“Sure. I’m in the office for the rest of the day. Just give me a ring before you show up so I can find you a clean chair.”
Grinning, Vincent said, “Thanks. I appreciate that. So will my dry-cleaning bill.”
“You still going after these two?”
“Yup. Even if the insurance carriers bail on me, I think I can make charges stick once we bring them in.”
“It would be nice if we good guys won for once.”
Vincent disconnected and slumped back in his chair. He wasn’t pleased that all his hard work and Claudia’s could amount to nothing, but in a way he welcomed the news. The situation was coming to a head, and the next few days, maybe even the next few hours, would see its end. Either Lewis and Bartowski had given up on fantasies of revenge and were running scared or else they just didn’t give a damn anymore and would come after him without a care for the consequences. He hoped it was the former but was prepared for the latter.
Or as much as anyone could be prepared for an unknown type of attack that could come from anywhere and at any time. A little self-consciously, he judged his closeness to the nearest window—and wheeled his chair to the side to make sure he wouldn’t be visible.
All right, so it turned out a spice of danger wasn’t much fun after all. Mostly irritating, with an edge of unease, where he found himself actually looking forward to something happening just so he could get the thing over and done with.
The only positive spin he could put on his whole shitty day was that Claudia was in Texas by now, probably busy terrifying a bunch of priests.
The thought made him smile a little.
He was glad she was safely out of it, but he really missed having her around. A lot.
At the end of his lousy day, there’d be no Claudia to chase away the weariness, no Claudia sitting with him, talking shop, or poking and prodding at his comfort zones, assumptions, and general ruts. Funny how she’d made such a difference in his life in so short a time. He regretted wasting most of their last full day together on an angry funk, but even that had its silver lining: if he hadn’t been moody, he wouldn’t have discovered she played a killer game of Halo.
Beautiful, sexy, great in bed, smart, she actually laughed at his jokes, and she played video games. What more could a guy ask from a girlfriend?
His phone went off again, this time his cell. He didn’t recognize the callback number and frowned as he answered. “Hello?”
A man’s voice responded: “Am I speaking with Special Agent DeLuca?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Ben Sheridan.”
Surprised, Vincent asked, “To what do I owe the honor of this call, Mr. Sheridan?”
“Where’s Claudia? Is she with you?”
A dread washing over him, Vincent sat forward. “Last I saw her was when I dropped her off at the airport this morning. She should’ve been in Dallas hours ago.”
“She never got off the plane. As far we can tell, she never got on it.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Vincent whispered, running a hand through his hair.
How could he have made such a rookie mistake? This had been their plan all along: to confound and distract the opponent, to make a move no one expected—and he should have expected it; he should have known.
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth . . . a loved one for a lover.
“They have her,” Vincent said. “Goddammit, I could kick myself for being so fucking stupid! I thought for sure they’d make one more attempt to get to me, but I didn’t think they’d go after Claudia.”
Sheridan was silent, but Vincent could practically feel the tension crackling across airwaves. Then Sheridan said, “I’m not entirely sure what’s going on here, but do you really believe someone could grab a trained operative who fights like an alley cat out of a public airport without anyone noticing?”
“I don’t know,” Vincent snapped. Cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear, he unlocked his desk drawer, pulled out the shoulder holster and gun, and shrugged into it. “And I’m not taking any chances second-guessing them. They’ll kill her if they have her.”
Saying the words out loud, making them real, filled him with such rage and fear that, for a moment, he couldn’t move or speak. He could only stare down at his hand, crushing the drawer key in his palm so tightly that a bead of blood appeared.
Slowly, he became aware that Sheridan was speaking: “. . . I said, where are you now?”
“I’m not one of your people, Sheridan. I don’t answer to you.”
“Stay where you are. Don’t—”
“Fuck that! Do you think I’m going to sit on my ass while the woman I love is in trouble?”
“Shut up and listen to me,” Sheridan snapped. “I’m in Philadelphia right now. If Claudia has her cell phone with her, I can track it. Tell me where you are, and I’ll meet you. We’ll find her.”
By now, Vincent had left the building and was running for the parking ramp and his car. “I’ll be at the parking ramp outside the federal building.”
“Where exactly in the ramp?”
“Second level from the top, toward the back.” Skipping the elevator, he took the stairway two steps at a time.
“All right. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Stay put.”
It wasn’t until the call ended and Vincent pushed open the stairwell door and was running for his car, that he wondered how Sheridan had gotten his cell phone number in the first place.
He’d worry about the implications later; he had bigger problems now. Jesus, if they hurt her, he’d kill them. To hell with the consequences.
Even angry and worried, he kept a wary eye on his surroundings. Lewis and Bartowski knew where he lived and worked, the car he drove, even where he liked to have a beer after a long day. The police had beefed up the drive-bys of his neighborhood and security at the federal building was tight, but once outside those zones, he was laying himself wide open.
He slowed to a walk, taking in his surroundings as he made his way to his car, keeping his gun hand close to his holster. He should’ve taken the time to grab body armor. A gun would be little help if either Lewis or Bartowski were preparing to take him out with a well-placed bullet. And he’d be no use to Claudia dead.
The thought of Claudia dead, along with the possibility of a high-powered rifle aimed right now at his head, made his skin crawl. Still, he couldn’t shake the suspicion that an impersonal hit wasn’t their intent. They were all about revenge, and if they meant to kill him, they’d want him to see it coming.
If they were going for maximum humiliation and pain, they’d keep the specifics personal. If they were going for messing with him, game playing, they probably wouldn’t make it too hard to second-guess them. They couldn’t; every cop in the city was on the lookout.
He approached his car cautiously, half expecting to see a taunting note duct-taped to the windshield. But the car sat there, looking harmless. A sense of urgency compelled him to hurry, but he forced himself to slow down, to not take any more chances. Gun in hand, he carefully checked for signs of an explosive device while trying not to stand out in the open any longer than necessary.
His suspicion that they’d make their move up close and personal didn’t guarantee he was correct.
Vincent got in the car, placing the gun on the seat in easy reach. Where would they take Claudia? The greatest insult would be to take this deadly game to his home. It wouldn’t be easy, but they could conceivably find a way to dodge the patrolling squad car, then get inside his house to wait for him. If they did that, they’d keep Claudia alive and use her against him or as a bargaining tool.
He started the car, cell phone in one hand as he speed-dialed Matherson. If his hunch was right, there was already a squad in the area that would get there before he would.
The detective answered on the third ring. “Hey, Vince. You on your way over?”
“No.” Vincent quickly filled him in. “I have a feeling they might go to my place. I’m on my wa
y home now. Meet me there as soon as you can. And if she didn’t board her plane—”
“On it. I’ll get some uniforms to the airport to check it out. Be careful. I’m on my way.”
God, he hated feeling so helpless.
Then Vincent remembered Sheridan, supposedly on his way to the federal building. He couldn’t wait for that. He quickly hit the callback button, and Sheridan answered immediately.
“I don’t have time to explain,” Vincent said, before Sheridan had a chance to speak. “I’m on my way to my house and can’t wait for you. I have reason to believe they might take Claudia there. If you have my cell number, you have my address. Meet me there.”
Then he tossed the phone aside and backed out of his parking spot so quickly that he narrowly missed hitting an SUV parked behind him. He headed for the exit as fast as he dared, keeping a constant eye on his mirrors, on the gun beside him.
If he didn’t get to Claudia in time . . .
Suddenly the car jerked violently to the right, just as he registered the sound of a gunshot. The car jerked again, and he fought the wheel, trying to steer away from the rapidly looming exit wall. Then his windshield exploded inward.
Chapter Twenty-six
Vincent slammed forward into the stinging hail of safety glass shards.
As another shot shattered the passenger-side window, he rolled down onto the seat. Outside he could hear shouting, the thud of running feet close by.
Goddammit! Innocent people were out there!
He groped for his gun, but it was no longer on the seat beside him. Where was it? And where were those shots coming from? He didn’t think the shooter was in the parking ramp.
A sound caught his attention, and he looked down to see drops of blood hitting the floor mat in a steady drip drip.
Had he been hit? He didn’t feel any pain; it had to be from the safety glass. Wiping the blood from his eyes, he slid his hand under the seat, trying to locate his gun. In the car he was a sitting duck.
As if to prove his point, another bullet hit the car with a muffled thump. Quickly, he sized up his options. The passenger side of the car had hit the exit wall; no escape that way. His side was clear but would leave him wide open to another shot.
They’d either kill him while he huddled in the car or get a lucky shot at him as he dashed for cover on the other side of the ramp. Neither option appealed, but they’d find it harder to hit a moving target than a stationary one.
No gun under the seat, no time to find it. The police had to be on their way; all he had to do was stay alive long enough for them to get here. Taking a deep breath, he eased the door open, then kicked it wide, rolling out to the floor in a crouch, only to find his sprint to safety blocked by a pair of legs in jeans and running shoes.
He looked up, registering the barrel of the gun, then the face.
Candy Bartowski.
“Hey, Vince,” she said, her tone flat and hostile, the twist of her lips more a sneer than a smile. “Do I have your attention now?”
Drip drip, the blood kept coming. “You’ve had it for a while. Where’s Claudia Cruz? What have you done with her?”
Bartowski stared down at him with those wide, pretty blue eyes. “Misplaced your girlfriend, huh? How sad for you. Get up.”
Furious anger made him want to tell her to fuck off, but his common sense and training persevered. “I know what happened to Johnny. I am very sorry for your loss.”
“No, you’re not. Shut up and get up.”
“I can understand why you blame me, but please don’t put any other innocent people at risk. Killing me, or anyone else, won’t bring Johnny back. Put the gun down, and let’s talk—”
“I said, shut up!”
Still crouching, half-hidden by the open car door, he could hear the chaos and panic outside, as well as the rapid thuds of footsteps. Someone running fast. No sirens yet, no local security, but a car engine gunned to life close by. Whoever it was, Vincent hoped they had the sense to go like hell in the opposite direction.
“Is Claudia still alive?”
“I don’t feel like answering that question. For the last time, get up.”
Slowly, Vincent stood. A detached part of him registered that he was covered in blood, yet he still felt no pain. Senses sharpened, he could smell the coppery tinge of his own blood, her sweat and perfume, the hot, cloying air around them, and he took in even the smallest of details of the woman standing inches away from him, with a small handgun pointed at his face. The freckles, the hint of lipstick, the weave of her jeans and the stitching on her yellow T-shirt, how her fine blond hair shifted in the sluggish breeze.
He spotted Shai Lewis running from across the street toward them, rifle in hand—and knew in that moment they weren’t expecting to escape this alive and had every intention of taking him down first.
He wouldn’t make it out alive. Claudia . . . Claudia was probably already dead. Pain twisted deep inside him at the thought, but a calmness settled over him. Maybe he wouldn’t walk away, but he wasn’t going down without a hell of a fight.
The noise of the car engine rumbled closer, moving fast behind him. He heard the car slow . . . and then the sound of squealing tires—a rubber-burning, fishtailing, pedal-to-the-metal squeal as the car roared around the corner and down the main lane at top speed.
Bartowski’s eyes widened as Lewis screamed a warning, bringing up her rifle, never breaking stride.
Vincent ducked and crouched low just inside the open car door. He heard another scream, high-pitched and terrified, and felt a rush of air and the heat of a racing engine. A split second later, his car door was torn off with a wrenching groan that nearly drowned out the sickening thud of a body against metal, then the nerve-rattling squeal of brakes and more screaming.
And another rifle shot.
Still crouched, he spotted a dark gleam at the back of his driver’s seat. His gun! He grabbed it and spun as Claudia’s voice shouted, “Watch out! She’s got a rifle and she knows how to shoot!”
Vincent stared, shocked. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Being your partner and guardian angel!”
Relief rushed over him with such force that he almost laughed out loud.
Her bright blue Toyota, engine still running, sat at an angle to his own car, mostly blocking the exit and providing him a triangular wedge of cover—or as much cover as it could against an enraged woman with a rifle.
Claudia was slouched as low in the seat as possible, her hand on the steering wheel. “Gun?” she asked.
He raised it.
“Good boy. Now take her out before she shoots us.” She grinned. “I’d do the honors, but my gun’s in Texas.”
Again, he almost laughed.
“Bartowski’s down but not dead. She’s trying to get up. I don’t see her gun. . . . Oh, shit, the other one’s here.”
Vincent heard Shai Lewis frantically calling Candy, who answered in a string of raw cursing that culminated with a shrilly escalating “Kill them, kill them, kill them!”
Claudia’s eyes locked on his, shining with fierce emotion as her hands tightened on the wheel. “I’ll cover you as much as I can. Make your shot count.”
He nodded once.
Still slouched down, she mashed the gas. Engine racing, tires shrieking, she backed up fast, then spun the car around as Vincent stood.
Lewis was raising her rifle, face contorted with rage, with Bartowski on her knees beside her, gagging blood.
He fired a split second before Lewis, hitting her shoulder. She jerked aside, her own shot going wide. His second shot hit her in the neck, and she fell in an ungainly heap, like a doll dropped by a child.
Vincent ran, gun still raised, toward Bartowski. She didn’t look like she’d be much of a threat, but the rifle was within her reach. “Hands on your head! Now!” he shouted.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Claudia run toward him, yelling, “Don’t move! Don’t you fucking move!”
B
artowski’s gaze caught his, her eyes brilliantly blue in the paleness of her bloodied face. Then she smiled and lunged for the rifle.
Ah, shit.
Claudia stopped in her tracks as Vincent fired again. Bartowski jerked to the side, then slumped against the pillar, looking down where bright red blood bloomed on her yellow shirt. She touched it as if puzzled, then her head fell back, eyes rolling upward as her body went limp.
Vincent stood still, staring at the two bodies, unaware that Claudia had moved until she touched his shoulder. He startled, then turned.
“You look like hell,” she said softly. “You okay? Hurt anywhere?”
It was enough to snap him back to his senses. “I’m fine. You?”
“A little shaken, but that’s all.”
In an unspoken agreement, they both hurried toward Bartowski and Lewis. Bartowski was still alive, her pulse fast and weak under his searching fingertips. Lewis was dead.
Before he could process the reality of what he’d done, Claudia said, “Put your gun down and raise your hands.”
He stared. “What? I don’t—”
“The cops are here.” She sounded so calm, as if this was something she did on a regular basis. Her hands were already raised. “Just do it. Some cops are more quick on the trigger than others.”
Now he heard the sirens, ear-piercingly close. He quickly dropped his gun, kicked it well away from Bartowski, and raised his hands.
Not a second too soon.
“Police!”
The shout came from the exit, quickly followed by a swarm of blue uniforms aiming guns their way.
“Federal agent! Don’t shoot!” Vincent shouted back. “We need an ambulance. The woman with the yellow top is alive, but she needs immediate medical assistance. The woman beside me is unarmed and a private citizen.”
The cops didn’t take his word for it, and he hadn’t expected them to. But the tension dissipated, and he stood in stoic silence as he was roughly searched. Claudia was also searched, and she neither protested nor spoke.
Her Last Chance Page 23
