Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery)

by Linsey Lanier

  She turned left at the next corner. Was this the right way? She wasn’t sure, but she kept going and soon passed a dingy little café. With a breath of relief she recognized the shop’s faded green awning. In the next block she sniffed the odor of less-than-fresh grilled lamb coming from a place that boasted kebobs. She remembered that, too.

  She was headed the right way. But it seemed ten times farther than it had in the car. Didn’t matter. Next block. Next block. Turn. Next block.

  She pressed on. Past the buildings that grew darker and more menacing. Over the jagged bricks that made up the sidewalk, hoping a snag in them wouldn't catch her toe and bring her down.

  No time for that now. No time.

  Here was where even tougher looking gangs of jerks loitered around the corners with their black leather and cigs. As she passed a group across the street, one of them whistled at her like she was a dog.

  She gave them her coldest fuck-off look and plodded on. Faster. Faster.

  Her heart banged in her chest in time to her footsteps and her breath hitched. She was getting that antsy feeling again, that prickle at the base of her skull. That horrible crawling feeling. Like slimy snakes were slithering up her back and down her arms.

  Something bad was going to happen. Or was happening now. Or had already happened.

  She all but broke into a run. She had to get there. Had to get there. Had to get there.

  She tore around another corner, down another half a block bordered by a brick wall on one side—and there she was.

  Shivering in the damp, chilly air she pulled her suit jacket around her and stared through the chain link fence topped with barbed wire at the rusty auto repair shop with its worn sign.

  Stingy streetlamps cast eerie shadows across the yard beyond. Dogs barked in the distance. She took a step toward the fence. No windows on this side of the building. Hard to tell if anyone was inside. She peered around an ugly bush and her insides turned to dust.

  Her blood pounded in her head so hard, she wanted to throw up. She couldn’t breathe. Her skin felt colder than if she were dead.

  In the first spot close to the side door where they’d seen Shrivel exit with the other hoods—sat Parker’s rental car.

  Oh, God. Oh, God! What did he think he was doing in there? Why in the hell had he come here? Why did he come without her?

  Wind-chilled tears stung her eyes. She shivered with rage now instead of cold. In the tumult of the angry, panicked thoughts tearing through her brain, only one surfaced.

  How in the hell was she going to get in there?

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Stay calm, she ordered herself and forced two full breaths of cold damp air into her lungs.

  Wait a minute. Hadn’t they seen a possible way in on the other side of the block when they followed Shrivel here? But how long would it take to get there on foot? She’d already wasted too much time.

  She raised her head and studied the barbed wire atop the fence. It looked old like everything did here. Maybe it wasn’t really electrified.

  She took a few steps, searching the ground for a stick to test it with when she caught sight of the neighboring yard. Was that an optical illusion? Wishful thinking?

  She hurried over to find out. No one around.

  Yes, the gate really was open.

  Just a tad. Without considering the cons, she slipped through the opening and into the yard.

  The building next door was set farther back than the repair shop, the whole front was gravel. Vehicles parked every which way. They made good cover as she picked her way to the side, feeling every stone through the thin soles of her dress shoes.

  She squinted into the darkness, her gaze scanning the chain link barrier between her and the repair shop. A few more steps and she made out the form. A burst of joy exploded in her chest.

  No barbed wire here.

  She hurried to the fence, shoved a pointed toe into a link and pulled herself up.

  “Damn, Parker,” she grunted under her breath. “Next time do me the courtesy of packing a pair of jeans and tennis shoes.”

  Up she crawled. Hand over hand. Toe over toe. Until she reached the top.

  The fence swayed with her weight as she swung one leg over, and she nearly let out a cry. Hold it together. Hold it together. Somehow she did.

  Other leg over. Now down. Down. Jump.

  She was on the ground.

  Every nerve alert, slowly she turned around.

  A high row of windows stretched along this side of the building. Light flickered through them. Someone was in there. But the windows were too far up to climb through.

  There was a door on the other side where the rental car was, she reminded herself. They’d seen Shrivel and the others use it before. Something told her that wasn’t the way to go.

  She stood for a long moment listening to the sound of her own breathing and backfire in a far away street.

  She made her decision.

  Hoping a rabid Doberman didn’t come barreling around the corner, she headed for the back.

  She was there in seconds, peering around the rusty siding into the shadows. In the dim light she could make out a row of unkempt bushes and a worn dirt path leading to a back door.

  Bingo.

  Three quick steps and she was there.

  She laid her palm carefully over the handle. Her heart banging in her ears, she turned it. The door opened. Unlocked.

  Luck? Or a trap? Didn’t matter. She had to take the chance. But she would take one precaution.

  Her breath hitching, she pulled out her cell and dialed emergency. 999 it was here, she’d learned somewhere along the way. As softly as she could she described the place to the dispatcher. The woman on the other end said they’d send someone right out. Yeah, maybe in an hour. She couldn’t wait that long.

  Hoping that call hadn’t been a mistake, she put her fingers back on the handle, inched the door open, peered inside.

  Darkness.

  She listened hard and heard an odd rumbling sound over her own rapid breathing. In one fluid move she swung open the door, stepped inside, noiselessly shut it behind her.

  Light rippled through a low internal window.

  She shot down to a crouch, held her breath as her eyes adjusted to the dark.

  Old wooden chairs lined up against the wall. A desk. Filing cabinets. She was in some sort of waiting room.

  Another door on the opposite wall led into the main area.

  She duck-walked to it fast as she could, trying not to choke on the dust and moldy smelling air. The inside window was close to the door. She dared to raise herself a few inches and peek through a grimy corner.

  Her arm gripped her stomach as it clenched with horrific pain. She slapped her other hand over her mouth to stifle a cry. She heaved as she fought the panic, the sheer terror scraping through her with razor sharp teeth.

  A vehicle, an old van or something, was parked and running in one corner of the shop, not far from the room she was in. Its headlights were on. The only illumination in the large, open space.

  Three dark figures stood in the light, their backs to the van. She recognized the body shape of one of them. Shrivel. All three faced a chair where someone was bound.

  The prisoner was turned toward the light so she had no trouble making out his face as he blinked in the glare and glowered at his captors.

  It was Parker.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t be.

  How the hell did Parker get himself in a mess like this? But she knew the answer. He was being noble. The police would never catch up to Shrivel. So he had to lure him in somehow. He must have nearly done it. It was a miracle he’d even found the bastard. But something had gone wrong.

  Now what?

  Her head spun with nausea as she fought back the rush of emotion. There had to be something she could do. Something. Anything. She forced herself to think.

  In the thirteen years before she
met Parker, she’d regularly picked bar fights with men and won. But those were mostly drunken slobs who’d underestimated her. Could she take on three ruthless criminals at the same time?

  She had to try. If she could just get to Parker, get him out of here somehow, no matter what happened to her she’d consider it a win.

  She scooted over to the inside door and pressed it open.

  The engine sound grew louder. Still crouching, she squeaked through the door and into the main repair area. The running van was about three yards away. Breathing in the grease and oil fumes, she crouched along the perimeter.

  She heard Parker’s cavalier laugh. “You can’t want the death of an American on your hands.” His voice sounded funny.

  “’Oo says it will be on my hands?” Shrivel sneered. “We know how to get rid of bodies.”

  Dear God.

  “You didn’t dispose of Lady Gabrielle Eaton’s very well.”

  “That was a message.”

  A chill went down Miranda’s spine. Shrivel had murdered her to send a message to Jewell.

  She felt her way along the wall. It was made of big cinder block bricks, cold and clammy. In the shadows, she nearly banged into a table shoved against the wall. She looked at the figures. No one had heard it.

  She dared to crane her neck and peer into the light.

  Oh, my God. Parker’s face was bloody and bruised. Red stains were all over his dress shirt and coat. One of his eyes was swollen shut.

  But he acted as nonchalant as if he were in the dining room back at Eaton House. “A message, was it? Apparently it was unclear.”

  “Where’s the fucking dagger, septic?”

  Parker managed another laugh. “Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  Shrivel reared back and hit him hard on the face. Blood shot into the air.

  Grasping the table leg to steady herself, it was all Miranda could do to keep from lunging forward and beating the daylights out that creep. But that would only get her in the same spot.

  Fudoshin. She recalled Parker teaching her to use it the first time they spared together. Calm and control in the midst of a storm. Serenity. Okay. Good time to review the lesson.

  She drew in a deep, motor oil scented breath and gathered her wits.

  She looked around. There were all kinds of tools strewn everywhere. Wrenches, tire irons, screwdrivers, hammers, all kinds of machinery. An engine block. Overhead those hoses for oil changes hung from the rafters.

  Any of these tools would work as a weapon, but would they be enough?

  She studied Parker’s three captors. Tall, lean Shrivel with his spiky black hair. He was wild and unpredictable, maybe the easiest to take out. A big guy she hadn’t seen before stood beside him.

  Following the outline of curly hair that was shaved at the sides, she studied his bulky mass. Maybe two-fifty, three hundred pounds. He’d be tough to beat.

  And finally a shorter, stocky guy. Had to be Scorpion himself. The boss had to be here to oversee things. Maybe he thought Shrivel had screwed up. Maybe he thought Shrivel had tried to screw him over. Maybe Shrivel was screwing with Parker’s face to prove to his boss he hadn’t.

  Didn’t matter why. She had to get Parker away from them before they killed him.

  Sure. Take down two hoodlums and a notorious London gang leader the cops couldn’t bring in, all by herself. Piece of cake.

  She had to get closer. Still squatting, she dared to scoot across the front of the long table. Dangling along the floor her fingers touched something that wasn’t concrete. Leather. Was that really what she thought it was? She squinted at it, grinning in the dark. Hell, yes. A tool belt.

  As quietly as she could she picked it up and pulled it around her waist. It was loaded. Screwdrivers, wrenches, a hammer. If only she could find a nail gun.

  She hustled around the table’s far edge and turned in at the end of it. She spied a familiar shape in the darkness and sucked in a breath. Now there was a real weapon.

  Leaning against the wall was a long, beautiful sledgehammer.

  She moved over to it and dared to grasp the handle near the base. Gently she pulled it away from the wall. She glared over her shoulder. No one had noticed her. Testing the hammer, she lifted it an inch or two. Had to be twenty pounds or more.

  This was her equalizer.

  Summoning all the strength she had, she rose. She grasped the hammer with both hands and turned around.

  “Why’d ya tell us you ’ad the dagger, then, you fuckin’ Yank?” Shrivel screeched.

  “Yeah, why?” The big guy stepped forward and socked Parker in the jaw. Her stomach lurched as she heard him grunt in pain.

  You’re first, Miranda decided. She hoisted the hammer over her shoulder and crept forward.

  The thugs were focused on their prisoner. Didn’t see her creeping up in the dark. But she knew that wouldn’t last long.

  She had to strike now.

  She took two long steps, planted her feet, and swung the hammer like she was making a grand slam in the ninth inning of the World Series.

  A loud squishy crunching sound rang out as she hit the big guy square on his temple. Blood spewed from his large head and he crumbled to the floor. He didn’t move.

  One down for the count. She stepped over the body. Who was next?

  Shrivel spun around, the look of shock on his ugly face made her want to laugh. But he didn’t give her time.

  He lunged forward, screaming like a wild goat in heat.

  She swung the hammer at him as hard as she could, but he was already too close. She missed. His palms smacked her hard in the chest and the hammer flew out of her hands, clattering to the ground as she stumbled back and lost her balance.

  She hit the floor hard. Ribbons of pain shot through her body. Keep your head. Keep your head.

  Shrivel was coming at her. She rolled under a nearby table, grabbed onto its frame. She forced herself up, tools clanging and banging to the floor as she hefted the table and swung it at her attacker.

  The tabletop struck Shrivel full across the abdomen, the force of the blow swatting him away like a dirty little fly.

  He stumbled back but kept his footing. More agile than she’d figured.

  Heart pounding, she scanned the floor for the sledgehammer. Couldn’t find it. She looked up.

  Shrivel had a tire iron in his hand.

  His black eyes glowing with rage, he came at her fast as a panther.

  She danced away.

  Moving faster, he caught up, swung at her head. She ducked. He swung the other way. She ducked again. She was about to throw her leg back for a kick to the face when he lunged, slammed her, knocked her against the hood of the running van.

  The blow took her breath. Struggling for air she felt the rumble of its engine ripple through her torso as Shrivel leered over her.

  He brought up the tire iron, pressed it against her throat. She caught it with both hands, pushed back.

  Blood pumped through her brain as she strained and grunted through gritted teeth. It was just a glorified version of arm wrestling, she told herself. She could hold him off until she got her feet into position.

  His fishy breath batted against her face. His long, crooked nose hovered over her like a vulture about to devour its prey. Sweat rolled down the length of it and dripped onto her cheeks.

  And suddenly, all she could think of was Lady Gabrielle and how terrified she must have been alone in her car with this crazy bastard.

  You sonofabitch, she thought as her foot went between his feet.

  She thrust her knee up with all her might. Got him right in the balls.

  Yelping like a wounded hyena, Shrivel dropped the iron and hobbled away, cradling his crotch.

  More where that came from. But she needed another weapon. She scanned the floor for something, anything…and took a little too long.

  Somehow Shrivel’d recovered. He flew at her and knocked her to the ground. Before she could think, his fingers were arou
nd her throat.

  “Don’t need no bloody tool. I’ll keel you with me bare ’ands.”

  And he’d do it, too. His grip was so tight around her neck she could barely breathe. Training had her hands groping at his wrists, trying to break his hold. But they were both too slippery with sweat.

  Think. Think. Think.

  What could she do? She didn’t have a weapon within reach. She hissed in a breath and air must have finally reached her brain.

  Of course. What had she been thinking? She’d forgotten all about the tool belt. She reached down, groped at her waist just as Shrivel began to shake her. Her head banged against the concrete. She couldn’t last much longer.

  Her fingers grasped at the loops, searching for…something. Anything.

  Finally her grip landed on the handle of something. She jerked it from its place. She was seeing stars now. Black spots, bright lights flashing in her head. She felt her eyes roll back.

  But she managed to force them open one more time.

  She lifted the tool, turned it where she could just see it. It was an awl. Kind of like a dagger. Fitting. This was it.

  Summoning all the strength she had she jerked it back then drove the blade into the side of Shrivel’s head with all her might.

  His grip around her throat loosened. She gasped in air as she watched his mouth open and saw blood pour out of it and onto her shirt, mingling with the stuff gushing out the side of his head.

  She pushed him off her and got up. His body rolled over onto the floor.

  “That’s for Lady Gabrielle,” she said, and gave his corpse a kick.

  She stood there, head spinning, sucking in air for what seemed like an eternity. Then she heard a funny noise.

  Clapping.

  She turned and squinted into the lights from the still running van, saw Parker sitting there, still bound to the chair. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t acknowledged her at all. Was he already dead?

  Scorpion stepped into the headlights, batting his hands together. “Quite an entertaining exhibition, Ms. Steele. You’re very good.”

  What?

  She stared at his stocky body, his slicked back hair. He had on black slacks and a black dress shirt open to the waist. About three pounds of gold chain hung around his neck.