Situation: Out of Control/Full Exposure

by Debra Webb

  Angel had agreed to get the information and he'd left. She'd known what she had to do. In those few months of reprieve she'd learned a few things…had wondered at what perhaps she could have done to make all this turn out differently. Armed with that knowledge, she had made a decision. She would not let this bastard use her again. She would tell her aunt everything. But first she had to hide her child.

  It had taken her four days to make contact with the right people. An underground community of sorts for abused women and children. These people would protect her child until the danger had passed. They had begged her to go into hiding, as well, but she re fused. She had to do the right thing this time, had to make this right as best she could.

  Once Mia was safely tucked away by people who had the resources to move her from household to household if need be, she had called her aunt. Night before last Angel had gone to her aunt and told her everything. They had cried together and then they'd decided upon the best way to handle the situation. Angel let her aunt make the final decision. They would see Lucas Camp together. He could take care of the man threatening Angel, her aunt insisted.

  But that man had shown up just then. He and one of his henchmen. They'd taken Mildred and her to an empty warehouse. They wanted only one thing, the name. Angel hadn't known…but Mildred had. When the man threatened to kill Angel, Mildred had surrendered and given the name.

  Cole Danes.

  They'd let Angel go with the warning that if the information proved wrong or if she went to the authorities Mildred would die.

  Angel hadn't seen her aunt since.

  This morning she had learned why. She had just over forty hours before the woman who'd been more like a second mother than an aunt would be killed if Angel didn't come through.

  …you're pathetic.

  The bastard who'd visited her today was right. She was pathetic. Her aunt's life was on the line and she sat there sobbing like a child.

  Angel's fingers balled into fists.

  She had to be stronger than this.

  Her aunt's life depended upon her.

  She thought about her options and in a moment of utter clarity, Angel knew just what she had to do.

  Suburban Sportsman, Melrose Park, 2:30 p.m.

  ANGEL TIGHTENED HER FINGERS around her purse strap and mustered the courage to approach the clerk behind the counter. She'd surveyed the entire up scale sporting-goods store and selected the youngest male clerk on duty.

  "Good afternoon." He smiled widely, his gaze instantly doing a head-to-toe sweep as she approached. "May I help you?"

  She prayed the nonbusiness interest she saw in his eyes would help her. Angel produced what she hoped would prove a flirtatious smile. "I hope so." She glanced around quickly to make sure no other customers were nearby. "I need to purchase a handgun."

  He looked surprised but swiftly recovered. "O…kay. Follow me."

  Angel guessed this guy to be no more than twenty-one or two. Cute. Innocent—something she would never again be.

  The clerk paused at a display case. "What size weapon were you thinking about?" he asked, his smile not quite so wide now.

  Angel scanned the array of offerings behind the glass. Confusion frayed her already frazzled nerves. She didn't know where to begin. Had never so much as touched a gun.

  "Something small?" he suggested in a helpful tone.

  She nodded. "Yes."

  "Very good."

  He started behind the counter but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. "What do I have to do to purchase one?"

  She'd startled him again. Angel released his arm and tried to look calm and apologetic regarding her behavior. It wasn't working. She could see the uneasiness in his eyes now. "I'm just a little nervous," she offered.

  "Ma'am," he said quietly, his gaze darting around to see if anyone had wandered near, "there's a three-day waiting period. Even if you buy one, you can't take it with you today."

  The words sent terror slamming against her rib cage. "But I have to have one today." She poured every ounce of desperation she felt into her expression. Prayed he would see…that he would somehow help her. "Please, if you can help me…"

  He looked away a moment, spoke under his breath as if he feared being overheard. "Go to Lake Street on the West Side. Try Tito's Pawnshop."

  "I can get one today there?" Hope swelled, pushing away some of the paralyzing fear.

  He cast a look side to side again. "Maybe." His gaze settled back on her desperate one. "Probably."

  "Thank you." Her voice wavered and tears brimmed. She battled the emotions back down. "Thank you."

  He touched her arm when she would have walked away. "Listen, lady." His hesitation sent a new trickle of dread snaking through her veins. "I don't know what kind of trouble you're in, but don't go to Lake Street after dark. Go right now. Get your business done and get out of there. Okay?"

  She nodded stiffly and turned away.

  "Good luck."

  She didn't look back. She had to do this. It was the only way.

  Lake Street, Chicago's West Side, 2:30 p.m.

  FORTY-THREE HOURS.

  She had to hurry.

  Angel parked at the curb between two SUVs.

  No wonder the clerk had warned her about coming here. Though she'd lived in the Chicago area her whole life she couldn't recall ever having been to this particular street.

  Young guys huddled in groups called out their wares to slowly passing motorists. Rocks, blows, weed!

  Drugs. They were selling drugs right on the street in the middle of the afternoon.

  Of course she had known things like this happened in all urban areas, but knowing it and seeing it were two different things. Her protected, suburban life hadn't adequately prepared her for this reality. She'd watched scenes on the news channel, but there'd always been police involved handling the situation. There was no sign of policemen here.

  Teens, high-school or college types, cruising slowly down the street in their expensive, late-model sedans and SUVs appeared to be the customers the hawkers called to. Other throngs of what looked like older men huddled on the sidewalk tossing dice. Angel saw a couple of women sitting on their stoops, their preschoolers at their feet, watching the rawest form of capitalism play out.

  Angel shook off the troubling thoughts and focused on her mission. She had to purchase a weapon. She refused to be vulnerable, refused to let these evil bastards rule her life a moment longer. She should have done this long ago. Giving herself grace, she hadn't known then how to protect her daughter. Now she did.

  Tito's Pawnshop wasn't very large. A glass door and display window, both clad with iron bars, fronted the store. A beggar sat on the sidewalk beneath the window, a used foam cup in his extended hand.

  Angel braced herself and entered the shop. Four men loitered inside, two sitting, two leaning on the counter. All four illustrated the term unsavory to its fullest meaning. She moistened her fiercely dry lips and held on tightly to her purse strap as she forged her way toward the counter at the back of the shop. Display case after display case flanked both sides of the narrow aisle. Shelves stocked with pawned merchandise lined the walls behind the display cases. The place smelled like old shoes and sweaty flesh…or maybe it was the men now eyeing her so closely.

  The two men leaning on the counter stepped aside as she approached. Each sized her up and snickered but she didn't make eye contact, kept her attention focused on the man behind the counter.

  "You lost, lady?" the shopkeeper asked.

  "I need to buy a weapon."

  The room burst into laughter.

  Angel swallowed hard and fought to keep a grip on her thin composure. "I have money." She pulled the wad of twenties out of her purse. She had with drawn one thousand dollars from her savings ac count. Surely that would be enough.

  Silence abruptly replaced the laughter.

  The guy behind the counter looked a little nervous now. "Put your money away, lady." He held up a hand as if trying to avert
disaster.

  Angel sucked in a shuddering breath and did as he told her. "I…I just need to buy a gun."

  Any sign of uneasiness the man had shown morphed instantly into fury. "I don't know what you're doing in this neighborhood, honey, but take my advice and go home." He leaned intimidatingly nearer. "You don't belong here and you damn sure don't want to be caught on this street after dark." He looked at her purse then back at her face. "Now get out of here. Go buy your firearms on the North Side like the rest of your friends."

  Every instinct screamed at her to run like hell, but desperation kept her rooted to the spot.

  "Come on, baby," one of the guys on her side of the counter said, moving in close. "Let me walk you to your car."

  Angel recoiled. "Stay away from me," she ordered, but the quiver in her voice left the threat hollow.

  Another round of laughter broke out.

  Anger sizzled inside her, burning away the last of her fear. She glared at the man behind the counter. "I said I needed to buy a gun. I was told you could help me. Now, are you here to do business or what?"

  He bracketed his waist with his hands. "Just what the hell are you gonna do with a gun?"

  Angel flinched. "I…I need protection."

  "Honey, you should of thought of that before you came in here," the guy on her left said as he surveyed her backside.

  She pushed as close to the counter as possible and let the shopkeeper see the desperation in her eyes. "Please. I need a gun."

  Something in his eyes changed, she couldn't say what, maybe the single shred of decency he possessed made an unexpected appearance. He held up a hand for the others to quiet. Angel's heart beat so hard she felt certain everyone in the shop could hear it.

  He jerked his head toward the end of the counter. "This way."

  Her pulse tripping, Angel followed the man into a dark room behind the counter. The voice of reason screamed again, warning her to run, but she ignored it.

  He flipped a switch and the blink of fluorescent lighting filled the graveyard-quiet, warehouse-grim space. Boxes in a variety of sizes and stages of deterioration lined the walls. A grimy, cluttered desk held center stage.

  The man propped on the edge of the desk and looked at her long and hard before he spoke. "What kind of trouble you in, lady?"

  "I can't tell you that," she answered sharply. "Just sell me a gun."

  He smirked. "All right. What you looking for?"

  She hadn't actually considered what kind of gun. She shrugged. "Something small." Her hand moved down to her shoulder bag. "Something I can carry in my purse."

  He shook his head slowly from side to side. "Have you ever even fired a weapon?"

  "That's none of your business," she snapped. "Stop wasting my time." The vulnerability in that last statement made her cringe.

  He threw his hands up. "Whatever." He retrieved a box and set it on the desk. Inside packing materials surrounded the contents. He dug out a smaller box and opened it.

  "This—" he exhibited a small black gun "—is a Smith & Wesson 9mm. It's small, less than seven inches in length, and only weighs about a pound and a half. Very light." He depressed something on the weapon and a cartridge slipped out of the handle. "Eight plus one rounds." He pulled back a mechanism on the top. "That action puts one in the chamber." He flipped a small lever. "That's the safety. Turn it off and you're ready to fire." He offered the weapon to her.

  It felt heavy in her hands but not as heavy as she'd expected. The cold of the black metal penetrated her skin.

  "Hold it like this." He showed her how to grip the weapon. "Feet wide apart for balance. Look down the barrel here."

  She did as he instructed.

  "Then squeeze the trigger and that's it."

  She looked at him and hoped it would be that simple.

  He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Look, if you've never fired a weapon before take some advice."

  Angel nodded expectantly.

  "Wait till he's close. The closer your target the less likely you'll miss. Aim for the chest."

  She licked her lips and tried to swallow back the bile in her throat. "If I hit him in the chest, that's enough right?"

  He lifted one shoulder in an indifferent shrug. "Maybe, depends on if you hit anything important."

  Okay, she knew that. She was a nurse for God's sake. "So, technically I could hit him in the chest and miss anything vital and he could still hurt me."

  "Technically," he said in a mocking tone, "that's right. So shoot him more than once. Twice at least. If he keeps moving, shoot him until he stops."

  The images his words evoked made her tremble. How could she possibly do this? Her aunt's face loomed large in her mind. Because she had no other choice. She nodded. "Got it. Shoot until he stops moving."

  He put the weapon back on safety and retrieved two more cartridges from the box and offered them to her. "When you empty a clip, shove in another one and keep firing if you need to."

  "Okay." She chewed her lower lip a second, giving a wave of nausea time to pass, then asked, "How much do I owe you?"

  He cocked his head and looked at her with the kind of belligerence she would expect from a man like him. "How much you got?"

  "One thousand." Her palms started to sweat as reason tried once more to intrude.

  His gaze drifted down her body. She shuddered. Even with a conservative sweater, jeans and a suede coat she felt naked somehow. When his attention settled back on her face she didn't miss the sexual hunger there. She held her ground, didn't run—had to do this. Whatever it took.

  "Eight hundred," he said flatly, sexual interest clearing from his eyes with one downward swoop of his dark lashes.

  She counted out the twenties onto the desk and shoved the goods she'd purchased into her purse. "Thank you."

  He moved in close…so close she could smell the spicy scent of the Mexican food he'd had for lunch. "Just remember," he said, his tone menacing, "if you kill someone with that weapon you didn't get it from me. Got that?"

  She nodded jerkily. "You don't have to worry, sir," she assured him, a kind of defeat she'd rather not have exposed in her voice. "If I have to use this, I probably won't live to tell anyone anything."

  Confusion cluttered his features and then he laughed. He swore softly. "I can't believe I'm saying this…" He looked directly into her eyes. "Lady, why don't you go to the cops for help?"

  "Because they can't help me." It seemed incredible. The system she'd believed in her entire life couldn't help her. For that one instant she suddenly knew how people on this side of the tracks felt—to tally alone…desperate to survive. She swallowed back a rush of emotion. "No one can help me."

  And then she did the only thing she could.

  She drove back to her small cottage in the safe, cozy suburb of Winnetka where nothing bad was ever supposed to happen and waited.

  There was nothing else she could do until she received further instructions.

  Or until Cole Danes showed up.

  The man holding her aunt hostage had assured her that Cole Danes would find her, but every minute that passed made her more uncertain of that possibility.

  Except there was no alternative.

  She had no option but to wait.

  A framed photograph of her and her daughter together tugged at her heart. She reached for it, held it close to her chest. At least her baby was safe. She had done that right if nothing else.

  High-pitched, melodious notes abruptly shattered the silence, sending her pulse into another erratic rhythm.

  It took a few moments for her to catch her breath and to allow her heart to slide back down into her chest and start beating normally again.

  Her cell phone!

  She laid the picture and her gun down then snatched up her purse. The zipper hung and she tugged frantically as another ring chimed. Where the hell was it? Finally her fingers wrapped around the cool metal.

  "Hello." The two syllables were more a rush of shaky breath t
han a word.

  "When Danes arrives you follow his lead."

  It was him. The man holding her aunt.

  "What?" She clutched the phone harder. "He's coming now? How do you know? How is my aunt? Let me speak to her."

  "No questions. Just follow my instructions. When he arrives, do exactly as he says. We've set a trap for him."

  She nodded then realized he couldn't see her. "All right."

  "Don't make any mistakes, Angel," he warned. "Time is running out. Don't think we'll stop with your aunt. You may believe you've hidden your daughter from us, but, trust me, we can find her if we need to."

  The connection went dead.

  Angel's hand fell to her lap, her fingers automatically depressing the end button and then the two others necessary to lock the keypad. Her gaze drifted down to the photograph on the sofa cushion next to her.

  For the first time since this nightmare began she realized the full ramifications of her situation. It didn't matter what she did at this point, she was dead. She and her aunt. Tears welled in her eyes. They were both dead.

  The only thing she could hope for was that if they got Danes they wouldn't bother her child. If they had what they wanted and she was dead—of no further use to them—why would they need to harm her child? They wouldn't. Her three-year-old was far too young to remember what the men who'd held her looked like. She was no threat to anyone.

  Her baby would be safe then. The people harboring Mia would see to it that she was well cared for if Angel never returned. Her baby would be safe.

  She had to do this right.

  No mistakes.

  She thought of Cole Danes. A man she'd never met. Who might even have a family of his own. But she couldn't think about that.

  There was no room for sentiment or sympathy.

  She had to turn off her feelings…deny the single most significant emotion that had led her into the field of nursing.

  There could be no compassion in this equation.

  She would feel nothing—except determination to do the unthinkable…to lead Cole Danes to his execution.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The residence of Angel Parker,

  Winnetka, 6:28 p.m.

  Cole watched the house for some time from his rental car and the cover of the dark winter evening. Half way up the block a street lamp struggled to illuminate the night but failed miserably. No one stirred. The evening rush hour had passed. Dinner and television would be on the agenda for most of the residents of this quiet neighborhood.