by Gayle Lynds
The man struggled. He jettisoned his rifle. But Hammond continued to hold him down. By the time the assassin's eyes rolled up into unconsciousness, Hammond was breathing hard, his chest heaving. Rage consumed him. It burned and turned his entrails into a furnace. He stared down at his arm and hand. They were steady, and the big square fingers continued to press into the killer's yielding flesh. Hands that were a force almost beyond himself. He wanted to keep squeezing. Crushing. Harder. He wanted to, and his hand wanted to—
Kill him. Kill him. Before he could kill Convey or anyone else. But just then he became aware of his thundering heart and heavy breathing. He realized he was feeling what it used to be like—his focus so complete, so intent, so enraged, so righteous he was almost self-hypnotized. He did not like that. It was dangerous to not be yourself, and he never wanted to play that losing game again. This was no clear-cut case where he had to kill.
As the rise and fall of police sirens screamed in the distance, he released the unconscious assassin and sighed a sigh so deep it shook him. He lifted his head and listened. The sirens might not be heading here. Most people in this tony neighborhood would be at their jobs or out somewhere like a beauty establishment or doing charity work in the District. But he could take no chance someone had called the police about that single rifle shot.
Probably not more than three minutes had passed since he had attacked the sniper. He grabbed the man's rifle and leaped to his feet, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. A throbbing ache radiated from where the rifle had rammed it. He had no time to search the guy. He had to get to Convey. God, he hoped she was alive. And if she were, she might need medical help. He tore out from the trees and across the street, looking everywhere for her.
As the sound of the sirens increased, Beth started to rise above her car's hood to look across the street. She thought the shot had come from a patch of trees there.
Phil Stageman grabbed her arm and yanked her back. "Get down!" His curly brown hair had tumbled into his eyes. His square jaw was clenched in fear. He had one hand clamped to her arm, while the other held her far shoulder in an iron lock. "They could still be out there. You'll get us killed!"
She tried to be patient. "We've waited long enough. We can't pitch a tent here. Besides, you heard the sirens. The police are on the way."
"They're not here yet." His voice was close to her ear, husky with terror. "You're tall. You make a good target. They'll shoot you, then they'll come after me."
She snorted. It would almost be worth it. "Personally, I think your getting shot's an interesting idea. The medical insurance through Edwards & Bonnett, by the way, is great. The best. I know firsthand. And if you're lucky, you'll need a year to recover. Think of it as an unplanned vacation." She pushed free and started to rise again to check the street. "Do you have anything you'd like replaced? I recommend transplants. In your case, for morals."
He was not listening. "I told you not to expose yourself!" He yanked so hard it felt as if her arm would leave its socket.
She fell next to him again. But that did it. She hurt everywhere anyway. One more throbbing, aching place was not what her body needed right now. She pushed herself back up onto her haunches and faced him.
"You coward." Using her legs and hips for power, she rammed her fists one after the other in three consecutive dan-zuki punches straight into his belly.
His eyebrows shot up. She had been so fast, he'd had no time to defend himself. He was athletic, and his stomach was muscular from hours at the firm's gym, but she had surprised him, and she was strong.
He doubled over. "Beth," he gasped, his face contorted. "How could you?"
A male baritone sounded above her head. "Nice job. He looks like a real headache to me. How'd you ever get involved with a guy like this? Despite some obvious talents, Convey, you clearly don't know how to choose boyfriends."
A relieved smile on his face, Hammond stared down at Beth. She was unharmed. A bullet hole in the front fender of her car told him the sniper had missed, although only by a foot. And despite her fatigue, he decided that, at least for him, she was even more beautiful close up than from a distance. From the mussed hair to the softly pointed chin, he was caught by the dramatic qualities of her features beneath the sunglasses. The prominent cheekbones. The small ears with the hair tucked behind. He had a feeling she was not impressed by her own beauty. Probably did not fit her idea of what a tough lady lawyer should look like.
But as quickly as he thought all this, he saw her expression make a hemispheric shift. No longer surprised, she was horrified, the fear turning her already pale face ashen, the color of dead bones.
"You—" She jumped up, clutched her shoulder bag to her side, and ran.
"Beth! Don't—" Phil Stageman craned his neck.
Hammond was already gone, hurtling after her. "Convey! Wait!" As he ran, he could still hear the sound of her sexy, throaty voice hanging in the air: "You—".
The sirens grew louder as he chased her past lawn chairs, jonquil beds, and a white gazebo. She was fast on the sidewalk, almost a blur in her jeans, black turtleneck, and black cardigan.
He was faster, gaining on her. "Convey! I just saved your life, dammit!"
Beth was replaying in her head the terrible deaths of Stephanie Smith and Colonel Yurimengri. She refused to meet the same fate. As her legs pumped, she recalled she had been strangely unfazed when the black van had pursued Stephanie and her on the interstate. And she was strangely collected now, even as the killer was chasing her. There was a new steel to her, a new hardness. Whatever it was, the thought flashed to her: Why in hell was she running away?
Instantly all the rage of the past few days overtook her. She was back again in that volcanic stew of blinding anger that made her want to kill Jeff Hammond.
The sirens were still screaming. From their intensity, police cars would arrive any minute. At the same time, she and Hammond were approaching the end of the block, where a huge lilac bush stood on one side, the intersection on the other. By the sound of his hammering feet, Hammond was closing in on her. As she had that thought, she felt an odd sense of déjà vu, realizing she could consciously translate sounds into distance. Heart. . . is it you I have to thank for that information? Somewhere inside herself, she knew exactly where Hammond was—six feet behind her—and exactly what to do. She clamped her purse to her side, stopped, and planted her left foot firmly on the ground. Instantly she looked around her shoulder and slammed her right foot back in an arc from the outside inward in a ushiro-kekomi kick straight to his solar plexus.
She connected with a satisfying thunk and spun on her heel to face him. He staggered back. His rugged features crunched with astonishment. She had the advantage of a surprise attack and of wearing athletic shoes, not the high-heeled, lizard-skin cowboy boots he had on his big feet. Plus, unlike him, she was thin and flexible, with very fast reflexes. Despite his attempt to dodge, her foot had landed where she had aimed it on his outsized body, and she had not lost her balance, a fault she had spent months overcoming.
As Hammond grunted, she slammed down a shuto-uchi sword-hand strike onto his wrist, knocking the rifle away. Immediately she kicked it out of reach, stepped back, raised her bent leg to her chest, and snapped out her foot in a mae-keage straight toward his chin.
But Hammond had recovered. She was good, he had to give her that. In fact, he had been so unprepared for her skill that he had let her dominate the fight. She had made him temporarily lose the rifle, but that was the last round she was going to win. As her eyes blazed and her Nike came at his face, he stepped back, caught the foot in midair, and using his superior height and strength, he yanked.
She landed flat on her back on the thick lawn beside the lilac bush. Her blond hair flew out around her head, her sunglasses spun away, and disgust spread across her perspiring face.
In a smooth motion, beautiful in its economy, he pulled out his Beretta, leaned down, and pointed it at her nose. "Ms. Convey, you are a real pain in the butt. You s
eem to think I'm going to murder you. You're flattering yourself. I wouldn't waste the bullet. With luck, someday you'll be disbarred, and that'll give me all the satisfaction I crave. But right now, I do have a few questions."
He thought about glancing back to check out the sirens screaming toward her house, but there was a large bush of some kind in the way. Besides, he had better not take the chance. He did not like the look on Convey's face—the mixture of fury and calculation. He had begun to believe there was no way he could predict her next move. Better to keep a close eye on her.
A very close eye, and a gun in her face. The last thing he needed was for the police to spot him. "Get up. Carefully. Walk away around the corner. I'll be right behind."
She started to sit up, her eyes shooting white-hot flames.
He warned, "Don't get creative."
She glared pointedly at the Beretta. "The way it looks to me, you're threatening to shoot me dead. Otherwise, why should I do what you say?"
"Because not only do I have the gun, I also saved your ass, that's why. Twice, as I told you. Pretend I'm a Good Samaritan. Be polite. Didn't anyone teach you manners?"
Pain. More pain. She was breathing hard. She inhaled, willing it to stop. As she stared up into his broad face, she found something in it that all of a sudden appealed to her again. What was it about him? Everything she knew . . . all her background . . . everything she had witnessed and deduced told her to avoid him as if he were a rabid dog. But here he was, saying he had saved her?
He was the enemy. A killer. Remember that, heart. "I'm getting up," she warned. "If you're planning to shoot, now's a good time. The police are just down the block. I'll be dead, but at least I'll die knowing you'll be caught."
"Ah, yes. I used to think revenge was sweet, too." He gave a brief smile. But the sirens' yelps had ratcheted up yet again, so the police cars must have turned onto Convey's street, just as she had said. With a sense of worried urgency, he grabbed up his sunglasses and slapped them on. Then he picked up the sniper's rifle and ordered, "No more talk. Move."
24
As the sirens continued to sound, Beth rose carefully to her feet, her throat tight, her gaze fixed on Hammond's intense face. With conscious effort, she repressed her fear and concentrated on her anger. Hammond kept the pistol on her as she curled upward from the grass, holding it a steady two inches from her nose. He glared, radiating threat. She held his stare, willing him to look away first.
The seconds stretched, and she fought back a sense of crude intimacy. Still their gazes remained locked. His lashes were long, black, and ragged. He blinked slowly. His dusky eyes seemed somehow like deep tunnels, as if important messages were cached inside. Messages she was certain she would dislike.
Still, he did not alter his gaze. "Quit stalling. Get back on the sidewalk and move!"
"And you complain about my manners?" She broke eye contact and turned. She had lost something by averting her eyes first, but she needed out. She was finished with him. Just making the choice was victory.
But in life, so much was relative. As she stepped reluctantly back to the sidewalk, she gazed past the side of the tall bush. For about six seconds she had a clear view: There were two squad cars, their red-and-blue beacons flashing, as uniformed policemen advanced cautiously to meet Phil, who frantically beckoned them. At the same time, a man in a muted sports coat and trousers emerged from the little woods across the street where she had thought the shot had originated. With a sinking feeling, she watched him slide his hand inside his jacket and peer casually—too casually—at the officers as he hopped into a dilapidated yellow station wagon.
She had planned to yell for the police. To risk Hammond's shooting her in the back so she could run to them. But what she saw now made her rethink the situation. Who was the man who had been in the trees? Some inner knowing—her heart again?—told her he must have a gun concealed under his jacket. Did that mean Hammond was telling the truth, that there had been a sniper, and Hammond had attacked him and diverted his aim?
"I said move it, Convey. Hurry it up!" Jeff Hammond pushed the pistol's barrel into her spine.
"Okay. All right, I'm going." She walked around the corner and beyond the view of the police. No, Hammond was no friend. Not with a gun in her back.
"Just pretend we're taking a stroll." His breath was in her ear, his voice low and husky.
"Yeah. Sure."
She continued forward, the heat of Hammond's body only inches behind. Millimeters. So close that, if they were machines, electricity would arc from her to him and back again. But even as she was fighting off the unnerving sensation of his being so near, she was still picturing in her mind the other man and ticking off the evidence against him: Concealed weapon, too-casual gaze, disheveled appearance, as if he had just been in a fight. Plus he was near the spot from which she was sure the bullet had been fired.
Hammond claimed he had saved her. Twice. Was one of those times just now?
She wanted to believe none of it. All the earlier evidence pointed directly to Hammond. That he had been the one hunting her, trying to kill her. She had been convinced he was truly dangerous, and unmasking and stopping him had driven many of her decisions since Wednesday.
"Faster," Hammond snapped.
The leafy, residential street along which they walked was less quiet than hers, feeding traffic onto busy Wisconsin Avenue. Vehicles moved smartly along. Ahead, children's toys were scattered across a broad lawn. A UPS deliveryman stepped out of his brown van and ran a package toward the front door of a brick Federalist house.
As the UPS man glanced at Beth, he waved. He recognized her.
"Be nice," Hammond said in a tight voice. "Say hello."
Beth saw it instantly as another opportunity for help, but what could the UPS man do? He had no gun. She could not risk endangering him.
She forced a smile and called, "Hi, Adam!"
As the man waved in response, Hammond rumbled, "Good girl."
"Don't call me girl."
"Good woman."
"Better. Since you've kidnaped me, I assume you have a plan. Personally, I could use a cup of coffee right now. We could stop at the Coffee Beanery. It's close. Or if you're interested in dessert as well, I'd suggest Dean & Deluca. But now that I think about it, we couldn't go there. Somebody might recognize you. After all, you're a wanted man—"
That was when the first shot rang out. It blistered past so close it made her eyes burn. With a sudden shudder, she was flat on the ground again, Hammond on top. As she felt his body crush her, she freed her head enough to lift it and look. The yellow station wagon had skidded to a stop on the street near them, and the disheveled stranger—gun in hand—was jumping up to stand braced with his feet in the driver's doorway.
He must have fired through the open passenger window, before his aim was true, the same inner voice advised her. He was too anxious. Desperation had ruined his focus. Meanwhile, Adam, the UPS man, fell to the ground, arms crossed protectively over his head. Traffic slowed as drivers and passengers craned to look, but as soon as they saw the weapon, their vehicles sped away.
By the time their attacker had leaned across the station wagon's roof to assure his aim, Jeff Hammond had leaped to his feet, lifted the rifle sight to his eye, and scoped in on the shooter. Beth looked frantically around for a gun and spotted Hammond's pistol. He had left it on the sidewalk beside them so he could use the rifle. As she grabbed the gun, both men squeezed their triggers. Their shots thundered.
The attacker spun off the car's roof and disappeared, leaving a pink, bloody cloud. She glanced at Hammond and saw the expression on his broad face was coldly intense, with the kind of deep-rooted concentration that alone was enough to terrify most people. Add his large size and obvious capabilities, and it sent a shock wave through her. No wonder she had feared him. No wonder she had thought him capable of killing. He was capable.
Already he was running for the station wagon. "Stay there!" he shouted back.
; An eerie composure fell over her. Cradling the pistol, she rose in a crouch. She was not afraid now. The gun in her hands, the waning shock of it all . . . left her with a breathless kind of excitement. Her blood seemed to course more easily. Her mind had great clarity.
She wondered whether the police had heard the shots. If not, surely someone would call 911. She still wanted the police to arrest Hammond. She wanted to take no chances with him. Just a few minutes ago she had been convinced he was the killer of Colonel Yurimengri and probably Stephanie Smith. Now she was no longer sure. It made no sense he would defend her against this shooter, unless . . . she shook her head. She had no answer. Let the police sort it out.
Caught in her strange state of calm, she hurried in a crouch toward the front of the station wagon while Hammond closed in on the car's rear. He was a graceful, intent figure in his herringbone jacket and jeans. There was no sign of the shooter. As the sounds of traffic continued, she dropped low, peering under the car for feet.
And suddenly the gunman was upon her. She had expected to see him lying flat, dead or dying, on the pavement on the other side of the car. Instead he had been at the hood, hunkered down, his butt on his heels, as Hammond rounded the car's rear.
Then he sprang up and raced around the front fender, pistol aimed at her. One arm hung motionless at his side, the shoulder covered with blood. His bland face had vanished in a grotesque mask that erased any question about his motives. He was a killer. He enjoyed it. His eyes glowed with it. His lips were drawn back in a kind of ecstasy. His finger was on the trigger, and she was his target.
It was one of those instances when you do not think. You cannot. Whoever you are, whatever you have fashioned of yourself, takes over. She did not question her heart or whether it had intelligence. Or who she was or had ever been. Or even who she was becoming.
As his gun found its mark, she stayed in her crouch and pulled her pistol's trigger. And pulled it again and again. She had no idea how many times. It was an explosion of fear and relief, and it shook her. She wanted to kill this evil man because he was going to kill her, and she was happy she could do it. It made perfect sense as she squeezed the trigger. And squeezed it. And with each squeeze felt safer and better and healthier—and that she would have a future if she just kept. . . squeezing.
