“Shoot!”
Goon had reached the end of the hall and the exit door into the alley. He hit the door’s push bar and plowed out. Van was behind him and gaining. The man had speed.
Fortunately, so did I. No way was I heading back to safety and letting Van go it alone. We were a team.
I took off after both of them, losing some speed because I couldn’t pump my arms. Bad running form. I hit the push bar with my hip and held the door open with my shoulder.
Call me gun shy, but I halted in the doorway. No way was I going to be a victim of friendly fire. The alley was narrow with just room enough for a single car to pass. The warehouse stood on the west side. On the east side of the alley there was a small drainage ditch, a chain-link fence with another drainage ditch and another warehouse on the other side.
Van stood in the shadow of the buildings maybe half a block to the south of me. South in Seattle is easy to find, just look for Mount Rainier and you’ve got it. Van was scanning, looking for Goon. He pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open.
A gentle south breeze was blowing, carrying his conversation in snatches to me.
“Lost visual.” “Get chopper.” “Hunt him down.” “Can’t be far.”
I frowned. That didn’t sound like your typical call to 911.
A movement caught my eye. Goon was hiding behind a Dumpster maybe twenty feet in front of Van. I could see him from my angle, but Van couldn’t from his. I screamed to Van, frustrated that I couldn’t point. He didn’t hear me. I stepped out into the alley and the door closed behind me. I screamed to Van again. Goon heard and made a dash for it.
Van saw him and took off after him, gaining on Goon and grabbing him by the shirt collar, ready to take him down.
Out of nowhere, the revving of an engine and the squeal of peeling tires drowned out the sounds of the chase. A silver four-door sedan pulled into the alley south of Van from the parking lot.
“Getaway car!” I screamed, bouncing and nodding wildly with my head toward the vehicle.
The sedan revved its engines again and aimed for Van.
“Van!”
Chapter 22
Van looked up at the car barreling toward him. I could practically see him weighing his options. There weren’t many, and all of them involved letting Goon go.
Capitalizing on the distraction, Goon broke free of Van’s grip, sucker punched him in the gut and ran for the fence.
For the fence? I was confused. Why wasn’t Goon waiting for the car to pick him up?
Van doubled over. For a horrified instant, I thought he was going to collapse and become a speed bump for that maniac sedan.
I stepped out into the alley, terrified and unsure what to do. There was no way I could reach Van in time. And I couldn’t get to my phone.
The American-made sedan picked up speed, closing the gap between it and Van.
Goon scaled the fence and took off.
Clutching his stomach, Van straightened and dove for the fence. He caught the chain link, and swung himself over with mere inches to spare before becoming road kill. He landed safely on the other side and gestured at me to get back, screaming and waving his arms.
I hunkered into the door well, scrambling blind to find the latch. I fumbled, finally found and grabbed the handle, but couldn’t manage to hold down the thumb button and maneuver the door open. Damn, why didn’t they put those push bars on the outside? Fighting against the rising sense of panic taking control of me, I tried to remember my training. This was it, do or die. I remembered War warning us to keep our heartbeat under control. Rapid heartbeat equals rampant problems.
I took a deep breath and flattened myself against the door, looking for another escape route as the car raced toward me. Could I scale the fence without using my hands? Did I have time to dive into the ditch?
The car was close enough now that I could see the driver. I froze. My heart fell into my stomach. Ket!
Oh, God, oh, God. No! I was a dead woman.
Ket saw my look of horror and smiled. I turned and began kicking the door, screaming in a banshee pitch to be let in.
Behind me, I heard the sedan screech to a stop. A car door opened. I kept kicking and screaming as if sheer effort was going to save me.
“Help me! Help! Fire! Rape!” Tears flowed down my cheeks.
Ket threw his weight against me so hard he knocked my breath from me. The door handle gouged into my hips. My head bounced off the door. I reeled, stunned, and fought the stars clouding my vision.
Ket jammed me against the building door. I hadn’t seen him in months, hadn’t felt him in longer. The body holding me hostage against the door was definitely beefier and more bulked up than I remembered. Solid, raging bull muscle. He’d been training, probably spending every spare minute in the prison gym. And no doubt double dosing on steroids. He pressed his package into my backside. He was hard. Violence and control turned him on.
I shuddered and fought an almost overwhelming sense of nausea. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Ket grabbed me by the arm to keep me from slumping. He shook me and held me with a bruising grip, branding his handprint into my flesh. “Surprised to see me, baby?”
I didn’t answer. He’d hurt me either way, answer or no.
He wrenched my bound arm tighter behind my back so far I thought he’d dislocate my shoulder. “I asked you a question.”
I winced, trying to breathe through the searing pain. “I had no doubt…you’d…come.”
“That’s my girl.” He eased up his grip and ground his groin against my butt. “Didn’t you get my present? Why aren’t you wearing it?” He spoke directly into my ear, his breath hot and disturbing against my neck.
“You mean the cheap jewelry? Way to impress a girl.”
He shook me again. “Cheap gets as cheap deserves.” He grabbed me by my French braid and jerked my head back so that I was looking up at him into his eyes glittering with jealousy and rage. “Did you screw him? Did you?”
I glared at him. “Screw who?”
He banged my head against the door and yanked it back again.
I was so dizzy, I could barely think.
“You know who, bitch. Lover boy. The one in the alley.”
“That security guard assaulted me.” My voice broke.
Ket stiffened and looked confused. “Security guard?”
Clearly not the guy he was thinking of. “Yeah, the one in blue.”
“What the hell?” His already dark look clouded to thunderstorm level.
“In the ladies’ bathroom.”
It didn’t take any effort to cry. Damn it all, I was going to get that Goon. Ket would kill him. All I had to do was sic Ket on him. Or he would kill Ket. Either way I won.
“He stunned me as I was coming out of the bathroom, then he shoved me in and tied me up and felt me up and now I have one breast hanging out of my bra.” I broke down completely.
Ket had gone quiet and completely still. Maybe he still had an ounce of humanity and compassion in him.
I trembled, waiting for the thunderclap to hit. He reached up my shirt, felt the exposed breast, squeezed the nipple, hard, and tucked the breast back into my bra.
I gagged.
He yanked my braid so hard I thought my head was going to snap off and my tears trickled back toward my eyes. “What did you do to lead him on?”
“I showed up for camp! Honest. Honest, I didn’t lead him on.” I’d been reduced to begging. I hated myself for it. But I was stalling. Hoping the cops Van had called showed up soon. “He’s a sick pervert.”
“He’s a dead man. I’ll deal with him later.” Ket shoved me toward the car as I struggled to get free.
The chain-link fence jingled. I glanced at it without thinking. Van was scaling the fence.
Ket heard and looked. “In the car, slut.” Ket opened the back car door and shoved me in.
Van hit the ground and ran toward us, gun drawn, yelling for Ket to halt.
&nbs
p; Ket ignored him and scurried into the front seat, sliding behind the wheel without securing me in. He reached for the automatic locks as Van wrenched the front passenger door open.
Ket slammed the car into gear and floored it. Van grabbed the door frame and struggled to pull himself inside while Ket tried to sideswipe him on the fence. Van’s gun flew out of his hand while he struggled to hang on.
I kicked the back of Ket’s seat, screaming for him to stop the car.
Somehow Van managed to get inside the car. He lunged at Ket, who swung back. The car veered dangerously toward the building as the two men fought for control of the vehicle.
The car lurched back and forth. Van threw a punch. Ket threw a punch. I bounced around the backseat like a kernel of Orville Redenbacher, unable to catch myself with my hands. “Stop it! Stop it, now, you two. You’re going to kill us!”
At the far end of the warehouse, a small cement loading dock jutted into the alley. It popped up out of nowhere, surprising Ket. He misjudged the clearance in the alley and hit the brakes too late. The front left side of the sedan crashed into the dock, crumpling the driver’s door, throwing me against the headrest. I was lucky not to be thrown through the windshield. The air bags deployed.
In the front, the two men sputtered and tried to swim their way free of the air bags. Ket tried his door. It was jammed. He smashed the window and crawled out before Van could get a firm grip on him.
In the next instant, I heard footsteps overhead on the car roof. From my window, I watched Ket take off and scale the fence. Van rushed out of the car and watched as Ket escaped on the far side. He made a move to follow Ket, then shook his head like it was a lost cause. He pulled a two-way radio from his pocket and began giving instructions.
“Bring the chopper around. Suspect number two. On foot. Fled to the south. White male. Early thirties. Six feet four…”
I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes, trying to get my arms around the idea—Van was a cop. Not a math man, a mild-mannered professor. A cop. Cripes, to use one of Dutch’s swear words.
Finally, Van put the radio away, climbed into the car, and fell next to me into the backseat.
“I really need to get in better shape.” His nose was bleeding and he had a gash over one eye.
“You’re going to have a shiner in the morning,” I said.
He nodded. “Yeah. Are you okay? You have a big goose egg on your forehead.”
“A goose egg is better than a concussion. Ket’s losing his touch.” I turned my back toward Van, motioning for him to untie me.
When he finished, I turned back to look at him.
Just as I reached to tenderly touch his wounds—what a sucker women are for wounded men—I heard the distinctive rush of a chopper. All my sympathy for him evaporated. I dropped my hand. “You bastard!”
The force of my words startled him. He reared back, hands in front of him for protection. “Hey, I just saved your life. I’m the good guy here. What does a guy have to do to please you?”
“You’re a cop!” I rubbed my wrists and pointed a finger at him. “FBI if I’m not mistaken.” I stared at him through thin, angry eyes. I opened the car door. “You’re after the dongle just like everyone else.”
“Reilly, wait!”
I put a foot out onto the pavement. “You used me. You’re no different than Ket.”
“Wait a minute!” He grabbed my arm where Ket had.
I winced and he backed off.
“I’m sorry.” He wiped his bleeding nose on the back of his sleeve.
I wiped my runny nose on my sleeve. Stupid crying.
Van looked exhausted and so pitiful I almost wanted to comfort him. Almost.
“You’re an agent. On the Canarino case.”
“For God’s sake, Reilly.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Lower your voice.” He leaned into me. “I couldn’t. I’m undercover.”
“You were undercover, all right.” Anger was the only thing keeping me going.
Van wiped his nose again. He was having trouble talking clearly through the blood. “This has been a hell of a day. Two bad guys get away. I blow my cover. And I lose the girl.” He looked at me for confirmation of the last point.
I’m stubborn. I refused to commit.
“You’re the only camper who knows. You won’t give me away, will you?” His voice sounded like he was talking through sludge. I imagined he was swallowing blood.
“You need help.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“I meant medical attention.” I heard sirens. Several cops and a paramedic unit pulled up at the far end of the alley.
I sighed. “Fine. I won’t out you. What are we going to tell those guys?” I nodded toward the cops.
“They’re in on it. We’re working with local law enforcement on this case.” He gently took my arm. “Cheer up. Running down and assaulting an FBI agent is a federal offense. When we catch Ket, he’s going to jail for a long time.”
My phone rang just as the paramedics finished looking me over. I had some bruises and abrasions, and goose egg aside, a mild concussion. The paramedics wanted to send me to the hospital for observation. I talked them out of it. A concussion was nothing I couldn’t handle. This was a tiny baby concussion compared to some I’d had. I’d been hit in the head by softballs and bats enough times to know how to care for myself. They gave me a Tylenol and told me to take over-the-counter painkiller as necessary for the headache that was sure to follow and released me.
I flipped open my phone. “Hi, Mom.”
“What’s going on there? Who’s dead now? I’m watching the news—there are police choppers circling the FSC warehouse.”
Shoot! “No one’s dead, Mom. How do the news crews have video? I don’t see any news crews.”
“There is no video. They’re just reporting it. Some guy in a neighboring warehouse called it in,” Mom said without missing a beat. “Two incidents in two days. Come home, Reilly. Come home now! That place is too dangerous—”
“I’m fine, Mom. And I can’t.” I paused, wondering how much to tell her. “It was Ket.”
“Ket! Ohmygod.”
“He tried to kidnap me—”
“How in the world did he get inside that building? I thought they put extra security on?”
“They did, Mom.” I hesitated. “I stepped outside and he pulled up in a car and grabbed me.”
“Outside…outside! What were you doing outside?”
“Having a smoke.”
“Reilly! Be serious.”
“Getting a breath of fresh air, Mom. That’s it.” I related the story to her, leaving out any mention of Goon and praying that the news never covered that part. It took me nearly fifteen minutes to calm her down. “I can’t come home, Mom. I’ll only be putting you, Dad, and Grandpa in danger. Arm the security system and tell Grandpa to keep his gun handy.”
A policeman was waiting for me.
“I have to go, Mom. The police want to talk to me.”
Chapter 23
The police took me to a conference room off War’s office. Several Seattle PD detectives were there, along with Van, who had an emergency ice pack on his black eye, which was rapidly swelling shut. I had one pressed to my goose egg, paramedic’s orders. We were two ice pack packing peas in a pod. Mine was giving me brain freeze, which wasn’t helping my already cloudy thinking, but I had to keep it on for twenty minutes or risk being sent to the hospital. Plus I was vain. A goose egg didn’t enhance my natural beauty any. Several people that Van introduced as his fellow FBI agents completed the fine-looking, but battered, ensemble. A uniform guarded the door.
We gathered around an oblong table.
I sat in a gray swiveling office chair opposite Van. “Did you check that uniform’s ID, Cyclops? Did you make good and sure this time that he isn’t our master-of-disguise Goon in yet another incarnation?”
I didn’t sound friendly. But I had a good excuse. M
ild concussions make a girl testy. That’s a medical fact, and one I’d used to my advantage on the numerous times I’d been hit in the head during a fastpitch game. Being banged around by two big guys and nearly kidnapped by my ex didn’t exactly elevate my mood any, either. Stir in being peeved at Van for being a cop and you have a major tempest in camo. Right now anger was the only thing preventing me from having a meltdown.
“You want to check him out? Feel free,” Van said, picking up on the accusatory tone in my voice. “You’re the one who’s seen him up close and personal.”
“Hey, black eyes aren’t a medical excuse for sarcasm, buddy.” As much as I wanted to glare at Van, I paled and started visibly shaking from a combination of shock, horror, ice pack, and an overactive air-conditioning vent overhead. Somewhere along the way I’d lost my jacket.
One of the agents swiveled out of his chair and returned with a space blanket from an emergency kit. As the agent tucked it around my shoulders, Van swore under his breath. He looked tired, and beat, and utterly frustrated.
“Sorry.” Van dabbed at his eye with the ice pack. “That was uncalled for.”
I shrugged and decided to cut him a miniscule amount of slack. We were both grumpy and on edge. And who wouldn’t be in our situation? His job performance and reputation were on the line, as was my life. I snuggled into my astronaut-like silver blanket, crinkling all the way, and softened my tone. “It’s all right. He was wearing an invisibility cloak in the form of a guard’s uniform. No one really looks at security guards. They’re always the first ones biffed.”
Van gave me a weak smile out of half his mouth. The other side of his face was obviously in pain.
“What happened to the real security guard?” I asked, feeling a sudden cold shudder despite my warm blanket, as though someone had walked over the security guy’s grave, which was probably either a back alley Dumpster or a shallow ditch near the Duwamish.
“We’re looking into that now,” one of the agents said in that official tone of voice that means we ain’t giving nothing away and leaves the listener fearing the worst.
Spy Games Page 19
