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  I shut the door, fired up the car and, with a friendly wave--pretending I couldn't understand what he was mouthing--I drove from the lot.

  Diaz was tailing me. I couldn't see him, but I knew he was there. Because the chances he'd sent me on these back roads to the airport just to be helpful? About zero.

  I was now on a truly back road--a dirt one. It was empty, which at least made it tough to tail. As I drove down a dip, I spotted a car in the distance behind me, its running lights off. It looked gray or silver, nearly invisible in the daylight. Diaz's car had been dark. Was he behind that one? Or had he switched vehicles?

  My work phone rang. I grabbed it so fast I nearly dropped it.

  "Hello?" I said. Please, Jack. Please be--

  "Where the hell are you?" Evelyn said.

  Damn it. "This really isn't the time, Evelyn. Can I call you--?"

  "Everyone's so busy today. A woman tries to be helpful, and that's all she hears. I don't know why I bother."

  "Because if we're busy, it probably means we're doing something interesting, and you're bored. Like those nosy old ladies who sit on the front porch and yell at the neighborhood kids."

  "I wouldn't yell at them. I'd shoot them."

  I smiled. "Look, I can't talk but . . . you said everyone's busy, does that mean you were talking to Jack?"

  "No. Bastard gives me shit if I call him on a job. Says I'm interrupting him. Like he'd even have those jobs if it wasn't for me. I suppose he talks to you."

  "Not this trip. He's having phone problems. I was hoping maybe he'd resolved the issue."

  "So that's why you answered so fast. Well, I'm sure he's fine. About you, though . . ."

  I glanced in the rearview mirror to see the other car zooming up in a cloud of dust.

  "I really have to--" I began.

  "You went after Quinn, didn't you? Weekend's over so you can leave that damned shack of yours and go chasing after the Boy Scout who obviously was not prepared."

  The car was fast closing the gap between us.

  "Can we talk about this later?" I said. "I'm--"

  "I'm coming to help," she said.

  "What? No. I--"

  "I'm bored. You want me to admit it? Fine, I just did. I'm bored and you're out there alone, with no backup, Jack having fucked off to Ireland."

  "I worked alone for years, remember? I'm fine. Really."

  "Are you in Virginia?"

  "Yes, but I honestly don't need your help."

  "I'll call when I get there."

  She hung up. I glanced in my mirror. The car was still coming fast. I shoved the phone into my pocket, took out the gun and wedged it under my thigh.

  When the car drew close enough, it turned on its signal. See? I'm just an ordinary citizen, signaling my pass. No need for panic.

  I could see two men in the car--driver and passenger. Dark hair, brown skin, clean shaven . . . which also matched Diaz's description.

  The car veered out. I slammed on my brakes, and it shot past. The driver started to swerve at my car before he realized it wasn't beside him. He hit the brakes, and his car went into a fishtail. I geared into reverse, punched the gas and zoomed backwards to what looked like a laneway heading into the forest. The other driver had come out of his fishtail and was getting turned around. I steered into the laneway, car rocketing over the rough dirt road, which I quickly realized was not a driveway so much as a turnoff spot for hunters or hikers to park.

  The trail narrowed as it headed farther into the woods, and I kept going, totally violating my rental agreement. Another good reason never to use my real credit card.

  The 4x4ing would have been easier had I been driving an actual 4x4. But one advantage to the compact car was its size. The driver of the other vehicle--possibly accustomed to smaller vehicles--hit the gas and made a valiant effort to follow me down the narrowing trail, plowing down small saplings before getting wedged between two trees. I'd have found that far more amusing if I did not, at that moment, reach the end of my own trail, which soared up the side of an embankment that only an ATV could scale.

  I braked hard. Then I snapped off my seatbelt and, gun in hand, peered around the headrest. The other guys were already getting out of their vehicle. Shit.

  I cracked opened the driver's door, then inched over to the passenger seat and kicked the driver's door wide. I fired a shot through it. As they took cover to return fire, I threw open the passenger door and rolled out.

  I ran into the forest. It didn't matter that I made a racket--what counted now was getting as far from these two as possible. When I was out of reasonable firing range, I hit the ground. Then I rose on all fours and crawled quietly to my left.

  I could hear them speaking Spanish, which wasn't helpful, my vocabulary limited to please, thank you and, "Where's the restroom." I could, however, track their voices. One was coming my way while his partner circled around.

  I surveyed the playing field. Further to my left was a hunting blind. It was in rough shape, likely a decade since anyone used it. But it gave me something to aim for, and I crawled that way while periodically turning to throw rocks or sticks in the other direction. My pursuer fell for the trick while I continued to the blind and hunkered behind it.

  A hunting blind is made for rifles. Also for deer, who aren't the smartest beasts in the forest. This provided temporary shelter, nothing more. What I needed was . . .

  I looked up. The tree was climbable above about ten feet. That meant if I could use the blind as a ladder, I could get up there. I would, however, be exposed while climbing.

  I checked my options again. I'd lost sight of the guy circling around. His partner was about twenty feet away--too far for a decent shot through dense forest.

  I threw another rock, but now that he was closer, he only looked around instead of following the sound. I crouched motionless behind the blind until I heard the tramp of his feet again.

  When his footfalls stopped, I peered through a hole in the blind to see he was looking in the opposite direction, bobbing and weaving as he tried to see something he thought was me.

  While he walked toward the stump, I scaled the blind. I was putting my foot on my third and last piece of frame when the rotted wood gave way. I grabbed a branch overhead before I fell, but my foot knocked hard against the blind, the sound as loud as a shot.

  The guy spun. I swung into the tree, getting up among the leaves. They hid me, but the guy now knew roughly where I was.

  He lifted his gun. He didn't fire. A handgun isn't an MK-47--you can't just spray wide and hope to hit your target. As good as that leafy cover was, some part of me must have showed, because his head swung up, his gaze and gun lifting and--

  He dropped with a bullet between his eyes. I exhaled and allowed myself a smile as I lowered my gun. While a handgun is less than ideal for sniping, it'll do the job if you can get into a clear position . . . like up a tree looking down on your target.

  The gun was a Smith & Wesson 9mm, which meant I had ten rounds and no backup ammo. Not ideal, but at the risk of sounding cocky, with one remaining target and nine shots, I felt okay about it.

  Now all I had to do was figure out where the other guy--

  A twig crackled underfoot. Behind me. The guy was right there, ten feet away, his gun rising. I fired but I wasn't ready. My bullet hit him in the shoulder and I didn't have time for another. I jumped from the tree. He fired just as I leaped--three rapid-fire shots, the first flying over my head, the second whipping past me and the third . . .

  I tried to twist in mid-flight, get out of whatever path he expected me to fall. I twisted too blindly and while the bullet only hit my arm, my head struck the blind, cracking against the frame as I went down. A moment of gray. Then a very hard landing jolted me awake.

  I tried to scramble up but nearly blacked out. I crouched on the far side of the blind and blinked hard.

  Damn it, focus!

  Gun. Where was my gun?

  I must have dropped it when I grayed out.<
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  I looked around. I could hear my assailant tromping toward me, breathing hard, obviously injured worse than I'd thought. Good. Yet he was still coming and my damn gun must be on the other side of the blind.

  I pulled out the knife I'd picked up while following Quinn's trail. Jack's rule: Never leave home with only one weapon. I just needed to get in a position to use it.

  I pushed to all fours, gritting my teeth against my throbbing head as I crawled. I peeked around the blind while keeping my head as low to the ground as possible. The guy was headed my way with his gaze fixed on the blind. My gun lay three feet away, just out of reach.

  My fingers clenched the knife, but I couldn't stop eying the 9mm. It was the safer bet. Getting to it, however, was not a safe bet. Nor could I leap up and charge him with my knife before he could turn and shoot. Hell, I might not be able to leap up. Blood ran down my arm. My head swam. My eyes kept losing focus.

  Only one option, really, as imperfect as it was. I shifted into a sprinter's start and the world swayed.

  Focus, just focus.

  The thug started moving around the blind. My muscles tensed, but I held still, waiting until he was completely out of sight and then--

  I dashed to my gun and swung it up as he cursed in Spanish and raced around the blind and--

  A shot. As I was still squeezing my trigger. I fired and dropped. Not that it would do much good. Bullets don't move in slow motion. But then--two seconds later--I saw the thug's muzzle blast, his gun pointing up, shot going wide as he fell.

  My shot had hit him in the chest. As he fell, I saw blood on his face. There had been another shot. Another shooter.

  That shooter may have killed my opponent, but I wasn't lowering my weapon to high-five him, whoever he was. I ran deeper into the forest and hit the ground in a roll. I did not intentionally hit the ground in a roll. Nor did I intentionally stop running. My brain betrayed me, dipping into unconsciousness just long enough for me to stumble.

  I came to on the ground and scrambled up on all fours.

  "Dee?"

  It was Diaz's voice. I went still and carefully shifted to sit, facing him, my gun ready.

  "Obviously, I'm not here to shoot you," he called. "I just killed the guy who was trying to."

  I said nothing.

  "Okay, I know you're not going to take my word for it," he continued. "Even if I did just save your life."

  I tried not to snort at that. He grunted, and I could see a shadowy figure near the blind. Another grunt and a thump, as he moved the thug's body.

  "I see you didn't actually need my help. Nice shooting."

  I shifted position, squeezing my injured arm with my free hand to stop the bleeding.

  He continued. "I knew something was up. We did--Contrapasso. The plane ticket was purchased in Mexico, with a card number Quinn no longer uses. I knew all that before I came to see you."

  He took a few steps, looking around. "Contrapasso thinks you might have been involved in whatever happened to Quinn. That's why they sent me. I disagreed--I don't see a motive. But that ticket meant someone was linking you to Quinn's disappearance, which bore investigating. When you wanted to come back and hunt for him, I realized that might have been the point of letting us find the ticket--getting you involved. Luring you out. They knew you flew into Buffalo, so they bought Quinn a ticket there. But they didn't actually know where to find you."

  I still said nothing.

  He continued. "I suspected you'd pick up a tail as soon as you went to check out Quinn's last known location. You did. They probably hoped you'd go into the building, where they could grab you. When that failed, they followed your car. That's why I sent you down these back roads. To give them a quiet spot to cut you off. I was behind them. That's also why I didn't come after you to get back the gun."

  He went quiet, looked around, and then sighed. "Tell me what else you need, Dee. You suspected something was up--that's why you cut out early. You obviously thought I'd set you up. I didn't. Let's figure out who did. Together."

  I waited.

  "Listen," he said. "I'm putting my hands up. My gun is holstered. Tell me what else you need."

  I waited until he had his hands raised and I could see they were empty. Then I rose just enough to peer around the area, looking for any sign he wasn't alone. The forest was still and quiet. I opened my mouth . . . and caught a movement to Diaz's right, a dark shape slipping through the trees.

  Son of a bitch! Double-crossing--

  Sunlight glinted off a gun. A sawed-off shotgun. Very clearly not pointed at me.

  "Diaz!" I shouted. "Get--!"

  The shotgun fired. Diaz went down. I was halfway to my feet. I froze and had to lock my knees to keep from dropping so fast I'd be spotted. Gaze fixed on that shotgun, I lowered myself slowly back to a crouch. I almost fell doing it, my head swimming, as if in delayed reaction to jumping up. I blinked hard and rubbed my face with my free hand. Then I hunkered there, my gun poised, trying to get a clear shot, but the guy was on the move, walking toward Diaz, who lay moaning on the ground. The gunman walked right up to Diaz, aimed the shotgun and--

  I fired. Even as I pulled the trigger, I knew my angle wasn't good enough. The gunman staggered back, the shot catching him in the side. He swung the shotgun in my direction. He fired. I hit the ground hard. A couple of pellets ripped into my shoulder and side. I raised my gun. A blur of movement as Diaz grabbed the guy's leg.

  Damn it, no, Diaz. Don't--

  I fired mid-thought. So did the guy with the shotgun. He swung it on Diaz and fired and my bullet hit him a split-second later, catching him square in the chest and he went down.

  I pushed up--too fast--and nearly passed out. Teeth gritted, I stood and staggered toward them, my gun ready, my gaze on that shotgun, still in the guy's hand. The barrel lifted, barely half an inch, shaking hard. I was about to squeeze my trigger when the shotgun fell and the guy let out a long hiss and went still.

  I continued toward them, slowly and carefully, still aiming in case the shooter was faking. When I was close enough, I kicked the shotgun. It fell out of his hands. I checked for a pulse. None. Then I turned to Diaz.

  There wasn't any need to check for Diaz's pulse. The guy had aimed that shotgun at his head, point-blank range. I swallowed and turned away. Even that movement seemed too much, as if my body had hit its limit. I tried to lower myself to the ground and got halfway down before collapsing.

  I blacked out for a second. When I came to, it took a few more seconds to orient myself. Then I saw Diaz and remembered what was happening. I needed to get out of here. Those three guys weren't working on their own--they were very obviously hired thugs, and their handler would be tracking them by GPS. When they didn't call in an update--

  As if on cue, a phone vibrated from the pocket of the guy with the shotgun. I fished the cell out. The caller ID only said "Juan," but I knew it wasn't a buddy calling to see if he wanted to come over and watch the game.

  I pocketed the phone. I needed to get out of here. Just get up and . . .

  Halfway to my feet, I swayed, the world dipping and darkening. I quickly lowered myself again.

  I might be able to get as far as the cars, but neither vehicle was in any condition to get me out of here, and I didn't know where Diaz left his.

  I just needed to get someplace temporarily safe. Someplace I could rest and assess my injuries.

  I took the guy's belt to use as a tourniquet and checked his pockets for anything else I could use. A wallet--probably fake ID, but I grabbed that. A pocket knife. Might as well take it, too.

  I put the small stuff into my pockets and crawled to Diaz and the other guys. I emptied their pockets, taking cell phones, wallets, car keys and weapons. That's a lot to carry, but if I had to hunker down in rough shape, preparing to fend off more attackers, I was building an arsenal.

  With everything stashed and the shotgun in hand, I rose at the rate of a ninety-nine-year-old with bad knees. At least the slow movement kept
my head from swimming. I got upright and then continued at that pace, cutting a careful path, not leaving footprints on open ground or mowing down undergrowth to betray my route. Focusing on that task seemed to help, and my head remained clear for about fifty paces. Then I started to sway. By that point, I was almost where I wanted to be--a particularly thick stand of trees with lots of bushes. I got in there and huddled down like a rabbit in a thicket.

  And then I just cut out, as if I'd expended every last bit of energy. I had to grit my teeth and struggle to stay conscious as I bound my arm. I'd lost blood. I was afraid to even calculate how much, but I suspected it contributed to that light-headedness.

  I got the belt on for a tourniquet. The wound didn't seem bad. Just messy. I was trying to get a better look, twisting to see it on the back of my biceps, when my phone rang. As proof of how out of it I was, it took at least five rings before I realized what I was hearing. Then another two rings as I thought, "That's right, Evelyn's coming. I should have called her for help." And yet another ring before I grabbed it, thinking, "Shit! My phone is ringing. Loudly."

  In my confusion, instead of answering, I solved the latter problem by turning my phone to vibrate mode. Of course, by that time, Evelyn had hung up.

  I went to call her back and . . . And I couldn't. It was as if I truly had drained even the last dregs of strength, and I sat there, staring at the phone, thinking, "What was I doing?" as the world grayed and then came back . . . grayed and then came back.

  Call Evelyn.

  Yes, I needed to call . . .

  How did I call . . .?

  Redial. Hit--

  The phone buzzed softly in my hand. I stared at it.

  Focus, Nadia. Answer the phone.

  I hit the button and as I did, everything dimmed, just for a second. But I came back, hearing Evelyn saying, "Dee? Are you there? Dee!"

  "Yes." I slurred the word and struggled to focus. "I need . . ."

  That graying again, as if someone was fiddling with the world's brightness dial.

  "Dee? Where are you?"

  "Shot . . . I got . . ."

  "Dee? Where are you?"

  I tried to blink back the mental fog, but the world kept dimming as I struggled to remember the name of the road. Just give her the name of the . . .

  Darkness.

  10 - Jack

  Jack was still in DC. Well, technically, he'd crossed the Virginia state line, but only because finding a roadside motel in Washington had proved to be a pain in the ass. Or that made a good excuse. Of course, when Evelyn landed, she'd given him shit, saying she was sure he could have found a place between Baltimore and Washington. She didn't push the matter. She knew he had to get closer to Nadia, to feel he could swoop in if something went wrong. The fact that he was holed up in a motel and not at Quinn's condo, searching for clues, was really as much as she could expect under the circumstances.