14

The YMCA appeared on her right, and she was struck by just how much crime occurred on this strip of road, how much of her history as a police officer could be traced to this route. She’d chased a man right there, up McLemore Street, dodging bullets as he shot at her in an attempt to get away. That one she’d caught, and seen him convicted for stabbing a twelve-year-old boy at the entrance to the Y.

The industrial grit of the city spilled before her, naked in the winter air.

As they passed the NES building, the scene improved. The old and the new sections of the city kissed and made up, working into the medical district, dominated by Baptist Hospital. They flew up Church onto Elliston Place before the limo turned onto West End Avenue and started out of town, toward the church. Taylor was tempted to thank the driver for the tour through her past life, but balked, instead thinking ahead to the moments to come. Taylor could only imagine the bedlam that was ensuing at St. George’s. She was in the midst of an idyllic vision of Baldwin rushing to greet her at the door, telling her he’d decided they should just skip this part and head directly to Italy, when she noticed the limo turn off West End. The idiot driver had taken the exit for 440, the short beltway surrounding the west and south sides of the city. They were headed north; this road led most decidedly away from St. George’s. While Nashville had the quaint ability of allow

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ing a driver to get anywhere quickly with fifteen equally amenable routes, this detour was going to make her late. Scooting forward, she tapped on the divider, signaling for the driver to drop the opaque glass. He ignored her. Laughing now, she realized that this was a fun little trick that was being played on her. Oh, fu

stood why they wouldn’t let her in her office. Wrapping presents, my ass. They were pla

“Okay, very fu

lotte through Sylvan Park to West End?”

Nothing. She banged harder.

“Hey! Hey, I’m talking to you. Put this divider down right now. The joke’s a good one, but it’s over. Either put the divider down or pull over.”

At last, the driver complied. He pulled to the side of the road, safely off on the shoulder. Traffic whizzed by on their left. The glass partition didn’t budge, and Taylor felt a wave of fury pass through her. The game was amusing, but enough was enough.

She was a cop, for God’s sake. She would force the damn driver to put the partition down. She reached for the door handle. The door was locked. She pulled on the han

dle again and again, with no result. Sliding across the ca

pacious seat, she tried the other door. Also locked. What the fuck was happening? A vanload of children 14

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passed them by, all their happy faces stuck to the windows on the right side of the van, contemplating and waving to the solitary limo on the side of the road. Taylor had a moment of sickening clarity, realized that this wasn’t a joke. Calmly, she slid back to the right and knocked on the glass again. There was no response.

She cursed, loudly and extensively. The string of oaths was impressive even to her, and made her feel a little bit better. There wasn’t a lot she could do locked in the backseat of a limousine. There was a wet bar packed with champagne, but a drink didn’t seem like the best idea. But to the left of the bar was a small green light. A speaker.

“I’ll be damned,” she muttered. He must have heard ev

erything she’d said. Scooting forward in the seat, she pushed the talk button, trying hard for a more reasonable tone.

“Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”

There was still no answer. Fine. If he wanted to play it that way, she was more than willing. She knew the divider wouldn’t be bulletproof.

She reached into her satin handbag, a brief moment of thankfulness overwhelming her as she remembered the argument she’d had with Sam over carrying the stupid thing. Purses just weren’t Taylor’s style. Sam had assured her that she’d need somewhere to stash a few items. Taylor had relented, deciding that she didn’t want to strap a gun to her leg for her walk down the aisle. A diminutive pearlhandled .22 that she’d bought at a collectors’ gun show a few years back fit perfectly into the tiny bag. Thanking whatever unseen force that influenced her decision to carry on her wedding day, she snapped open the bag and palmed the gun. She drew her fingers out, trying not to 254

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draw attention to the fact that she was now armed. It didn’t matter. The panel between them dropped.

The driver turned and smiled, and Taylor had a brief moment when she thought, no, I’ve been wrong, this is all a joke.

A flash of black caught her eye and she focused on the object in the driver’s hand. Her heart skipped a beat and she sucked in her breath involuntarily. Her brain registered the situation. It took only a fragment of a second, but when the smile widened, she knew absolutely that she had to get her weapon up, now.

The motion was smooth, graceful, lightning quick. Such close quarters, there was no need to aim, just cock the hammer and pull. A full squeeze, the roaring boom. But her body convulsed. Pain shot through her. She dropped her weapon, dropped the bag, her eyes rolled back in her head. Her last thought tore through her like an electrical impulse—Baldwin is going to kill me. Then all was dark.

The driver gri

complished. His boss would be very happy. Twenty-Seven

Nashville, Te