Cold Spite (Cold Justice: Most Wanted #5)

Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

S canlon slammed the palm of his hand against the steering wheel, heading south on I-95. He couldn’t believe the motherfucker had managed to survive the blast. Whatever sixth sense Demarco possessed had just saved his life.

Scanlon glanced at the FBI cap on the passenger seat. A mistake. He needed to get rid of it, but he’d liked the idea of a souvenir especially as that bitch Quinn had been wearing one when she’d died.

He checked the wing mirrors. No one was following. No cops. No Feds. He eased off the gas. He couldn’t afford to get caught.

No one was after him. Too many white vans to count on the roads. They had no reason to suspect he’d left Louisiana again after going to visit his daughter in Washington State yesterday.

He wore a latex mask which was hot and stuffy, but he didn’t want to be spotted on any traffic cams or placed anywhere close to Virginia. He was not going back to prison.

His heart pounded though his breathing remained even. He’d stayed fit as he was able to while incarcerated, but adrenaline was pumping through his veins like liquid fire. Nothing revved an engine like a live fire exercise, and he hadn’t had the benefit of constant training to dampen his body’s natural responses .

Even though the bomb had failed to kill Demarco, this had been way more fun than killing Delilah Quinn. He’d only meant to stun and disorientate the FBI agent, but her skull had shattered like an eggshell.

It had changed his plans, but as he’d been on a tight schedule it had been just as well.

He yawned. He hadn’t had a lot of sleep the last couple of days, and he had a long way still to go tonight.

He’d sleep later.

When they were all dead. Every last one of them who’d come after him and humiliated him and taken what was rightfully his. And he’d live out the rest of his years, sitting on the dock watching the sun set over the bayou with a pole in the water and a beer in his hand. Fuck the military. Fuck the government.

He needed to readjust his plans and figure out how to get that prick Demarco, but there were a thousand ways to kill a man. A thousand ways to die. Although none quite as emotionally satisfying as blowing him into a million pieces while he watched from the sidelines.