehicle. One held her bloody clothes and the other all the stuff she’d gotten at the two gas stations.

The lock on the interior door was decent, but she picked it. As soon as she stepped from the garage into the utility room the alarm started beeping. She wavered on her feet, but the beeping sound spurred her into action. She had fifteen to thirty seconds to disarm it.

On the third try she got it right. The code was the day, month and year Vadim had gotten his dog Charlie. Not something most people would know, but she and Vadim went way back. She’d apologize later and yell at him for the code too.