Eric howled just as Jim punched Avery’s jaw, sending her crashing backward onto the counter. Cups, plates, food were pushed to the floor, as she gained a front row seat to Vincent’s fight with the greasy-haired robber. In three moves, Vincent broke the man’s elbow, knee, and then jaw.
Jim grabbed her hair and dragged her across the counter, clearing the surface, and sending everything to the floor. Scalp burning with pain, she whipped her fingers at his eyes, and connected with a slimy orb, buying her time to chamber a white “nurse” shoe, and kick his groin. The fight should have ended there. It usually ended there. But drugged up, Jim was still in it for the win. He rushed her. Avery hook punched his temple, stopping him cold. He dropped to the floor at her feet.
Avery backed up against the wall, out of breath, her heart beating a painful mile a minute. A gunshot had her ducking, and when she peeked over the counter again, she saw Eric writhing on the ground, bleeding from the shoulder. Vincent caught her eye, his concern evident. Well, Avery was concerned, too. Jim still thrashed on the floor, clutching his watering eyes.
Vincent ran to her, peering over the counter at Jim on the floor. “Damn. You okay?”
“Do I look okay?” She couldn’t catch her breath. All the robbers seemed incapacitated or unconscious.
“You scared me.” He studied her face. “You sure you’re okay?” She nodded quickly, but wasn’t sure. “You scared me, dammit!”
“You already said that.” She swallowed hard, flinched with pain, and did her best to slow her breathing.
Vincent barked out a laugh, eyes wild, smiling. “We’re alive. Did not see that happening!”
He laughed again and cupped the back of her neck, pulling her in for a hearty kiss. His lips were warm and tasted of coffee. It was nice and confusing. When he released her, she couldn’t help but want another one, and fade into the pleasure of not thinking. Then she saw Eric over Vincent’s shoulder. The killer was clawing his way to the store’s entrance. Vincent saw him, too.
“Dammit!” He released Avery and chased after him.
It was over. It was over. So why did she still feel the terror?
The customers were reviving, and their shock had found a voice. Shouts, phone calls. Avery flinched as no less than five iPhones aimed at her and flashed. Jim groaned at her feet, clearly reviving. She stomp-kicked his head without a second thought, assured herself he’d lost consciousness again, and then leaned against the wall. Her numbness was wearing off, and reaction was setting in. She wanted to faint, but there was no time.
Nate took off his belt, offering it to Vincent to help tie the robbers. Vincent glanced back at her, as if assessing her state of mind. She did her best to hide her emotions, but her panic was growing. People kept taking pictures, evidence that would end up in court. Prosecutors. Newspapers. Social media. Vincent was a Fed. All ingredients for disaster. Avery could be held for questioning, when she needed to run with her sister.
When Vincent turned back to Eric again, Avery grabbed her purse from under the counter and slipped into the kitchen…and immediately saw Sam. He’d been shot dead and now lay in a pool of blood by the phone, its receiver hanging—swinging—over his body. Married, three kids. It wasn’t fair.
Avery hurried past, forcing herself not to think, but to escape out the door to the alley beyond. She would not cry. She would not cry.
Chapter 3
Vincent was still riding an adrenaline high as he muscled Eric and his brown-haired psycho-playmate to a table. The restaurant looked as if a bomb had gone off, and it gave him pause. Benton wasn’t going to be happy. Vincent was supposed to chat with Avery Coppola, not tear the place up. Chairs were on their sides, tables knocked over. Everyone was sporting masks of horror. He kind of felt bad for them, remembering what it was like back in the day, when death and dying had the ability to shock him. After four years in Afghanistan and ten at the bureau, he’d come to process violence differently. Nuisance nightmares, insomnia, and a continually renewed appreciation for life. All life, whether it be innocents, or monsters like Eric and his crew.
He soon had Eric and the brown-haired guy trussed up tight with the borrowed belts, and as he stepped back to peruse his handiwork, he promptly slipped on blood. Either Charlie’s or Eric’s, but he found his equilibrium quick enough so as not to take a spill, but not before irritating his bum shoulder. He rolled it, and then cracked his neck, trying to work out the kinks.
He glanced at the diner’s counter. “Damn.” Where was Avery Coppola?
He’d had one job; keep her at the restaurant. If Coppola’s men were trolling the neighborhood and caught up with her, there was a good chance she’d soon be dead like Charlie here. He glanced at the body, and the bloody mess on the floor and wall. Epic fail. Deming wasn’t gonna let him live this down.
Then he remembered the cook, and thought maybe Avery had gone to tend to him. Dead or alive, though, odds were she’d be calling out for help, maybe even screaming, but he wasn’t hearing anything like that from the kitchen, so Vincent jumped over the counter and landed next to Jim’s unconscious body. After tying him up with twine he found in a nook and cranny by the register, Vincent took a moment to notice Jim’s injuries. Broken nose. Clearly a fractured skull, because mother nature didn’t do that to a head on purpose, and he was covered in defensive knife wounds. Vincent lost count quickly, but the slices were shallow, non-life threatening, and covered Jim from face to calves, as if the druggie’s every blow or kick had been tapped off by a slice.
Shit. When the hell did this happen? Jim looked as if he’d had an epic battle with a multiarmed warrior, and Vincent didn’t remember Avery having a knife fight with anyone, least of all Jim. She’d disarmed the guy, yeah, but…then again, he’d been busy taking out Eric and the other dude. Still. Something was off here.
When his knots were secure, Vincent hurried through the swinging door leading into the kitchen and pulled his iPhone from his pocket. He dialed Benton. The line connected. “You won’t believe who just foiled a robbery and subdued a murderer.”
“What are you talking about? We’re almost done here,” Benton said.
“Avery Toner Coppola, with some help from little ole me.” Vincent stopped walking when he stood center kitchen, and glanced left and right. The grill area was empty. He pulled his gun, moving farther into the kitchen, looking for surprises. “Finish up at the apartment, because our girl is in the wind, and probably heading your way.” He turned a corner and found the cook, did a three-sixty scan and saw he was still alone, then allowed his gun to hang at his side. “Diner’s cook is dead. Do me a favor? Call an ambulance and local law enforcement. It’s a circus here.”
Benton swore so long he started repeating himself. “Find her.”
“Can’t.” Vincent crouched next to the cook, noting the GSW to the head. “I can’t leave the scene until the Sheriff arrives. Presently, I’ve got three perps tied up and waiting to be processed. Once the cops arrive, I’ll give them an excuse so I can slip away.” Benton hung up mid-expletive. “Then I’ll track her down,” he finished his thought aloud, though no one heard it but him. He peered out the back door and found it led to an alleyway. No Avery in sight.
So, she’d run. He wasn’t surprised, nor did he blame her. She was a woman with something to hide.
And he’d kissed her. What the hell was wrong with him?
* * * *
When the fetid vapors from the back alley hit Avery, she was in shock, and autopilot took over. Images of Sam with a bullet hole in his head tormented her. And Jim. If ever a man deserved to die, Jim did. Yet, when she’d brought her foot down for that last strike, she’d aimed for Jim’s head, not his neck. Sam deserved to be avenged. He did. But Avery couldn’t do it. Experience taught her though vengeance was sweet, it ate your soul. Nothing could bring Sam back. Not even killing Jim.
She scrubbed unwelcome tears from her cheeks an
d told herself to stop crying. When that didn’t work, she clenched her hands until her six rings cut painfully into her bruised and swollen skin. She’d been right to wear them all these years, instead of hiding them out of sight. They’d helped in the fight, helped her survive—gifts that kept on giving—but surviving had put her in a spotlight. Quiet waitress, winning a fight with a knife-wielding druggie? That was the headline, and it would go viral. People were looking for her, and this incident would help them find her. Find Millie.
She slipped her iPhone from her uniform’s pocket, and saw it was eleven in the morning. She dialed her little sister. When the line connected, Avery told herself to keep her voice calm.
“Millie, grab the go-bag. Meet me at the bus station, just like we practiced, yeah?”
No arguments, no hysterics, Millie whispered “right” and then hung up. The station was three blocks from their crappy apartment, and she was there within minutes. Millie was already waiting, giving no indication of upset. No tears fell from her green eyes, because a crying child would attract attention. She was ten, sporting a long, blond ponytail hanging down her back, and she held a go-bag filled with thirty thousand dollars, one toothbrush, a package of wipes, a bottle of water, Tylenol, and a few granola bars. Millie had to leave by herself, because if the contract killers came here looking for them, they’d track a pair. Two sisters.
Avery stepped past Millie without comment and entered the convenience store to buy a ticket for the Greyhound bus idling at the curb. Neither she nor Millie asked where it was going. They knew it didn’t matter. What mattered was Millie left this place. Avery handed her the ticket.
“Get off at the first station, and ask for a transfer ticket to Boston’s South Station. Use money from the bag only when necessary, but be careful no one sees what you have. You’re vulnerable, Millie. They’ll try to use that against you.” Millie nodded, looking at the blood on Avery’s uniform. That look—stark terror—had Avery second-guessing herself. Maybe she should risk leaving together, but… Avery couldn’t travel looking like this, and Millie had to leave now. It wasn’t safe here.
Millie touched her hand, drawing her thumb over Avery’s rings. “Maybe you could find a way to make him leave us alone.”
Him. Her ex-husband. “The damage is done. Dante has set something in motion, and now he can’t stop it even if he wanted to.” And she suspected Dante didn’t want to. The man was twisted, brutal, and without conscience. He wanted what he wanted, and Avery was a threat to his power. He wouldn’t stop trying to kill Avery until she was under his control or dead. They had to hide, or kill him, and Avery wasn’t a murderer. She wasn’t. So, that meant running.
She glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone was paying attention to them. Jeremy, the college-kid clerk, was oblivious. She handed Millie her ticket and nudged her sister toward the exit. “Remember. Boston’s South Station. My contact, Jason Chadwick, will find you. Remember that name. Give him the bag. Only him, okay? I’ll meet up with you when it’s safe, as soon as possible.”
Millie nodded. “Yes.”
Then Millie stepped on the bus, not looking back. The moment felt final, as if Avery would never see her sister again, and that scared her to death, because this was her fault. Eight years ago, something horrific happened. They’d been helpless, and everything dear and necessary to them was taken in the space of a moment. They couldn’t recover, only react. Avery chose vengeance and was still paying the price. Millie, too. She was paying, too.
Trembling, drying blood made her arms and face itch, as Avery dialed her contact’s number. He was her backup plan, that she’d hoped never to use. When the line connected, she didn’t wait for Jason to say hello. “Millie will be at Boston’s South Station Greyhound terminal in four hours.”
“I’ll be there.” She believed him, because he knew Millie had the money, and he knew Avery would hunt him down otherwise. She hung up without comment, watching Millie’s bus pull away from the curb.
Time to make Patty Whitman disappear.
* * * *
Vincent found Avery by following the trail of people gossiping along Main Street. Apparently, a waitress covered in blood wasn’t a common sight hereabouts…and people noticed. Go figure.
“Patty?” It felt weird to use that name, but she’d never corrected him, so Patty it was. He held the storefront’s door open, more relieved than anything else to find her inside. She was alive, safe. He’d take that as a win.
She had her back to him, buying a bus ticket from the clerk. Vincent saw the blood stains that started at her neck, and ran down her uniform to her legs, covering the white shoes with spatter. After seeing what she’d done to Jim with his knife, Vincent supposed most of the blood wasn’t hers, but it was a small consolation. He felt pangs. Many pangs of guilt that she’d had to fight Jim alone, and that she’d been injured because of it. He told himself there’d been too many guns, too many potential targets to control the situation completely, but there was a niggling of fear that he could have done better by her. Should have. He’d had one mission in that diner, and that was to keep an eye on her. Sure, things went to hell, but Avery had survived that diner disaster without his help. He’d carry that guilt for life.
“Patty.” She was ignoring him, acting as if she weren’t covered in blood. He suspected she was in shock. He’d seen enough of it to recognize the symptoms. The clerk caught Vincent’s gaze, and then widened his eyes, not hiding his unease that his customer was bloody and seemingly oblivious to the fact. Even the clerk knew her behavior was odd. Why didn’t Avery? Definitely in shock.
She took the ticket and stuffed it into her purse. “Thank you, Jeremy.”
From the looks of Jeremy, he was all of seventeen. Vincent flashed Jeremy his credentials so he wouldn’t have to explain. Avery turned and saw them, and he saw her eyes. They weren’t dilated, so she wasn’t in shock, and his FBI credentials didn’t even warrant a twitch of fear. That meant she wasn’t running from him, and either had nerves of steel or was suffering from amnesia. She had to suspect he was here because of her ex-husband, right? Then he remembered the knife pinning Eric’s hand to the shotgun, and Jim, the junkie, bloody on the floor. So…nerves of steel. Good to know. She was trained and unflappable. Dangerous.
“What are you doing?” He made sure to keep his expression puzzled and worried. The moment their interaction became about controlling her, he had a feeling he’d lose even the small amount of goodwill he’d managed to build between them.
Avery walked passed him. “Who’s asking?”
“Huh?” It wasn’t as if he could pretend he was anything but the FBI Special Agent she’d seen in action at the diner, but he could pretend that his status didn’t matter. After all, Feds went on fishing trips, too. “I was worried about you.” He kept pace with her as they walked down the sidewalk.
“How did you find me?” she said.
“I could say when local law enforcement arrived on scene, I explained the prime witness disappeared, so I went in hot pursuit.”
“But that’s not the real reason?” She seemed to be weighing his words.
“Like I said—” He gave her his version of puppy dog eyes. “I was worried about you.”
That seemed to mollify her, but she didn’t slow her gait. “You still didn’t tell me how you found me.”
She was interrogating him. And wasn’t that just a fine how do you do, he thought.
“A blood-covered waitress meandering through town? You’ve started rumors of a zombie apocalypse.” She kept walking, eyes front. “Stop and talk to me, will you?” She was strung so tightly he feared forcing the issue lest she see it as an attack, and she’d been hurt enough. He didn’t want to upset her more. “I’m worried about you, Patty.” Yeah, he needed to keep her under his thumb, but he wanted her injuries checked out by a doctor, too.
Her expression softened, making him think he was maki
ng headway with her. “Thank you,” she said. “That’s sweet. I’m sorry I worried you.”
“But?” He could tell she was exerting herself with her pace, because her cheeks were flushed, and the pulse at her neck was visible and racing.
“But—” She threw him an impatient glance. “I’m sore, I’m upset, I want a shower, to…to… Listen, I want to go home.” Vincent couldn’t allow that. Not until Benton texted him the surveillance cameras were up. He needed a delay tactic.
“First you have to be checked out by a doctor. You could have internal injuries or something.” When he caught her glance of distain, he threw his hands up in the air. “What? I’m not a doctor.”
“No, you’re a Fed.”
“So, you don’t like Feds?”
She pursed her lips. “I like Feds that tell me they are Feds before they try to get in my pants.”
“If I’d told you, you never would have given me a second look. Despite what you might think, working for the FBI does not make me a chick magnet. They always think of their unpaid parking tickets when I want them to be thinking of me.” Her cheek kicked up with a smile, but she didn’t slow down. “Now you might be saying to yourself, but the FBI has nothing to do with parking tickets.”
She glanced at him. “Is your punch line that you date only stupid women or women who illegally park?”
He chuckled. “I’m a gentleman. I’d never say such a thing.”
“Listen, it’s been fun, but, I got to go.” She scanned the street and sidewalk, and walked faster, clenching and unclenching her fists, drawing her thumbs across her rings, as if they irritated. Maybe they’d swelled so much, her rings were cutting off circulation. Her right hand had it the worst; split knuckles, red and purple bruising.
“Patty, let’s have the EMTs look at your hand, at least. Okay? It looks really messed up.” He lifted it so he could get a better look. She winced, and pulled her hand from his grasp, then hid both hands in the pockets of her uniform’s apron.
Caught by You Page 3