Play Nice

by Gemma Halliday

  Maybe he was in the crowd, hiding out in plain sight, ready to lift a pistol to the stage, fire, and disappear into the chaos before anyone noticed.

  “Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you so much for coming out on this lovely afternoon,” Braxton said to the crowd.

  His voice was deep, evenly modulated, friendly yet commanding at the same time. He was average height, inoffensive features giving him a generic look that was both classically handsome, yet not overly attractive. Brown hair, navy slacks, button-down shirt, but no coat or tie. Professionally dressed, but not so dressed up as to appear above the jeans and T-shirts most of the crowd wore. I’m like you, only slightly better, his outfit said.

  Anna could see already that he’d make a good politician.

  If he lived.

  CHAPTER 23

  Dade watched through his scope as Anya stood next to Demarkov. They’d been pushed forward by the surging crowd to the very edge of the tree line, clear of any branches obscuring his view. Demarkov’s hand was firmly wrapped around Anya’s upper arm, keeping her close.

  Anya’s hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. She bit at the corner of her lip, her nerves translating clearly on her face. Her limbs were fairly vibrating with the effort to keep them still, stay in one place. She wasn’t used to surrender, and it wasn’t coming easily to her.

  “Steady, girl,” he whispered.

  He watched her eyes scan the crowd, no doubt looking for Petrovich. Not that there was anything she could do if she spotted him.

  At least, not now.

  Demarkov’s hired gun returned to the pair again, his hands gesturing as he spoke to his boss. Demarkov replied calmly, nodding. Then he gestured to Anya.

  He couldn’t hear the man, but he could well imagine what he was saying. They needed to get Anya out of there. Transported to somewhere much quieter and more private to dispose of their problem.

  Dade found himself silently praying to someone he’d long ago stopped believing in as he let his gaze leave Anya.

  He’d done what he could for her. Her fate was her own now.

  Instead, he moved his scope a half inch to the right and trained it on Braxton.

  Time to finish this.

  CHAPTER 24

  “I tell you, he disappeared. Dade’s not here.” The younger Serbian man gestured to the crowd. “I looked all over. He’s gone.”

  It pained her how relieved she was to hear that statement as Demarkov nodded at his associate.

  “Fine. Then we go,” Demarkov told the man. “We’ll deal with Dade later.”

  Anna’s eyes whipped from one face to the other. If they left, she was dead. The public crowd was her only hope for survival.

  “Wait,” she said.

  Demarkov raised an eyebrow at her. “Wait?”

  “I…” She had to stall. Had to come up with some reason to keep them there a little bit longer “… I have to go to the bathroom.”

  Demarkov scoffed, gave her a look that said he was almost disappointed that was the best she could do.

  “You can wait.”

  “No. I really have to go. Nerves make me have to pee.”

  “Hold it.”

  “I can’t. I’m telling you, you make me get in a car with you, and I’ll pee all over your leather seats before you get the chance to shoot me.”

  Demarkov paused. He cocked his head to the side, studying her.

  She stuck her chin out defiantly. And crossed her legs.

  “Fine,” he finally said, nodding. Though if he believed her or was just amused by her desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable, she wasn’t sure. “You can ‘pee,’” he said, mocking her with the word.

  He pushed her ahead of him, steering her toward a row of portable bathrooms set behind the vendor carts.

  Anna stumbled along with his quick step, all the while keeping one eye on Braxton.

  Get off the stage.

  He was outlining his strategy for providing new jobs in the city. If the crowd’s reaction was any indication, it was a good one. Cheers, hollers, and “Yes!”s punctuated each new point he made.

  He’d been up there for five minutes now at least. In the spotlight. A clear shot.

  His seconds were numbered.

  They reached the line of green outhouses, and Demarkov shoved her toward the nearest one.

  “I’ll be waiting here,” he said. “Take your time. But remember, plastic is no match for steel bullets, yes?” He grinned at her, showing off a row of yellow teeth as he patted the bulge beneath his jacket.

  She fought down nausea and nodded, her head spinning, tossing out one impossible escape plan after another.

  She stepped into the stall, then turned, facing toward the crowd as she moved to shut the green plastic door behind her.

  And that’s when she saw it.

  It was just a flash of light. Sunlight reflecting off polished steel. But Anna knew that sight well, had been trained to spot it from any distance. It was a gun muzzle.

  The flash faded as the gun moved position, and Anna homed in on the person holding it. He was older, short, wearing a windbreaker, and hiding behind a baseball cap and pair of dark glasses.

  Petrovich.

  He was standing on the edge of the crowd, at the head of the vendor line. Long sleeves of a blue windbreaker covered his arms, but Anna could see a bulge in his right sleeve.

  A gun.

  “What is the problem now?” Demarkov barked at her.

  But Anna stood transfixed in the doorway, watching in horror as Petrovich pulled the gun from his sleeve. No one around him noticed, every other eye in the park focused on Braxton. Petrovich, lifted his arm, moving to take aim.

  Only he was a second too late.

  Before he could line up his shot, a loud crack exploded in the air.

  Anna’s gaze whipped to the senator just in time to see the man fall backwards, his feet sliding out from under him as his head hit the metal stage with a sickening thud.

  He’d been hit.

  CHAPTER 25

  Chaos hit immediately, people in the crowd screaming, running, shoving into one another. Anna watched Petrovich stare at the stage, a frown etched on his face before Anna’s view was obscured by people running every which way. If he hadn’t taken the shot at Braxton, who had? Anna didn’t know. And, at the moment, she didn’t care. All she cared about was Petrovich. He was here. And she had to get to him before he disappeared again.

  Demarkov grabbed Anna by the arm, pulling her from the restroom door, and dragging her to his side. “What was that?” he hissed, as if the shot at the senator were her fault.

  Anna shook her head, wincing as the man’s grip tightened.

  A secret service agent appeared to their right, hand to his ear, listening to instructions.

  Demarkov shot a look his way, quickly turning to move in the opposite direction.

  Anna looked from Demarkov to the agent.

  Now’s your chance.

  “Gun!” she screamed as loudly as she could.

  Demarkov turned on her, his eyes blazing.

  “Gun!” she screamed in his face. She kicked at his shins, wriggled from his grasp as people bumped into her from all angles. “He’s got a gun!”

  Several people nearby heard her, parroting the phrase until it spread like wildfire.

  Demarkov’s partner reached for his weapon.

  But he didn’t get to shoot it as secret service were bearing down on the man in seconds. Men in suits tackled Demarkov’s partner, dropping the man to the ground. Demarkov froze, hands going in the air, as guns pointed his way.

  “He shot the senator,” Anna shouted, pointing her finger at Demarkov. “I saw him fire as I was getting out of the Port-a-potty.”

  “She lies!” Demarkov growled, making a move for her.

  “Freeze!” secret service instructed him.

  Demarkov froze, his eyes shooting daggers at Anna.

  She backed up, melting easily into the crowd as they swa
rmed him. She waited just long enough to see handcuffs clasp around his wrists before turning and running for the spot where she’d last seen Petrovich.

  She had to find him. If he got away, she’d never be safe.

  The crowd was thick, running in all directions at once, yelling, shouting, the police unable to control the mass fear that was quickly taking over. Anna fought through them, getting knocked to the ground, picking herself up, pushing through again. Finally she fought her way to the spot near the popcorn cart where she’d seen Petrovich take his aim.

  Only he was gone.

  She whipped her head wildly left then right, scanning the nearby area. People filled the space everywhere, running, shoving, taking advantage of the chaos. It was impossible to see them all, to look at each face passing her. She moved north, along with the flow of people toward the edge of the park, letting the crowd carry her as she scanned for Petrovich. She couldn’t leave without him. This was her chance, her only chance. If he left the park, she knew she’d never catch up to him. He’d be a ghost again.

  The crowd carried her near the stage. She’d been unable to see anything after Braxton went down, an army of guys in dark suits swarming him, then quickly pulling him back behind the curtain again. The stage was eerily empty now, the one spot not crammed with bodies.

  “Anya.”

  Anna froze, the cold barrel of a gun suddenly poking into her side.

  “Gotcha,” Petrovich whispered, his hot breath on Anna’s neck.

  She turned to face him, coming nose to nose with the man. His sunglasses had been knocked off somewhere in the chaos, the ball cap was pulled down low over his forehead, shadowing his features.

  But even through the shadow, she could see the fire in his eyes. “You shot Braxton,” he hissed out.

  Anna let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Me? I told you I wasn’t doing this job. You were the one that wanted him dead, not me.”

  Petrovich searched her eyes, trying to read her.

  This was one time she didn’t need to hide her thoughts from him. What she’d said was the truth. She had no idea who had taken Braxton out. She could guess … but at the moment, all she cared about was taking care of the man in front of her.

  The man who, thanks to his confusion over the hit, was off guard. Vulnerable.

  “You’ve lost your touch,” Anna said, leaning in so close to the man she could smell the lamb and garlic he’d eaten for lunch.

  She saw something flicker behind his eyes.

  “You’re old, Goren,” she continued. “And you’re getting sloppy.”

  He gritted his teeth, all but snarling at her, and opened his mouth to respond.

  But she didn’t wait, instead sliding her right foot down the inside of his leg and stomping on his instep as hard as she could.

  As she hoped, he cried out, lurching forward in pain. She grabbed at the wrist holding the gun, quickly twisting until she heard metal clang onto the sidewalk.

  But unfortunately, Petrovich’s moment of vulnerability was just that—a moment. He quickly recovered, his free hand coming up to grab Anna’s neck, pinching the bundled nerves there. It was a move he’d taught Anna her first week at the KOS; it didn’t take brute strength to bring a man to his knees, just a working knowledge of human anatomy.

  Anna buckled under the pressure, falling to her knees on the ground. Around her, the crowd still surged, bodies packed tightly against one another. Anna felt her vision go fuzzy as Petrovich continued to apply pressure, felt the blood supply being cut off to her brain, the ground rushing up to meet her. She blinked, struggling to maintain consciousness. Just when the black at the edges of her visions started closing in on her, the pressure let up completely.

  Anna fell forward onto her hands with the relief, taking in big lungfuls of air as she tried to regain her bearings.

  She looked up. Petrovich was gone, his back disappearing through the crowd.

  She quickly jumped to her feet, pulling her Glock from her boot, and shoved her way forward, keeping one eye on the baseball cap bobbing through the masses.

  As he reached the edge of the park, the crowd began to thin, and he moved faster, breaking into a run as he hit Lincoln.

  Anna sped up, sprinting after him. Sirens sounded as emergency vehicles tried to converge on the area. Anna could only imagine how many were injured from the virtual stampede out of the park. But she was only interested in one person now.

  She watched Petrovich turn a corner, moving onto a side street beside a coffee house. Anna raced forward, needing to catch up before he turned another corner. If he took off down an alleyway, she’d never find him.

  She rounded the coffee house just in time to see Petrovich slide into the passenger seat of a silver sedan. The driver scarcely waited for his door to shut before pealing away from the curb. Through the back window, Anna could see the short, black hair of Petrovich’s companion.

  Shelli.

  He’d had an escape planned. He’d had someone waiting for him.

  And he’s getting away.

  Anna felt desperation bubble up in her throat. As she watched the car pull away from the curb and speed down the street. They made a right turn at the corner, tires screeching.

  But Anna didn’t break her pace, continuing to chase after the car on foot. She made a right into the alleyway. At the end she swerved left, out onto the main street just in time to see the tail of Petrovich’s car swerve left again, heading toward 19th.

  She sprinted after the sedan, passing lines of cars parked at the side of the road. A guy in chinos and Birkenstocks was just getting out of a Subaru parked at a meter beside a sandwich shop.

  Without even breaking stride, Anna plowed into the man, grabbing at the keys in his hand.

  “What the hell, dude?” the guy shouted.

  But Anna didn’t stick around to answer, sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling away from the curb before the guy could even get his cell out to call the theft in.

  She scanned the street in front of her, eyes locking on the sedan, a block and a half ahead. She swerved into the left lane, surging forward. Then cut off a pickup by swerving right again.

  Shelli must have seen her, since she changed course, merging right and running a red light. Anna followed, narrowly avoiding being sideswiped by the opposite traffic. Horns blared, drivers yelled, and somewhere in the background she heard a police siren begin to wail. But she didn’t care. All she cared about was the car in front of her. She gunned the engine, taking the corner on two tires, screeching down the side street after Petrovich.

  He was not getting away this time.

  Anna sped up and rammed the bumper of the sedan. Her head whipped forward, teeth jarring together.

  But the sedan didn’t stop, instead surging ahead, turning left sharply, the wrong way down a one-way street.

  This time Anna didn’t follow, instead passing to the next street, turning with the flow of traffic. She swerved right, jumping onto the sidewalk, her speedometer hitting sixty as she flew past the other cars. She hit a pair of trash cans, sending newspapers and empty soda cups flying into the street, but she didn’t slow down, laying on the accelerator the full way down the block. When she hit the intersection, she pulled the wheel hard to the left, praying her timing was right.

  It was.

  Petrovich’s sedan emerged just at that instant, and Anna plowed right into the side of it.

  The sedan skidded sideways, pinned against the side of a brick building by the Subaru.

  Anna jumped from the driver’s seat as soon as her stolen car skidded to a stop, the sound of sirens still following her in the distance.

  She watched as Shelli climbed out the driver’s-side window, tripping onto the asphalt, clearly dazed. Shelli paused a moment, looking from Anna to Petrovich, but must have heard the approaching sirens, too, since she took off in the opposite direction, half running, half stumbling toward the end of the block.

  But Anna didn’t care about her. Her sights w
ere set on Petrovich, shoving at the twisted metal of the passenger side door. It whined, metal scraping on metal, but complied, opening in time for Petrovich to jump out and run back down the alleyway without missing a beat.

  Anna followed, her legs pumping, her heart racing. Petrovich’s legs were longer, but Anna was younger. In three quick strides, she was on top of him. She flung herself at his back, catching his shoulder and shoving him to the ground.

  He yelled out as he fell forward, left hand going in front of himself to catch his fall, the right reaching down his leg.

  But she was faster.

  “Don’t move!” she shouted, her gun shoved into the back of his skull.

  She knew he was reaching for the pistol strapped to his ankle. She knew his every move before he made it. Because it was the same move she’d make. He’d molded her in his own image. His downfall. He could never surprise her.

  She stood up, towering over him as she allowed him to roll over and face her. She planted one boot in the center of his chest, both hands clutching the Glock held straight-armed in front of her, listening to the sirens bear down on them both.

  “Don’t move,” she repeated.

  Petrovich stared up at her. She could see his chest rising and falling as rapidly as she could feel her own move.

  “Anya,” Petrovich breathed, his eyes on the gun barrel. “I see I taught you well.”

  “You did,” she agreed.

  He smiled at her. “This is the real Anya. This is who you are.”

  “No. You’re wrong,” she argued, shaking her head. “This was never me. This was who you wanted me to be.”

  His smiled slowly faded. “You won’t shoot me, Anya.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “No?”

  He shook his head slowly from side to side. “No. You’re right. Things have changed. You’ve changed. You’re soft now, Anya. You’re emotional.”

  Anna shifted her weight, willing his words to roll off her. Willing herself not to analyze each one for how much truth she knew it held, and how disconcerting it was that he did know her after all.