Avery narrowed her eyes. Was that the truth or another performance? Charlotte Barker wasn’t the type to admit weakness. Maybe it was a lie meant to buy sympathy, or maybe Darian really did have a hold on her.
Before Avery could decide, the sound of a window lowering cut through the rain. Darian leaned toward the open gap, his voice sharp. “Charlotte. Get back in the van.”
It wasn’t a request. It was an order.
Charlotte froze, her grip tightening on the umbrella. For a moment, Avery thought she might defy him. Then, with a quick breath, Charlotte turned and walked back to the van.
Avery watched closely, her gut twisting. Was this real tension between them, or were they staging it? Maybe it was just another ploy to make Jackson and her question who was really pulling the strings.
Charlotte opened the passenger door and climbed in. Before the door shut, she looked back at Avery through the rain, her expression strange, pleading, almost desperate.
Then Darian’s hand came up fast, striking her across the face.
Avery gasped. The door slammed, and with the van’s tires spitting mud, it sped back down the road.
For a long moment, the only sound left was the rain hammering against the SUV.
Avery sat frozen, heart pounding, trying to decide what she’d just seen.
Was Charlotte a victim? Or still the most dangerous woman alive?
The moment the van disappeared down the driveway, Jackson sprinted toward the SUV. Mud splashed around his boots as he yanked open the door. Behind him, Warren bolted for his house without a word.
Jackson leaned in, rain dripping from his hair and jacket. “Did you see Darian slap Charlotte?” she blurted.
“Yeah.” But it was obvious from his tone that his attention wasn’t on that. “Strip off your clothes,” he ordered. “Now.”
Avery blinked, startled. “What?”
“You might have a tracker on you,” he said, his tone clipped. “I’m not taking chances. Get in the backseat. There’s a go-bag under the seat with clothes. Change and then we’ll throw your clothes away.”
His voice left no room for argument.
Avery’s pulse spiked, but she nodded. “All right.”
She climbed over the console into the backseat, her knees catching on the leather. The air inside the SUV felt thick from the rain and the heat of adrenaline. She reached under the seat and found the bag, unzipping it with shaking hands.
Outside, Jackson kept scanning the woods, his eyes sharp and restless. The rain poured harder, hammering against the roof.
Avery pulled off the jacket Jackson had given her. Her wet clothes clung to her skin, and every movement felt clumsy. She kept glancing toward the window, afraid they’d see the van’s headlights again before she was done.
She dug into the bag and found a T-shirt and a pair of sweats, both clearly Jackson’s. The thought barely registered. She just needed to get the wet, possibly tagged clothes off and be ready to move.
Jackson hadn’t looked back, but his voice came through the rain, steady and low. “Make it fast, Avery. We’re not staying here another minute.”
Avery’s stomach twisted. The thought of carrying a tracker all this time made her skin crawl. “You think they’ve been tracking me since Houston?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“It’s possible,” Jackson said. He was still watching the woods, his hand on his weapon. “They’ve been one step ahead too many times for it to be luck.”
She pulled off the last of her wet clothes and grabbed the dry ones from the bag, her hands trembling. “But I washed these clothes,” she said, her voice rising. “Wouldn’t that have killed the tracker?”
“Not necessarily,” he said. “Depends on the kind they used. Some are waterproof. Some are sewn right into the fabric.”
Avery swallowed hard, the words making her heart pound faster. “Oh, God.”
When she finished dressing, she shoved the bundle of wet clothes toward him. Jackson took them without hesitation, opened the window, and threw them out into the rain.
“Hold on,” he said.