Say You're Sorry
Page 33
“Just do it,” he snapped, feeling true fear for the first time in a long time. If anything happened to him, Daisy would be . . . dead. Like Trish. And Eileen. And six other women.
He drew his weapon from its holster as he got out of the car and popped the hood. Smoke billowed from the engine, the stench of burned rubber and bleach enough to make his eyes tear. Someone had put that bleach in his gas tank while they’d been in Danton’s house. Someone who’d wanted them to stop here.
And if it was Danton himself? No, the man couldn’t have done it. He’d been in the house with them, within their sight except for the moments he’d stepped away to get their coffee. Not long enough to dump anything into my gas tank.
Didn’t mean he didn’t have someone else do it, though.
Gideon moved to the trunk to get his rifle. He needed to be ready. Just in case.
The shot registered as burning pain shot up his right arm into his shoulder. “Fuck,” he bit out, grabbing the rifle, then rolling to the ground, off the road. He slid down the hill, where Daisy waited anxiously.
The hill was covered in snow. So now he was bleeding and wet. Great.
“You’re hit,” she said.
“Not badly.” It wasn’t quite a lie. It hurt like a bitch, but he’d had worse. He got the rifle into position, but it was awkward using his left hand. Because the fingers of his right hand were slippery with blood and . . . not moving. That’s not good. That’s not good at all.
It was then that he realized his handgun had slipped from his fingers. He’d lost his service weapon. Fuck it. He shifted the rifle to his left shoulder, using the embankment to prop up the barrel. But the angle was going to be wrong.
“Give it to me,” Daisy commanded, then snatched the rifle away. Before he could blink, she was pushing her way back up the hill on her stomach, commando-style through the snow, her Brutus bag slung around to her back.
“Daisy!” He scrambled behind her, grabbing at her leg. “Do not do this!”
“You’re hit,” she said calmly. “I’m not. Let go of my leg, Gideon. I’m a good shot.”
He remembered what she’d said about her father training her to shoot. He wasn’t sure how far away their shooter was, much less how good she actually was.
A car roared by, spraying a volley of gunfire through the open passenger window.
Gideon held on to her leg tighter, pulling her down the hill, and she kicked at him, startling him enough that she was able to yank herself free. He grabbed her again, and she kicked at him again, harder this time, sending him sliding a few feet down the hillside, dragging her with him.
“I’m not going to dance in the fucking road, Gideon. For God’s sake, let me go!”
Another shot came flying over their heads, this time from the far right. The shooter had turned around and was coming back for another attack.
Gideon let Daisy go, wiping the snow from the rocks so that he could get a decent grip, and started the rather daunting task of hauling himself up one-handed. He’d done this in training, but he hadn’t been shot then. He tried clenching his right hand into a fist, but his fingers hung limply at his side. Shit.
He watched as she regained her position at the top of the hill, steadying herself on a small outcropping of rock so that she was just able to see over the edge, the rifle against her shoulder. “He’s driving a beige car. I saw it in the bus station lot,” she said.
Shit. Motherfucking shit. “I saw it following us last night, but it turned the other way when we exited at Redding.”
“Well, he somehow found us,” she said grimly, still holding the rifle in ready mode.
Gideon edged upward until he could finally see. The beige car was coming closer, slowing to a crawl as it weaved dangerously along the road. The driver wouldn’t be able to see them from this angle as they were shielded by Gideon’s car.
He could just see a handgun being held out of the open driver’s-side window, but the person inside had ducked down—thus the dangerous weaving. “Are you waiting for something special to happen before you shoot him?” he asked with exaggerated patience. “Or maybe you’re waiting for him to drive off the road and let the hill take care of him? Just give me the damn rifle already.”
She didn’t spare him a glance. “I want to get his gun out of his hand. Be quiet. You’re distracting me.”
“The gun,” he muttered. “Out of his hand. You realize that only happens in movies?”
“I said, be quiet,” she hissed.
He glanced away from the approaching beige car to study Daisy’s profile. She was truly beautiful, all ferocity and focus. She held the rifle like an extension of her own arm.
He contemplated grabbing the rifle, but there was no way he was going to be anything but awkward with his right arm useless and his feet slipping in the snow, and she was cool, collected. Ready.
So he bit his tongue and stayed quiet. But not still. Hiking up his knee, he drew his backup from his ankle holster. Not as powerful as his service weapon, but it would do. He hoped.
“Can you shoot with your left hand?” she asked, still calm.
“Not as well as with my right, but still proficient.” Drawing his weapon, he aimed at the shooter’s window as the beige car approached, hoping to get the man’s head or upper body in his sight. But the man stayed down, somehow navigating the car so that it didn’t hit his own as it passed by.
Gideon shifted, positioning his body, so that he’d get a view of the driver’s-side window when the beige car cleared his Camry, but it was Daisy who pulled the trigger first.
He held his breath. And his mouth fell open. To his utter amazement the handgun was on the asphalt and blood dripped down the side of the car, which had turned sharply.
She pulled the trigger again and the windshield turned to opaque pebbles. She’d fired through the open window, hitting the windshield from the inside, the view through it completely blocked. Her third shot hit the back window, shattering it as Gideon watched the car for the moment the shooter tried to escape, but the man was still hunkered down.
She lowered the rifle to the tires and he added his own aim. Together they fired, each shooting the tires on the driver’s side, back and front. Each hitting the tires, all four shots connecting.
“FBI!” Gideon shouted, barely hearing his own voice over the ringing in his ears. It had been a while since he’d fired a weapon without ear protection. “Get out of the car!”
He grabbed on to the tire of his own car and hauled himself up the hill and over the edge of the road, intending to approach the shooter in his car and drag him out of it. Instead he was gritting his teeth against a sudden spear of pain and he felt his body sway.
Get up. Dammit. He pushed himself to stand, his knees seriously wobbling. But it didn’t matter because his demand was answered by the squeal of tires as the beige car sped away, heading toward Redding.
Daisy swung herself up onto the road, and scrambling to her feet, fired several more times at the retreating car. “Goddammit!” She turned to him, frustration all over her face. “I hit those tires. I know I did.”
He breathed through the burning in his arm. “Run-flats,” he gritted out. “They’re—”
“I know what they are,” she spat. “Tires with reinforced sidewalls. He’ll be able to drive for fifty miles on those things. At least he won’t be able to see where he’s going.” Then her eyes widened as her gaze took him in. “Oh shit. Gideon. You said it wasn’t bad.”
He tried to smile, but only managed a grimace. “I’ve had worse.”
She glared at him, but her touch was gentle as she led him around his car, opening the back driver’s-side door. “Sit down before you fall down.”
He obeyed wordlessly. His head was spinning. He didn’t need to look at his arm to know he was bleeding. Badly. “My gun. I dropped it on the road. Near the trunk.”
“This is 911. What is your emergency?”
“We have a gunshot victim on California 97, about twenty miles southwest of Macdoel. How fast can we get medical assistance?”
“I’ll call it in,” the operator said but sounded doubtful. “Let me see who’s available.”
Daisy handed him the phone. “You want to talk to them, Agent Reynolds?”
He shook his head. “You do it,” he said quietly, because now that the danger to her was past, his adrenaline was crashing fast and he was quickly becoming light-headed.
“Agent Reynolds?” the operator asked. “Who is that and what’s happening?”
“The victim is FBI Special Agent Gideon Reynolds. The shooter is driving a damaged beige sedan—I’m not sure of the make—”
“Chevy,” Gideon interrupted. “Chevy Malibu, 2010.”
“I got that,” the operator said. “Did you get the license plate?”
“No,” Gideon said quietly. God, he was cold. Really cold. This is bad.
He wasn’t surprised to hear Daisy rattle it off. “The car has a shot-out back window, a completely pebbled windshield, and at least two shot-out tires. They’re run-flat tires, so he can go a fair distance, but I don’t see how he can without a windshield. Also, he’s injured. I shot his hand.”
“Got it,” the operator said. “I’ve contacted the sheriff’s office in the next town. They’re on their way.”
“That’s thirty minutes east of here,” he muttered. “Twenty if they floor it.”
“I know,” Daisy said evenly, but she’d grown pale, her gaze fixed on the rapidly growing dark stain on his coat. “Agent Reynolds is bleeding very badly,” she told the operator. “I can call someone who’s closer who may be able to help. I’m going to do that now. I’ll use Agent Reynolds’s phone. I’ll leave you on speaker for now, okay?”
She put the phone on the road next to the rifle, then turned to him. “Where’s that piece of paper that Mr. Danton gave you?”
“My jacket pocket. Inside my coat. But first we need to stop the bleeding. Help me out of my coat.”
“Where are you shot?” she asked.
“Arm. Must have hit an artery. Not good.”
“I figured that out myself.” Carefully she removed his coat, tossing it so that it rested on the back of the driver’s seat. She grimaced at the sight of his suit jacket. “You wear too fucking many clothes, Gideon.”
“Tell me that later,” he said breathlessly.
She glared at him, tears in her eyes. “Shut up,” she whispered. “I’m not going to let you die.”
“I hadn’t planned to. Get the jacket off.”
She obeyed, taking off his suit coat faster than his overcoat, moaning herself when he grunted in pain. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she murmured.
“Get my belt. We’ll use it as a tourniquet.”
“Okay. I can do this,” she said firmly. “I can.”
“I know you can.”
“I don’t,” she shot back. Fingers clumsy, she unbuckled his belt and slid it free of his pants, then looped it around his arm, above the bullet hole. “How tight should I pull?”
“Tight,” he grimaced, then groaned when she obeyed again, the pain sending little black spots dancing across his vision. “Like that. Stop for now. Thread the end through the buckle, then loop it under the belt to secure it.”
Hands trembling, she did as he instructed then searched his jacket pocket for the piece of paper with Danton’s phone number and then his overcoat pocket for his phone. “Code,” she demanded, unlocking the phone when he gave it to her, and dialing the man whose house they’d just left. “Hi, it’s Daisy. We were just shot at. Gideon needs your help.” She explained his injury, then listened for another minute, nodding as if Danton could see her. “We applied a tourniquet already. Please get her here as soon as you can. We’re only twenty minutes from your place. Thanks.” She ended the call and pocketed his phone.
“Her?” he asked, too exhausted to demand she give it back.
“Sammie, his daughter. The vet.”
“Not a military vet,” he said with a small smile.
“No.” She wrapped his coat around him. “You’re shivering.”
He was cold through to his bones. “Keep me warm?”
Gripping the rifle in one hand, she rolled her eyes as she carefully pulled his jacket and coat over his shoulders, then pressed up against his left side, sliding her arm over his back. “Does that line ever really work for you, Agent Reynolds?”
“You’re snuggled up against me, so I’d have to say yes.”
She shuddered out a harsh breath. “That was scary,” she whispered.
“And you were a pro.” Ignoring the throbbing in his arm, he kissed the top of her head. “I still can’t believe you shot the gun out of his hand.”
She chuckled weakly. “My father will be proud.”
“So am I.”
She stretched up to kiss his cheek. “That’s more important.”
GRASS LAKE, CALIFORNIA
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1:00 P.M.
She’d shot the fucking gun out of his hand. He stared at his fingers disbelievingly. They were all still there, but he couldn’t move his thumb. The bullet had taken a chunk out of his flesh between his thumb and forefinger. He was spurting blood like a broken hose.
Sitting there, in the car, in shock, he’d wrapped the wound in his scarf. And it was good he’d dipped his head to do so because the next shot came through the windshield, the one after that through the back window. He’d thought the shooter was the Fed. He’d been cursing the damn Fed.
Until Daisy had appeared, rifle in her hands.
She’d shot him?
He was still stunned as he raced down the highway on two good tires and two flats. He’d never been so glad to have invested in the run-flat tires. Otherwise he would have been dead in the water.
She was trying to get me out of the car. She was trying to kill me.
That was not nice.
That was rude. The very rudest.
He laughed, still in shock. Yeah. The very rudest.
Daisy had to go.
He laughed again, this time scornfully. “But not today,” he murmured. She’d definitely outgunned him. He should have expected a rifle.
But there was no way anyone should have expected that woman to shoot like that. Every bullet went exactly where she’d wanted it to go.
She shot the gun out of my fucking hand.
Yes, she did. Now sit up straight and figure out what the fuck you’re going to do.
He sat up as straight as he could, considering he was leaning his head out the window to be able to see. There was cell signal here. Sooner or later a cop was going to respond, because Daisy and the Fed would have, of course, called for help by now.
There was no way any cop would miss his car now. Not with both windows shot out. Fucking Daisy Dawson. The first thing he needed to do was ditch this car and find another.
You should have gone home last night. You could have been on a cushy flight to New York City. But no. He’d just had to see what they were up to.
Almost there. He’d noted the Grass Lake rest area on the way in, but he hadn’t wanted to lose the Fed and Daisy. Now, it was his only hope of getting out of this clusterfuck a free man.
Slowing his car, he eased it to the other side of the road, hiding it behind a group of trees. If he was lucky, no one would see it until he’d procured another.
But his prints were all over it. And his blood.
Not a problem. Your prints aren’t on record with the police. But his DNA was. He was certain they’d scraped
Daisy’s fingernails Thursday night. They have my skin. Neither fingerprints nor DNA would matter—unless he got caught. Then it would matter a lot.
The car needed to go, too. Shit. He didn’t have time for this.
Take the time, asshole. Or when you’re sitting in jail, you’ll wish you had.
Think. He had no gasoline in the trunk. No booze. Nothing that would burn.
Nothing but the gas in the tank itself. He had a lighter, but no matches. And dropping a match into the gas tank was insane anyway. He wanted to get away, not immolate himself.
I need a fuse. He did a quick mental inventory of everything he had in the car, which wasn’t much. Just the now-empty bottles of bleach and the laundry baskets . . . And the dryer sheets.
Retrieving the box of dryer sheets from the car, he spread a few on the floor of the trunk and lit them with the lighter. Then he stuffed all that were left into the gas tank and lit the tail he’d left hanging out.
He stood back for a moment, watching the fire eat at the sheets, then kicked himself back into gear. Move it, asshole. His left hand was still bleeding. It dripped down, spattering the snow. He quickly unwrapped his hand and rewrapped it with the scarf, pulling it tighter and hiding the bloodstains as best he could before kicking at the snow to cover the blood spatter. Then he found a good-sized rock and hefted it in his right hand. It would do. He hoped.
Crossing the highway, he made his way to the rest stop and waited in the shadows. There were only two cars there, a Honda four-door sedan and a Ford Mustang. Both were empty. It looked like the occupants of one of the cars were taking photos of Mt. Shasta. It was a very nice view. He hoped it kept them busy a little longer.
Because walking out of the ladies’ room was an older woman with a cane. She should be easy pickings. Then again, Daisy should have been, too.
He waited until she’d approached the Honda, taking her keys from a gigantic purse. Slipping up behind her, he brought the rock down onto her head, ignoring her cry of pain when she fell to the pavement. He grabbed her keys and her purse and got into the car.
Exiting the rest stop, he stomped his foot on the gas, speeding back to the highway—just as an explosion splintered the air. His car was now just a memory. It’d burn until someone came to put it out, and by then, his prints would be no more.