Winters shuddered thinking about the red-eyed, tear-brimmed women. Finding the mystery woman dry-eyed was about as likely as him scoring a much-needed cup of joe in the next fifteen minutes.

The GPS showed the motel to be only miles away. Highway signs flew by, and cars shifted lanes to make way for him barreling down the road. He rounded a bend, saw nothing but red brake lights, and cursed. He tried to move to the left lane, but traffic was at a standstill. He slammed his hand on the top of the steering wheel. Maybe he could make a list of everything that could go wrong today and see how close he came by the time it was lights out.

He laid on his horn and crept toward the left lane. No one moved. Not an inch. Not even the moron he threatened to hit with his truck. Winters rolled the window down and motioned to the driver. Motioned may have been too conservative a description. He bore down on the man like a crack-addicted grizzly bear, ready for a fight to the death.

“Get over.” He pointed to the shoulder of the highway. “Over. Now.”

The man ignored the truck maneuvering its way into the crack of space. Winters blew the horn again and leaned out the window, ready to threaten life, limb, and loved ones.

“Move your car.” Honking wasn’t getting him anywhere, but he did it again. Then again and again. Still no help.

He dropped the gear into neutral and slammed the gas pedal down. The truck revved like a road warrior. The driver, who was fast becoming a sworn enemy, flinched, then tapped into the survival part of his brain and pulled over. Winters moved to the shoulder, pushed the pedal to the floor, and redlined it.

A half mile later, the source of the traffic problem appeared. Three lanes of a four-lane highway were closed for paving. Bright orange barriers and men with neon yellow reflector vests milled about machinery.

The one open lane had a fender bender. Two men with cell phones glued to their ears pointed at their bumpers. Winters hit the brakes in time to jet through the construction entrance, rumble over an unpaved section, and cross in front of all the stopped traffic. Dear God, let there be an immediate exit.

The GPS interrupted his prayer. “Exit highway in one hundred and fifty feet. Your destination will be on the right.”

What do you know? He should pray more often.

He pulled off the highway exit. The motel was ahead, and he bounced over the rough entrance. The vacant lot had faded parking space lines and crater-like potholes. Knee-high weeds ran the length of the curb. A black Taurus was at the end of the lot. Fan-fuckin-tastic.

Winters parked his pickup truck around the side, ran through a quick ammunition and supply check, and closed in on the pay-by-the-hour room. He jogged by several silent rooms, then heard muffled words and a feminine yell. Son of a bitch. As much as he didn’t like to work with weepy women, he would rain hell on anyone hurting them. Weeping or not.