The Baby Race

by Tara Wylde

  The extra minutes give me some time to consider what I have planned. From my conversations with some of Chance’s fellow vets, I’ve gleaned that he and Sully were in Iraq right before they started the expansion phase of Atlas. Could there be a connection between that and the capital infusion?

  It’s thin, but at least it’s something to tell Quentin.

  A few minutes later, I notice the receptionist is starting to look a little twitchy. Her eyes keep darting to the clock on the wall and then around the room.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  She gives me a pained smile. “Just need a break, if you known what I mean.”

  I shrug. “Go then. I’ll be fine here on my own.”

  “It’s just that Mr. Pearce doesn’t like me being away from my desk…”

  I struggle to keep from shaking my head. He can be such a petty little man sometimes.

  “I won’t tell if you won’t,” I whisper.

  The relief on her face is obvious. “Thank you,” she says as she gets up and clutches her purse. “I really appreciate it.”

  She shuffles off stiff-legged down the hallway, making me wonder just what the hell is knocking at her door. I decide I don’t really want to know.

  A few moments after she leaves, I glance at my watch: I’ve been her forty-five minutes now. My patience wore out about five minutes ago.

  To hell with this. I’m going to open his door and sit down in his office. Maybe if he sees me he’ll finally wrap up this all-important fucking conference call.

  As I turn the handle and crack the door, I hear: “…tired of you constantly breathing down my neck. You’ll get the dirt on Talbot when you get it, and not before. Is that clear?”

  My eyes widen as I see Quentin with his back to the door, pacing with a Bluetooth headset attached to his ear. I quickly and quietly retreat and close the door behind me before he can turn around and catch me.

  What was that about? Does someone else have a stake in the Atlas deal?

  I glance down the hallway: no sign of the diarrhetic receptionist yet. My gut tells me to take advantage of the situation, so I reach into my purse and pull out my mobile. I call up an app that I got from a less-then reputable source and plug in my earbuds.

  The jagged little Bluetooth logo comes up with a list of devices to pair with. Using the app, I pair with the one named Pearce. How could such a smart investor be so dumb about basic communications security? I normally use this to eavesdrop on drug dealers and other folks with less-than-stellar intellects.

  “I’m not sure I like that tone,” says a man with a thick Long Island accent. “We’re partners, Pearcy. Partners don’t talk like that to each other.”

  “Then feel free to kiss my ass and walk away,” says Quentin. “And don’t call me Pearcy again if you know what’s good for you.”

  The other voice chuckles. “You’re threatening me? I think you got that backwards, my friend.”

  “Then let me disabuse you of that notion, little man. I’m about as scared of you as I am of Chance Talbot, which is to say not in the slightest. You’d do well to remember that. And if you have trouble, I’ll be sure to ask your uncle to remind you.”

  “Oh, eh,” says the other voice. “No need to get him involved.”

  “Then kindly go piss up a rope until I feel the need to call you.”

  The line goes dead just as the receptionist strides back into the room. Her hair is a bit askew, making me wonder again what she had to go through in the ladies’ room.

  “Just got an urgent phone message,” I say as I pull out the earbud, “Please tell Mr. Pearce that I had to run and that I’ll catch up with him later.”

  “Are you sure?” she asks. “You waited for so long. I’m sure he’ll be done in just another minute.”

  He’s already done and I need to get out of here before that door opens.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, heading into the hall. “I’m used to waiting a long time for no reason.”

  64

  27. CHANCE

  “I have to say, I’m pleasantly surprised,” I say to Tre as the waitress, a buxom blonde in jeans and a black t-shirt, places our beers on the table. “I didn’t expect much out of this place.”

  He nods and takes a pull from his bottle of Coors.

  “It’s not the VIP room at Studio Paris,” he says. “But it’s pretty cool. Kind of a neighborhood pub feel. I like it.”

  We’ve both dressed down for tonight, which in Tre’s case means no tie. I’m in a sport jacket and jeans, with a casual shirt and my favorite cowboy boots. It still sets us apart from the guys in the room, most of whom sport different combinations of Cubs, Bears and/or Bulls paraphernalia. The TVs on the wall are tuned to the various cable sports channels, where the guys in the bar watch two of those three teams in action while a bunch of people in suits talk about the third team.

  I’ll take the Phillies, Eagles and 76ers any day, but I’d never say that in a place like this. I may be tough, but I’m not that tough.

  Tre turns to look me in the eye.

  “Are you going to just let this be a fun night of catching up?” he asks. “Or is this part of your master plan, too?”

  “A little of both,” I say.

  “Not for me it ain’t. I haven’t gone out and just had a good time since I can’t remember when. Fucking boss never lets me have any time off.”

  I flip him the bird as I down half my beer in a single pull. It’s so cold there’s sweat running down the side of the bottle. I like that.

  The jukebox in the corner starts playing AC/DCs You Shook Me All Night Long just as Sara walks in. It’s like some sort of cosmic prank, because the way she looks is enough to make me stop my beer in mid-lift and just stare at her. She’s in a sleeveless white camisole and jeans that look like her skin has been sprayed with denim-colored paint. Her black-and-red pumps complete the ensemble.

  Oh, and Grace is with her. And some other woman.

  I stand and catch Sara’s eye, motioning her to the table. She looks like something out of a movie, strutting in time to the beat of the music. I swear time slows down and she’s moving in slow motion. Her eyes are only on me – or at least that’s what I’m going to tell myself.

  I finally shake off my paralysis and notice that Sara was right: Grace is definitely not little anymore.

  “Wow,” I say to her. “I used to know a kid who looked just like you, except she was about a foot shorter and skinny as a rake handle.”

  She giggles and wraps her arms around my neck.

  “It’s good to see you, Chance,” she says. “You’ve filled out too, I see. Just like Sara said you had.”

  She did, did she?

  “Tre!” Grace hoots. “Look at you!”

  “I’m too busy looking at you, girl!”

  If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I just saw something flash between those two…

  Then Sara’s hand is on my arm and suddenly that’s all I’m aware of.

  “Chance Talbot,” she says. “I’d like you to meet my friend, Kelsey Gates. Kelsey, this is Chance.”

  Kelsey grins wide and takes my hand. “Sara has told me a lot about you,” she says.

  “She hasn’t told me quite as much about you,” I say. “But what she does say is very positive. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Kelsey and Tre greet each other as I take Sara aside.

  “Did you see what I saw?”

  “Uh-huh,” she says. “I think we may have to keep an eye on Gracie and Tre tonight.”

  “Or just leave them be,” I say. “They’re both grown-ups.”

  She grins. “You obviously haven’t spent any time around Grace lately.”

  “Enh, don’t worry. Tre is enough of a grown-up for all of us.”

  65

  28. CHANCE

  “What was I saying earlier about Tre?” I say in Sara’s ear.

  He, Grace and Kelsey are dancing to The Safety Dance over by the pool tables, and it’s hilar
ious. For someone who was All-American in his college football days, Tre’s dance moves are like the physical manifestation of a Greek tragedy.

  Luckily, the girls don’t seem to mind. And he’s had more drinks tonight than I’ve ever seen him have in a single night, so he’s feeling zero pain. It’s about time.

  Sara smiles. “I have a feeling it’s going to be us looking after them tonight,” she says, raising her voice to be heard over the music.

  “Please don’t tell me you have dibs on this one,” says a voice from behind Sara. We turn to see a new server carrying a tray of refills for us.

  “Amber!” Sara beams. “How are you?”

  Amber looks me over as she sets the drinks on the table. “Obviously not as good as you, girl. Who’s this?”

  “Amber Hoffman, this is Chance Talbot. We knew each other back in Philly and now we’re – uh, sort of working together. For a while.”

  She reaches a long-nailed hand toward me in greeting.

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” she says. Her thick Chicago accent makes it come out chermed I’m sheeyer.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  “So, are you two…” Amber asks, eyebrows raised.

  I look at Sara. She glances away, but she’s got a smile on her face.

  “Don’t you have people to serve?” she asks.

  “I guess that’s my answer,” Amber says, giving Sara a peck on the cheek. “Way to go, honey.”

  I’m about to tease Sara about where we stand with each other when Grace comes charging over and pulls her out of her chair.

  “Come dance!” Grace hollers as the opening strains of Springsteen’s Dancing In The Dark blast out of the jukebox.

  Sara seems relieved to get away from me. I can’t blame her. A moment later, Kelsey collapses into the chair Sara just left.

  “Whooo,” she breathes. “That Grace has enough energy to light up Wrigley Field.”

  I grin. “She was always a spitfire. So, Kelsey, where did you serve?”

  Her eyebrows go up. “How did you know I was in the service?”

  “I can tell by the way you move,” I say with a shrug. “Game recognizes game, you know?”

  She smiles. “Impressive. I served with Ashley White in the Female Engagement Team in Afghanistan in 2011.”

  “Whoa. Now that’s impressive. If it hadn’t been for your team, they probably wouldn’t have lifted the ban on women in combat in 2013.”

  We toast each other. There’s an instant camaraderie among combat vets that transcends the spoken word.

  “If you’re ever looking for a new career, call me,” I say. “Atlas needs good people.”

  “And give up my career as Sara’s shrink?” she says with a laugh. “She talks about you a lot, you know.”

  “She does?” I try to keep it out of my face, but inside my stomach does a backflip.

  “Yeah,” she says. “So keep this in mind, Marine: Sara is my best friend. You hurt her and I’ll fucking kill you in your sleep. Copy that?”

  “Sir, yessir,” I say with a nod. “I know better than to mess with one of Ashley White’s soldiers.”

  She grins and sips at her wine. Our dance floor trio chooses that moment to show back up at the table and tear into the new round of drinks.

  “How you doing, brother?” I ask Tre.

  His eyes struggle to focus as he answers.

  “I’m fucking great,” he slurs. “Showing these white folks how to dance.”

  “You sure are,” I say, slapping him on the back.

  Sara leans in close. “What were you and Kelsey talking about?”

  “Just your old boyfriends,” I say.

  Her face drops in horror.

  “I’m kidding,” I chuckle. “It was military stuff.”

  She punches my arm. “Don’t do that to me!”

  “Why not?” I ask with a sinister glance. “Is there some deep, dark secret you don’t want me to find out?”

  She looks a little off-balance for a moment before recovering.

  “No,” she says. “How about you? Anything you’re hiding?”

  Suddenly this isn’t funny anymore. I need to get out of this before I end up in a downward spiral that I can’t get out of.

  “You’ve seen everything I’ve got to show,” I say with a leer.

  She bites her bottom lip. It’s hands-down the single sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

  “How about we have your driver take these three home?” she says in my ear. “You could come and see my place. It’s not far from here.”

  Suddenly I can’t finish my drink soon enough.

  66

  29. SARA

  I knew it. When I asked Chance if he was hiding anything, he lied to my face.

  Of course, I lied to his face right before that, so I guess we’re even. We’re both hiding something. The difference is, I’m actively searching for his secret.

  “Where we goin’?” Tre slurs as the limo pulls up outside the pub. “’Nother bar?”

  “You’re all going home,” Chance says. “Take tomorrow off, buddy. Sleep in.”

  Grace pipes up: “Maybe I should make sure Tre gets into his place okay.”

  I glare at her. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

  “I guess not,” she grumbles. “Just askin.’ Try to help somebody…”

  Chance puts a hand on the driver’s shoulder.

  “Make sure Tre’s is your last stop, okay?”

  As they chat, Kelsey sidles up to me.

  “I like Chance,” she says. “It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that you two have a history together.”

  I can’t help but smile. I trust Kelsey more than my own sister; her opinion means a lot to me.

  “I have no idea where we’re going with this,” I say. “It’s like we’re driving through a forest in the dark without any headlights.”

  She chuckles and shakes her head.

  “You think it’s any different for the rest of us? It’s always a gamble, sweetie. The question is whether you’re willing to spin the wheel and accept the consequences, good or bad.”

  Am I willing to spin the wheel? And even if I am willing, am I even capable of spinning it? I honestly don’t know.

  What I do know is that Chance is coming back to my place right now. And we’ll see what happens from there.

  We both wave as the limo’s taillights fade into traffic. Chance turns to me and smiles.

  “So,” he says. “Your place.”

  “Yup. It’s about four blocks this way.”

  Strolling through the glow of the streetlights makes me think of the other night, when we were headed to Chance’s house. I can’t help but draw an unflattering comparison in my head.

  “Just so you know, my place isn’t a greystone,” I say.

  “Is it bigger than a storeroom?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I grin. “It’s bigger than a storeroom.”

  “Then I’m looking forward to it.”

  I take his arm was we wander for a few blocks, stopping every now and then to look in storefront windows. The neighborhood isn’t great, but there are lots worse in Chicago. Plenty worse in Philly, too.

  “How far now?” he asks as we cross the entrance to an alleyway.

  “That’s far enough,” says a voice from the shadows.

  Suddenly Chance’s hand is on my waist, pushing me behind him.

  “What are you doing?”

  Before he can answer, I see four men in hooded sweatshirts walking toward us from the alley.

  “We saw you with the limo,” says the one in front. None of their faces are visible in the shadows of the tenements on either side of the alley. “Give me your wallet.”

  Chance holds up a steadying hand while he reaches into his sport jacket pocket with the other.

  “No problem, man,” he says calmly. “It’s all yours.”

  Suddenly one of the others is moving toward me, reaching for my purse.

  “Whatcha
got in there?” he asks as he yanks on the strap. The sudden jerk pulls me along with it, making me lose my balance.

  “Hey!” Chance barks. “Don’t touch her!”

  “Or what, motherfucker?” the guy yells. “You gonna do something about it?”

  “No,” I say, glaring at Chance. “He’s not going to do anything.”

  Chance waits a beat while I take a breath.

  “I’ll do it for him,” I say as I stomp the heel of my pump into the guy’s instep. He shrieks in pain until I drive my right elbow into the bridge of his nose. Then there’s only a wet crunching sound.

  “What the fuck – ” the guy in front manages to say before Chance’s fist pile-drives into his mouth. Chance follows it up with knee to the groin, a stomp kick to the inside of the knee, and finally a wristlock that sends the guy face-first into the pavement.

  I finish off my guy with a punch to the throat, then spin to face the other one nearest me. Meanwhile, Chance has the remaining attacker in a chokehold, slowly passing out.

  I drop into my kickboxing stance. “You can run now if you want,” I say.

  The .38 Special is out of his pocket and pointing at me before I even see his hand move.

  “I’m not runnin’ anywhere, bitch.”

  My heart barely has time to skip a beat before I hear the sickening clank of metal hitting bone. As the gunman drops to his knees, I see Chance standing behind him, holding a length of hollow steel fence pipe like a Louisville slugger.

  “Thanks,” I say, tasting the tang of adrenaline in my mouth.

  “Oorah,” he says. He’s not even breathing hard as he kneels down to pick up the gun.

  “Empty,” he says, weighing it in his palm. “These guys are punks. Do you want to call the police?”

  “I never have before,” I say. “It always complicates things.”

  “You’ve done this before?” he asks, eyes wide.

  “I return missing girls,” I say with a shrug. “The people they sometimes end up with usually aren’t too keen on handing them over peacefully.”

  He shakes his head and looks at the bodies lying in heaps on the asphalt.

  “Wow,” he breathes. “You were seriously badass.”