Read Online Werewolf Sings the Blues by Jennifer Harlow - Free Book Online

asks.
    â€œEmployees have to park far from the store. If we’re lucky, we’ll boost one of theirs. It’ll be hours before they report it.” We have a winner. “Here. This one,” I say with a grin.
    A Honda Civic, one of the most nondescript, widely bought models around. There are two in this row alone. It’s white as well, the most popular car color. It’ll do the job. My smile drops at the sound of a police siren. I glance back at the Mustang and spot an officer walking into Target as another cruiser pulls up beside the Mustang. Shit. I reach under the back wheel of the Civic. Nothing.
    â€œWhat are you doing now?”
    The front right wheel. Nothing. Front left … yes! I yank off the magnetic key box with a triumphant grin. Thank you, Bubba. The corners of Blondie’s mouth twitch in what I think is his version of a smile. I unlock the car. “Hurry!” We quickly toss all our bags into the backseat and climb in the front. Jason starts the car and pulls out, away from the swarm of police.
    â€œMarshal Donovan’s been a busy boy,” I say.
    â€œAll my guns. All my ammo. Clothes. Emergency cash.”
    â€œSpeaking of cash, the card that went through at Target, they’ll probably pull the number. If you use it again, they’ll track us with it.”
    His scowl deepens along with the creases in his forehead. “We need money.”
    I think for a second. “ATMs. We find another shopping center, hit all the ATMs in the stores, get the limit from each. Use cash for everything. Untraceable. We need to change the license plates on this car anyway.”
    â€œWe do?”
    â€œYeah. We find the exact same model and color, then switch their plates for this one. That way if someone runs them, the car doesn’t come up stolen. No one ever notices their plates are different.”
    He glances over at me, confusion overtaking his face again. “How do you know all this?”
    â€œHow do you not, Blondie?” I ask with a proud smirk.
    He doesn’t answer. He just returns his attention to the road. Think I offended him. This time we don’t have far to go for another strip mall or another white Civic, only about a mile. I wait anxiously in the car, scanning the highway for police, as Blondie hits the stores with an ATM sign in the window, all four of them. He returns after the second, a hardware store, with my requested screwdriver. He continues on our funds run as I take care of our other problem. My heart pounds as I remove the license plates from the cars. The few times people pass by, my throat closes up as I pretend to tie my flip flops. If they don’t believe my pantomime they don’t say a word or stop walking. Thank God for modern apathy. Blondie returns as I screw in the back plate on our new car. “We need to hurry,” he says.
    I give it two more twists. “Done.” Like a gentleman, he holds out his hand to help me stand. “How much you get?”
    â€œThousand.”
    Should be more than enough— shit . Sirens. My protector and I exchange a glance before rushing into the car. I barely get the door closed before he pulls out. As he drives out of the lot, I start rooting around in the bags in the back for the maps. “Drive about five above. Do the limit or below, it’s suspicious. Above five, risk a ticket.” Oh, my sunglasses. I retrieve them and the map book before plopping back down in my co-pilot chair. “We can’t take I-40 anymore,” I say as I open the book to California. “They know we’re using it. Plus you have to stop at the California border to check for vegetation if memory serves. We have to assume if they have the Mustang’s description out, they have ours out as well. Our best bet … yep,” I say, reviewing the map, “is to backtrack to I-15 then take I-70 through Utah, Colorado, so on. Other option is I-80 through Wyoming, Nebraska, etc.