At first I wasn’t sure the two guys even saw Trace leaning back in the shadows. But as they passed the back door to the club it became clear they weren’t here on a beer run. The movie star was their real target.
I could see the actor’s “on” face sliding effortlessly into place, more of a reflex than a conscious effort at this point. I put my lens to my eye, popping off shots as the delivery men approached, envisioning the caption for tomorrows pics as: Trace signs autographs in alley – what a guy!
Only, as I watched the two guys approach him, I had to rethink that caption. The skinny guy pulled his hand out of his pocket, but it didn’t emerge with a Sharpie for Trace to sign his John Hancock with.
It emerged with a gun.
I sucked in a breath, my body freezing in place. I willed myself to remain silent and inconspicuous on my perch as the guy pointed the gun straight at Trace.
Holy shit. What was going on here?
Was I witnessing a mugging? Instinctively I looked left, then right for help. Only the emaciated cat stared back at me.
So I did the only other thing I could think of. I kept shooting, keeping the telephoto lens to my eye and popping off shot after shot in the dark.
It took Trace a second longer than me to see the gun, but when he did, his reaction was much the same as mine. I saw his eyes go wide, his shoulders lock up, his gaze shoot from side to side instinctively looking for an escape route.
But the two guys had any chance of escape blocked off, coming at him from both angles, their truck blocking the alleyway.
They advanced on him, the skinny guy moving in gun-first. Trace put both hands up in a surrender motion, backing up until he was square against the wall again. He said something to them, his lips moving rapidly.
After years of watching people through a telephoto lens, I was beginning to learn the fine art of lip reading. I squinted my eyes and tried to follow along. I’m pretty sure Trace said, “My chicken is under the bus.”
Okay, so I hadn’t perfected my skill yet.
But whatever Trace really said, it didn’t seem to appease the guys any. The big guy moved in closer, saying something. Which, even though it looked a lot like, “Your mother ate the washing machine,” I’m pretty sure it wasn’t. Trace shook his head side to side in the negative to whatever Crew Cut had asked. Only that didn’t seem to be the answer they were looking for as Ferret waved his gun in Trace’s direction in response.
Trace threw his hands up higher, a frown creasing his forehead as he let out a rapid stream of words, again shaking his head. Ferret stepped forward, shoving the gun into Trace’s ribs. Painfully, if the wince between the actor’s eyebrows was any indication. He held his hands up higher, his gaze pinging between the two men in what, even at this distance, was so clearly marked with fear that I could almost smell it.
Crew Cut leaned forward once more. All I could see was the back of his head, but I could tell that whatever he was saying wasn’t pleasant as the color drained from Trace’s face. Again, he shook his head, protesting, but whatever he was saying, the two men weren’t buying it. The big guy grabbed Trace by the arm and shoved him toward the delivery truck. Considering guy number two still had a gun on him, Trace didn’t have much choice but to stumble along.
The skinny guy went back to the driver’s side and hopped in. The second guy walked around back of the truck with Trace in tow and lifted the rolling door, shoving Trace inside. He jumped up himself, then pulled the door after him.
The truck roared to life. Before I could react, it was backing out of the alley and out onto Sunset.
I got off three quick shots of the truck’s license plates, then quickly jogged back down the stairs. Well, I intended to jog back down. My foot was still asleep so it was more like an ungraceful stumble, missing the bottom two stairs altogether as I clung to the railing.
Ignoring the pins and needles shooting up my right leg, I raced through the alley, emerging onto Sunset just as the tail end of the delivery truck made a right at the corner. I bolted across the street, blocking out the curious looks from Eddie and Mike in my peripheral vision, and jumped in my Jeep. My fingers fumbled just a second with the keys as I turned over the engine and peeled out of the gas station’s parking lot, jumping the curb and taking a right at the intersection.
I scanned the three lanes of traffic, searching for the telltale height of the delivery truck over the roofs of luxury sedans and eco-friendly Priuses. A block later, I spotted it – two lanes over on the right. Quickly navigating though the Hollywood cruisers, I pulled two car lengths behind the truck, keeping an eye on the back doors. Was Trace still in there? Was he okay? Who the hell were these guys? Kidnappers out for ransom? They certainly hadn’t looked like your average celebrity stalkers. Last year I knew that Trace had gotten a restraining order against some woman who kept breaking into his house and digging strands of his hair from his shower drain. She’d claimed she was weaving them into a necklace. Which was super weird and kinda icky, but nowhere in the ballpark of two guys with a gun.
I followed as the truck passed by the trendy clubs, then farther down the street past the strip of clubs that had seen trendy five years ago, and finally into the neighborhood of dive bars that played host to the majority of the city’s pharmaceutical trade. I got cut off buy an aging El Camino and fell a few cars behind the delivery truck as we passed a twenty-four-hour pawn shop, but managed to cut over into the left and pass him, pulling up again directly behind the truck at the next intersection. Which, unfortunately, is where the truck made a sharp right onto a side street. I moved to do the same, but a seven-foot-tall guy in a spandex miniskirt and platform heels jumped into the street in front of my Jeep.
I slammed on the breaks, my front bumper kissing the transvestite’s legs.
“Watch it, chick! I’m walking here!” he/she shouted.
I raised my hand in a silent apology, willing him/her to get the hell out of the way as I watched the truck make another sharp right a few feet ahead of me.
I finally navigated around the shemale, and gunned the engine. I pulled the steering wheel to the right, accelerating so fast I swear I almost took the turn on two wheels as I followed the truck’s path.
Only as I turned the corner, the street in front of me was empty. I drove another three blocks, glancing down each side street I passed for any glimpse of the truck, but came up empty.
Shit. I’d lost Trace.
HOLLYWOOD SECRETS
Buy now for Amazon Kindle!
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
of the brand new
Anna Smith-Nick Dade Thriller
by Gemma Halliday:
PLAY NICE
Prologue
“Take it off.”
Anya looked across the over-furnished room at the man who’d issued the command. General Fedorov. Fifties, salt and pepper hair, eyes as dark as two bottomless pits. He took a deceptively casual position, leaning back in a plush, velvet armchair, one leg crossed over the other. But Anya wasn’t fooled. She could see the tension still present in his limbs, as if he were ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. He held a lit cigar in one hand, the cloyingly sweet scent tickling her nostrils as she complied, slipping the strap of her dress down her right shoulder, then the left. She shimmed her hips until it fell to the floor, leaving her bare beneath his gaze but for the red, patent leather heels on her feet.
“Like this?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Fedorov nodded, looked her up and down. A flicker of appreciation crossed his sharp features. He took another long drag from the cigar, as if dragging in the sight of her, then slowly blew it up toward the ceiling.
“Come closer.”
Her stomach clenched. But she did. Her long legs crossing the distance between them until she was standing directly in front of him, so close she could feel the heat emanating from his body.
“And now?” she asked.
“Kneel down.”
Aga
in, Anya did as she was told, her bare knees hitting the cool marble floor. She swallowed a shot of apprehension, noticing the growing bulge beneath his tailored slacks.
You’ve done this a thousand times before. You can do it again.
One last time.
“And now?” she asked. Even though she knew full well what “and now” would be. They’d been watching him for weeks. They knew his habits, his mannerisms, what kind of soap he washed with in the morning and what color socks he wore at night. What kind of cigars he smoked and what kind of recreation he indulged in. Blondes. Expensive ones. If they were lucky, he let them leave in the morning. Others became just another casualty of war.
Fedorov reached out, trailing a finger down Anya’s cheek. His hands were rough, calloused, like him. She shivered but leaned into his touch all the same, doing a kitten-like mew deep in her throat. He gave an answering groan, telling her she’d done her research well. He liked.
His hand left her face, and Anya could swear she felt her skin sigh in relief. Fedorov moved to set his cigar down, his free hand reaching for his zipper.
“No. Let me,” Anya purred, sliding her hands up the expensive wool fabric that covered his thighs. “Please,” she begged.
A smirk crossed his features before he picked up his cigar again.
He liked it when they begged.
She smiled up at him, holding his eyes as she slowly lowered his zipper. She did another feminine coo, letting her eyes flicker to him as she licked her lips.
He chuckled, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes in anticipation.
Anya’s heart pounded in her chest, her hands shook. No matter how many times she did this, nerves always hit her. She supposed some small part of her was glad. At least it was a sign she was still human, still had some notion of right and wrong. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath.
Then quickly thrust the zipper back upward, jamming Fedorov’s scrotum in the sharp teeth.
He howled, hands going to his crotch as he jumped to his feet.
But not quickly enough. Anya’s right hand shot out and grabbed the double action revolver he always kept strapped to his right ankle. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t think, didn’t feel.
Just aimed and pulled the trigger.
The first shot took out his right knee, sending him to the ground just long enough for Anya to put some distance between them. She backed up, quickly firing off another to his temple. He hit the ground with a sickening thud, and the room was plunged into eerie silence.
Two deep breaths, in and out. Anya’s heart pounded in her ears, her hands steady now as they held the revolver straight-armed in front of her. Mission accomplished. It was done.
And done well.
She could almost hear the praise of her handler’s voice echoing in her head.
Perfect shot, my dragi, my darling. Now get out.
Three seconds. She knew in three seconds his bodyguards would be at the door. A quiet syringe to the neck would have made escape easier, but in the skimpy dress Fedorov had wanted her to wear there’d been nowhere to hide it. She’d had to work with what she had on hand. Noisy as it was.
Two seconds.
Anya grabbed her dress, slipping it back over her head as she dove for the pair of French doors leading onto the balcony. She quickly pushed one open. But instead of jumping toward freedom she slipped behind the heavy, velvet curtain at its side, holding her breath.
She heard the doors to the general’s bedroom burst open, a cacophony of shouting voices drowning each other out as bodyguards swarmed the room. Anya closed her eyes, trying to make out how many. Three. Maybe four? Heavy footsteps hit the polished floor, running to the body, down the hall, toward the French doors. She was sure her heart was pounding loudly enough to match the stomping rhythm of their boots.
The scent of cheap cologne warned her one of the Russians was approaching her hiding spot. She closed her eyes, letting her knuckles go white as they tightened around the revolver.
He shouted something to his pals, so close that his voice made her jump. He’d noticed the open door. More footsteps, leading out onto the balcony. More shouting. A thin line of sweat trickled down Anya’s back as she clutched the gun to her thigh. If they found her, she was done. She was good, but three to one were odds no one could escape from. Especially when the three were trained killers.
Then again, what am I?
She shoved that thought deep into the recesses of her brain, focusing instead on the commands one Russian was shouting to the others. She wasn’t fluent, but she’d picked up enough of the language to understand he was telling them she’d escaped, over the balcony. Go find her.
Three pairs of feet pounded out of the room, receding down the hallway.
She waited, counting off two beats before daring to move a muscle. Slowly, she drew back the curtain, using reflections in the windowpane to check the room. The general’s lifeless body lay slumped in the middle of the floor.
Alone.
She sprang into action, adrenalin pumping through her limbs as she crossed the room, out the door, running left, opposite the exit, she knew. Deeper into the compound, but farther away from the expanse of property outside the general’s bedroom window where the bodyguards would now be searching for her. The sound of her heels pounding with practiced speed was muffled by thick carpeting as she counted the doors she passed. Three, four. She’d been studying the blueprint of the house for weeks, but she still held her breath as she passed the fifth door and slowed, opening number six and slipping inside.
An empty office. Just as it was supposed to be.
She quickly shut the door with a soft click behind her, hearing her own ragged breath fill the silence. The room was dark, moonlight filtering through the window the only light. Anya blinked, letting her eyes adjust. The windows faced east, toward the woods, beyond which ran a little used road where a car awaited her. Her handler had set up surveillance on the road to monitor every person who’d gone in or out of Fedorov’s compound for weeks. All she had to do was get to the car, and she knew they’d all be watching her on their monitors from their big, safe room that, as far as anyone knew, didn’t really exist. Her handler, the generals, the faceless men who controlled her fate.
And she’d finally be safe.
She paused, put her ear to the door, praying she didn’t hear the telltale pounding of feet behind her.
Nothing.
She crossed to the window, lifting it open. The bite of night air stung her cheeks, giving her instant goosebumps in the flimsy dress completely ill-suited for Kosovo in the spring. But cold was an indulgence she didn’t have time for. Instead, she pried the screen from its frame with her fingernails, dropping it to the floor as she threw one leg, then the other over the sill.
It was a two-story drop. One she’d anticipated, but it looked far higher now that she was straddling the sill, all that empty air below her.
You can do this. You’re almost there.
If she thought about it a second longer, she knew her resolve would waiver. So she didn’t, instead, kicking off her shoes, she plunged into the darkness. She hit the ground with a thud, sharp pain instantly shooting up her left leg. Anya bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from crying out, her hands sliding out from under her in the dewy grass. She looked down. Her left ankle was twisted under her. Probably sprained.
But pain was another thing she had no time for.
The taste of blood filled her mouth as her teeth ground down on her lip. She struggled to her feet, favoring her right side. She forced her legs to hold her up, then glanced around in the dark, quickly getting her bearings. Ahead of her lay an expanse of grass, a fence to the left leading to the yard where the general carried out his own private training exercises. She shuddered. She’d seen the files on his victims and could only imagine the tortured souls who still haunted those tainted grounds.
Still grasping the revolver in her hand, she turned right. A wooded area lay at the edge of the gras
s, but it was a good ten yards to the tree cover. Ten yards where she’d be completely exposed. She could only pray that the Russians were still searching the other side of the compound for her.
Ten yards. Ten yards… and then you’re free.
Anya dashed forward, running as fast as her injured ankle would allow, half hopping, half dragging her leg along as she kept her eyes on the tree line ahead. Her arms pumped at her sides, her lungs burning, her eyes watering at the sting of cold wind whipping past her. Six yards. Five. She was almost there.
And then she heard it.
The crack reverberated through the still night like lightening, a tuft of grass at her side flying into the air.
They’d found her.
While she’d hoped they wouldn’t, she was really only surprised it had taken them this long. The general had been a sadist but a smart one. The men he’d hired were nothing less.
Anya jagged to the right, then left, never decreasing her speed as she made a zig-zag pattern across the lawn. Tufts of grass flew at her sides, spattering her legs with mud as bullets embedded themselves into the soft ground.
Three yards left. She was almost there.
Another shot rang out, and fire instantly erupted in her right arm. Anya cried out, falling to the ground, her left hand immediately going to the sharp sting slicing through her bicep. She rolled onto her right side in the grass, shot off two wild rounds toward the house. Pain blinded her. She had no idea if she’d hit anything, but the bullet hail stopped for a second. Warm liquid seeped through her fingers, and she bit back a scream. She would not give them the satisfaction.
The gunfire ceased for only a moment, then the Russians began again. Relentless. The air filled with deafening shots, chunks of grass beside her jumping, spraying cool mud onto her cheeks.
Hollywood Scandals Page 26
