Cut Throat. Шарон Сала

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      As the chase came closer, she heard a series of rapid gunshots and winced when the windshield of another patrol car shattered. The patrol car fishtailed, then swerved into the ditch, barely escaping being rear-ended by the cars giving chase behind it.

      Bracing herself, she went down on her belly at the rear of her vehicle, using it as cover while waiting for the fleeing vehicle to draw near. Seconds later it was on her, with the police cars only a few yards behind.

      Her first shot hit the left front tire, her second, the left rear. There were two loud pops as they blew in quick succession, then a cloud of smoke and the scent of burning rubber as the driver tried to keep the crippled car on the road.

      Helpless, without control, the car quickly fishtailed, then slid onto the center median, rolling several times before coming to a stop upside down.

      Cat heard tires squealing as the patrol cars began stopping. From where she was lying, she could see the smoking car upside down, with the tires still spinning.

      She got up slowly, laying her gun on the bumper of her car and raising her hands as she stood.

      “I’m unarmed! I’m unarmed!” she shouted, as two officers came at her with guns drawn, shouting for her to drop her weapon.

      The other officers converged on the wrecked car before the passengers had time to crawl out and run.

      Cat stepped out from behind her car.

      “My weapon is on the bumper,” she said, well aware of what was coming next.

      “Hands on the back of the vehicle! Legs spread! Do it now!” one of them shouted, while the other began patting her down. When the handcuffs went around her wrists, she winced.

      “Some thanks,” she said, as the handcuffs clicked.

      The patrolman in front of her frowned as she began to speak.

      “My name is Cat Dupree, and I have a permit for the gun. It’s in the glove box. I thought it was prudent to stop this crazy bastard before someone got killed, but if I messed up your race, boys, I’m real sorry.”

      The officer who’d patted her down asked her to repeat her name.

      “Cat Dupree. I work for Art Ball Bail Bonds, out of Dallas.”

      The officer’s eyebrows arched as he opened the wallet he’d taken out of her pocket.

      “You’re a bounty hunter?”

      She nodded, then tilted her head toward the wrecked car.

      “How long have they been on the wrong side of the highway?”

      The patrolman sighed wearily.

      “Too long.”

      Cat frowned. “Someone get hurt?”

      “Yeah. The guard at the bank they just robbed and a woman and two kids about six miles back.”

      Cat stifled a shudder. “Bad?”

      “As bad as it gets.”

      “Lord,” Cat said, watching as the cops began pulling two men out from the overturned vehicle.

      The patrolman escorted her to his car, put her in the backseat and then went about the business of checking her credentials. A few minutes later he opened the door, helped her out and took off the cuffs.

      “Sorry. Procedure,” he said, and dropped the gun into her hands.

      “No problem,” Cat said, absently rubbing at her wrists as she took her pistol, walked back to her SUV and put the gun back in the glove box.

      It was at that point that she realized there was more going on than what was happening on the ground.

      “Damn news crews,” the highway patrolman muttered.

      Cat glanced up. A helicopter with a Channel 4 logo on the side was hovering overhead.

      “Smile pretty,” the cop said. “I can guarantee they got all of this on tape.”

      Cat frowned, then looked away. “Well, crap,” she muttered.

      “Exactly,” he said, then glanced into her SUV and saw the laptop and the program running on it. “What’s that?” he asked.

      “Bounty.”

      He arched an eyebrow, then looked back at her and grinned.

      “Damn, lady…you don’t even give them a fighting chance, do you?”

      “Not if I can help it,” she muttered, then put her hands on her hips. “Are we through here?”

      “Yeah. We have your info if we need more from you later.” Then he smiled. “Watch your back.”

      “Always,” she said.

      She was opening her door when the cop added, “Hey…by the way…thanks.”

      “No problem,” she said, then with one last glance up toward the hovering helicopter, got in and drove away.

      Solomon was still sleeping when Paloma returned, carrying the items that Maria Sanchez had given her in a basket, along with a chicken she clutched under her arm. The chicken clucked nervously. Maria walked into her bedroom, frowning as she saw Solomon stretched out on her little bed. The mattress was sagging almost to the floor, and he’d gone to bed without covers or removing his shoes, leaving a dark, dirty streak on the bedclothes.

      “Animal,” she muttered, and set the basket down on the floor, then took the chicken out from beneath her arm. Without hesitation, she grabbed it by the neck and twisted violently, quickly separating the chicken from its head. It flopped about on the floor beside the bed, splattering blood and gore in its death throes.

      Solomon woke up as Paloma was taking a cross out of the basket.

      “What the hell’s going on here?” he shouted.

      Paloma continued her spell by sprinkling the contents from a tiny bag Maria had given her onto the pooling blood beneath the now-quivering carcass of the chicken.

      When she began to chant in a singsong voice, Solomon realized what was happening. He was as cold and vicious as a man could be, yet Paloma had unknowingly hit upon his Achilles’ heel. He was superstitious to a fault, and now he went into a panic at what she was doing.

      “Stop! Stop!” he begged, and bounded off the bed, only to find himself blocked from the exit by the blood and carcass of the chicken.

      Paloma completed her chant, emptied another tiny bag on Solomon’s feet and then looked up at him. The challenge was in her eyes. Solomon crumpled beneath her gaze. His heart was hammering so hard he could barely hear his own voice, and his legs were trembling to the point that he had to grab at the wall to stand.

      “What have you done? My God, woman…what have you done?”

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