The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings Book 2) Read Online Free Page A

clutch and cranked those horses over. Flooring the accelerator was a different deal entirely from her old Toyota, tires skidding out as she doughnuted the sports car and raced off—going in the wrong direction
    Fine. Let the cops arrest her. At least she’d bring them down to the water.
    A set of headlights coming at her got her to pitch the Porsche to the right, and the other vehicle’s horn was like the terror in her head, a screaming distraction that might have derailed her but for her laser focus on getting to Lane.
    Lizzie took the exit ramp at eighty miles an hour, and by some miracle, noone happened to be heading up it to get on the highway. At the bottom, she pulled another illegal turn and got herself heading the right way, but more traffic laws got broken as she hopped the curb, tore across a grass verge, and bottomed out on a two-laner that ran down to the river’s edge.
    Lizzie took the Porsche up to nearly a hundred miles an hour.
    And then she slammed on the brakes.
    One of the region’s favorite ice cream parlors was located on the shore, in a Victorian house with a storied past—and in addition to slinging scoops, they also rented bikes … and boats.
    She didn’t park the 911 so much as dump it at the side of the road on the grass shoulder as cockeyed as a drunk’s hat. She left the headlights on and facing across the water as she vaulted a fence and gunned across a shallow lawn for the floating docks. There, she found a variety of Boston Whalers, none of which had keys in them, of course—and one measly, tippy flat-bottom with a pull-start outboard.
    Which, blessedly, somebody had not chained to the posts.
    Lizzie jumped in, and it took her two yanks to get the engine cooking. Then she ripped off the tethers and headed out into the river, the tin can slapping against the waves and kicking spray into her face. With the dearth of artificial light, she could see a little, but not a lot—and the last thing she wanted was to run him over.
    She had gone only a hundred yards or so into the river—which seemed to be the size of an ocean—when she saw the most miraculous thing on the horizon.
    A miracle.
    It was a miracle.

THREE

    T heOhio River was so much colder than Lane could ever have imagined. And the shore was farther away, like he was swimming the English Channel. And his body heavier, as if there were cement blocks tied to his feet. And his lungs weren’t working right.
    The current was carrying him fast, but that was only good news if he wanted to go over the falls like his father had. And as luck would have it, the relentless draw was pulling him into the center of the channel, away from any kind of land, and he had to fight against it if he hoped to get to—
    As a piercing illumination hit him from behind, he thought for a split second that his momma’s faith had turned out to be real and her Jesus was coming to take him to the Pearly Gates.
    “I got him! I got him!”
    Okay, that voice sounded way too ordinary to be anything biblical—and the Southern accent was a telltale that it was probably a mortal and not God.
    Spitting water out of his mouth, Lane rolled onto his back and had to put an arm over his eyes as he was blinded by the glare.
    “He’s alive!”
    Theboat that pulled up beside him was a good thirty feet long and had a cabin, and its engines were cut as the stern swung around toward him.
    He was pulled over thanks to a net grappler, and then he helped himself out of the river and onto the platform over the propellers. Flopping on his back, he looked up at the night. He couldn’t see the stars. The city’s glow was too bright. Or maybe his eyes were just too clouded.
    A man’s face appeared in his vision. Gray beard. Shaggy hair. “We saw you jump. Good thing we was coming under—”
    “Someone’s approaching from starboard.”
    Lane knew without looking who it was. He just knew it. And sure enough, as the spotlight was manually spun in that direction, he saw his