Never Show Them Money

“Humour, drama, adventure, great characters and some real edge-of-the seat moments come together and make a brilliant read.”

Extract

Keera Miles, assistant professor and closet psychic, suffered a lapse of concentration on her Chicago train ride home.

An image of a white van appeared in her mind—and she ignored it.

Big mistake.

Only when she emerged from the station and the same van lurched from a parking space, did she understand. The image was a clear signal to skip her usual station and alight at the next one. Too late now.

The van wasn’t accelerating: it stayed behind, matching her pace. She was a ten-minute walk from her home, but it might as well be ten miles away.

The van people didn’t intend to let her get that far.

Keera tried to get a sense of who the occupants were and what they wanted. But her growing unease and internal agitation blocked her perceptions. She turned around. The van stopped. The driver watched her, not moving.

She quickened her steps, and ducked into Grinders. Josh, the barista, was twenty years, with dark spiky hair and the soft eyes of a baby deer. He broke into a broad smile at the sight of her. “How ya doing? The usual?”

Outside, the van slid into view and stopped. The driver turned to somebody behind him, said something.

They were coming. She pushed open the rear doors to a lane lined with dumpsters and trash. She clanged it open. Two men next to a dumpster trying to hide their beer cans.

She said, “You like beer? I leave a case inside tomorrow if you haven’t seen me.”

One man brightened. “A case?”

“A whole case.”

“Modelo?”

“Modelo.”

He wiped a sleeve across his nose. “We saw nothing.”

“Deal.”

The man shuffled forward under the weight of his old army parka to shake his grimy hand with hers but Keera edged away. “I have to run. I mean it.”

“Damn these boots,” she muttered and broke into a run.

“Damn this coat.” She stopped at the corner, looked in every direction.  No van.

She ran again, faster.

“Damn that money!” she cried aloud.

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