He might have said more, but the alarm died in midsentence, making his voice carry in the cavernous bay, startling him quiet.
Jess asked, "What about my mother?"
"We'll stay here with her." Mordstrom said. "You go with Mitch back to the estate."
Her immediate reaction was to say no, she wouldn't leave her mother's side, that she'd stick it out and make sure nothing bad happened while her mother was so vulnerable, but she swallowed back the impulse. Her mother was in a coma, there was nothing Jess could do for her.
Still, she didn't want to abandon the woman, afraid there was a part of her that wanted to let Beth know exactly what that felt like. Jess couldn't do that, knowing how it felt and not wishing it on her worst enemy. Her mother was far from her worst enemy. The true enemy lay beyond those bay doors.
The limo nosed it's way down the incline to the underground delivery bay. Mitch opened the back door and jumped out. He waved to Jess without looking at her, he was too busy scanning the area beyond the drive. "C'mon, let's go."
Her hands were clamped hard over the metal bar. She flexed her sore knuckles and nodded, prepared to dash through the daylight to the shadowy interior of the limo.
"Go, now. The bomb squad is already here." Davis urged her forward with a shooing gesture. When she didn't move, his gaze turned sympathetic. "We won't let anything happen to Beth."
Mitch, unable to hear from his distance, called to her again, "Jess! We gotta go, now."
She cast one last look at her mother's slack expression, wondering if this was the only memory she'd have that was fully real. Pain cramped in her gut. With as much bravery as she could muster, she crouched low and dashed for the limo. Mordstrom unexpectedly appeared beside her, shielding her from anyone on the road beyond the bay doors.
Mitch took over and placed a hand on the back of her head to keep her crouched. She scrambled into the limo, sliding over to the far side. He came in after her, slamming the door. "Get us out of here, Mike."
"Will do, sir." Mike reversed the limo up the incline, then slowly parted the sea of people in front of the hospital. He accelerated only after the worst of the crowd was behind them.
Jess twisted in her seat, awed by the number of doctors, nurses, patients, and suits lining the sidewalks. A young man clutched a walker, braces on both of his legs, an older woman sat in a wheelchair, her head swiveling as she followed each person who dashed past her.
Mitch growled and shoved his gun back in it's holster. "Bombing a hospital? I want this son-of-a-bitch caught."
Jess glanced in the rearview mirror, bracing herself for the explosion, for a pillar of flames, but instead, saw another car pull away from the hospital. A navy blue four door with tinted windows. She twisted again to look out the back window.
Could be a doctor or a visitor leaving.
"Jesus, what a frickin' mess." Mitch's leg bounced up and down in agitation.
She faced forward, checking the mirror every few seconds. Was it her imagination? Was the car creeping up on her? Did those dark tinted windows mean someone inside didn't want to be recognized?
Did the driver want her dead? Don't be stupid.
What if it was true? Good, then my mother is safe.
Maybe the killer was already targeting the back of her head through the rear window. She slid lower, her heart suddenly pounding a punishing rhythm.
It's just a panic attack.
Just a panic attack.
Could they see through the limo's own darkened glass?
Did they have some contraption that could read body heat? "Jess?" Mitch asked, leaning over her. "Jess, honey, just
breathe. Take a deep breath."
She waved him back. "The car, behind us."
He glanced over his shoulder. "It's just a car Jess, you're
safe in here. Just calm down. Take a deep breath."
Jess tried and found herself gulping air, her heart
continued it's crazy drumbeat.
Mitch pushed her forward, putting her head between her
knees. "Breathe, Jess, don't you pass out on me."
He smoothed the hair at her temple, his other hand
rubbing the space between her shoulders. Her heart slowed and
it became easier to breathe again. Finally she lifted her head
and exhaled. Embarrassed, she said, "Thanks. And don't call
me honey."
He grinned. "All right, Dumplin'."
She snorted and sat back. "Dumplin'? I think you're
scraping the bottom of the barrel."
They rode for a moment in silence. His thigh was so close
to hers, his hand rested on the seat beside her. She was aware
of every pore on his finger, the zing of need in her own.
Holding his hand was a no-no. She breathed deep, turned
toward her window, trying to ignore his unique scent. Mitch looked out the back window again and Jess glanced
back too. The car was still there. "Are you sure they aren't
following us?"
The driver said, "I can find out, if you want."
Mitch nodded. "Yeah, do that." He smiled weakly. "It's
probably nothing."
"Yeah, nothing." She whispered, her gaze shifting back to
the car.
Jess gripped the edge of the seat as Mike accelerated and
turned down a side street. The blue car followed. He made a
right and another right, circling back through the neighborhood
to return to the road to home.
The car followed.
"I think," the driver said, "They're tailing us Boss." Jess tried to prepare herself for the worst, but there was no
preparing for the impact of the blue car crashing into the back
bumper. She was thrown into the seat across from her. Mitch swore and pulled his pistol, bracing himself with his
feet. "Stay down."
The skylight in the roof drew back, filling the inside of the
limo with a howling, blowing wind that made Jess want to
cover her ears.
"Mike," Mitch hollered. "Radio for help!"
The driver switched lanes, but couldn't move fast enough.
Again, the blue car smashed into the bumper and Mitch was
thrown back against the inside of the window frame. Mike shouted, "Miss Owen, I gotta drive. Get the radio." She scrambled, reached into the front and grabbed the
radio off the seat where he'd apparently dropped it. She
depressed the red send button uncertainly. "Agent Davis?
Agent Mordstrom?"
Nothing but static.
Mitch shouted as Mike took a turn too fast, then fired as
the limo straightened out. The hollow pop-pop-pop of the gun
firing outside the car sounded too dim, too frail to do any
damage. She rose up enough to see over the back of the seat. The windshield on the navy car was spiderwebbed with cracks. An arm reached through the driver's side window to fire back at Mitch, but before he could, Mike switched lanes
again.
Jess heard another stream of bullets fired from Mitch's gun
and then the unmistakable squeal of a tire blowing, followed by
the clack-clack of a rim running over concrete.
She tried the radio again. "Agent Davis? Answer me!
Someone please answer me. Agent Mordstrom?"
A faint sound, then Davis loud and clear. "We're reading
you, Jess, what's going on?"
She instinctively ducked as Mitch fired more rounds at the
car barely able to keep up with them now.
"They're trying to run us off the road!" Jess shouted over
the howling wind, growling engines, and gunfire.
"Where are you?" Davis asked.
She gaped at the radio. She had no clue. "Where are we?" The driver shouted and Jess relayed the information.
"Mike sa
ys were coming up on Bennington Heights." "We're on our way."
"Hurry!" She let the radio drop as the rear window
exploded inward.
The limo began to fishtail, sliding back and forth so
violently that Mitch ducked back inside before he could be
thrown out the opening entirely. Jess held onto the sissy bar in
the door and tried not to become a human stone in a rock
tumbler.
The scent of scorched rubber and black gunpowder took
her right back to the diner. The limo slid into a side skid so
violently it broke her grip. Hands over her head, curled
between the bench seats, she could only hope her skull didn't
connect with anything solid.
Mitch came down beside her, his arm wound around her
waist and dragged her back against his chest. Then the tires were spinning on the dirt shoulder. They bounced high and a startled cry escaped her as she and Mitch were airborne. They crashed down together, her head pillowed by the wide stretch of muscle across his upper arm. She felt sympathy for his elbow when she heard the loud crack of it connecting with the
floor board.
The limo came to a jarring halt. Silence.
Mitch whispered in her ear. "Don't move. Stay down." She nodded as he disentangled himself from her, pulling
his gun back out of its holster. He slapped in a new clip, his
shoulders bumping her as they lay between the seats. "Give me the Glock," she said. "Don't leave me in here
unarmed."
Mitch nodded and handed it to her, butt first. "Be careful,
but don't hesitate."
The weight felt glorious and horrendous at the same time.
She'd taken a man's life not so long ago, and she might take
another in the very near future. Her soul felt like a weighty
stain in the center of her chest.
"Mike?" Mitch spoke loud enough the driver should have
heard him. Mike didn't answer. "Mike? You okay?" Still no answer.
Jess, her finger on the trigger, her other hand gripping the
barrel across her chest, held onto the weapon like a float in a
tidal wave.
"I'll check him. Stay put." His dark, dark eyes burned
with controlled rage as he unlatched the door. Somewhere
outside, an engine quit. The driver of the blue car was out
there, waiting.
She grabbed his hand. "Wait."
"I heard it too. It'll be all right." No smile diluted the fire
in his eyes. "Don't worry."
She scowled. "Don't do anything to make me worry." "Yes, ma'am." He did smile then. "Be right back." He kicked the door wide. Immediately the gunman fired
and the window exploded. Mitch, already on his knees, shot
through the empty rear window casing. He ducked down and
using the door for cover, slid out.
If the killer came forward now, he'd catch Mitch in the
open. She twisted herself up and aimed through the back
window. Her eyes barely above the protection of the limo's
frame, she waited to keep the guy from getting out of his car,
alive or dead.
The navy door opened and she reflexively pulled the
trigger. The side mirror on the door flew up in the air, twirling
in the early afternoon sunshine–a chrome satellite. Her ears
rang from the boom of the Glock inside the limo. Her heart
beat in one long muscle spasm of fear.
Mitch disappeared. She listened, opening her mouth when
she realized the rapid exhalations through her nose masked too
many sounds. A groan of weight from the hood, small, but
distinguishable, told her Mitch had eased around the nose of
the limo and was coming up on her left. Another sound, far
worse, came from the direction of the killer–the sound of
stealthy steps moving to intercept.
She rolled backward, toward the left door, lowered her
head out of view from the shell of the back window. Sliding,
carefully, silently, too slowly, she inched closer and grabbed
the handle of the door. She didn't know what would happen
next, wasn't even sure if this was a real plan, or a sorry attempt
to stay alive, but she couldn't just sit there and wait to be
gunned down in a pile of glass and black carpeting.
The killer kicked the back end of the limo, causing it to
jostle suddenly. She bit off a startled cry and with her free
hand, wiped sweat from her eyes. She blinked again, caught a
dazzle of sunlight and twisted. There, blue sky, and the
shaking end of the muzzle of the pistol in her hand.
Oh Jesus, where's Mitch?
She'd lost track of him. To stay here, like easy pickings,
was lunacy. I'll have to be quick. Curling her legs beneath her
caused the limo to quake gently and she froze, waiting for it to
still. Hand on the door latch, eyes trying to look everywhere at
once, she yanked open the door and rolled out.
A gun fired. Dirt beside her head exploded, and she
screamed even as she turned to fire back. Sunlight blinded her
yet again and she could only see the black silhouette of the man
who wanted her dead, the shadow of the evil cretin that wanted
to spill her blood. She raised the gun and fired.
The vibration of the gun traveled up her arm, seemed to
throw a switch deep inside her that she didn't know was there.
Reason and sanity departed in the harsh glare of sudden rage.
She lurched forward onto her haunches, firing through the gap
between door frame and limo body. Her finger spasmed,
emptying the gun.
When nothing but dry, clicking sounds met her efforts, she
heard the harsh, strangled shout coming from her sore throat
and realized her eyes were closed. She opened them, expecting
to see the prone form of the killer in the grass, but instead, saw
nothing, no one. She'd been firing at empty air.
I stopped him from getting to me.
Gun clutched in her fingers, she climbed the doorframe,
one hand over the other, until she found her feet. A curse came
from beyond the trunk of the limo, the sound of flesh
connecting to flesh in a muffled wet sound that made her
stomach clench. Easing her way around the door, holding onto
the trunk to make sure her shaking legs didn't give out on her,
she saw the gunman and Mitch rolling on the grass.
The killer choked Mitch who, with arms bulging with
monstrous strength, forced the gunman over, and they rolled.
Again the killer came out on top.
Before she realized she'd moved, she was suddenly on the
killer's back, bashing his bastard skull with the pistol,
screaming curses and digging the nails of her free hand into his
face. He cried out and stood, carrying her with him like a kid's
piggyback ride.
Mitch, freed from the killer's grip, climbed to his feet. He
pulled back his arm, and delivered a blow that sent the killer's
head backward, smashing into Jess's chin hard enough to make
her reel.
Shocked, she couldn't brace herself. She fell back, head
hitting the soft ground with a thud that jarred her brain. The
gunman's head landed on her belly, forcing all the air out of her
lungs, leaving her gasping like a grounded fish.
Mitch leaned over her, his shoulders blocking
the sun
from her dazzled sight. Breathing hard, gasping between each
word, he asked, "Are you all right?"
She looked at him, uncertain how to answer that. Did he
mean was she alive? Then the answer was yes. If he meant
would she ever be the same after this? Then the answer was
no. Right now, she wanted her father, she wanted her Mustang,
she wanted to yell at Trash for washing his hands in the parlor
and leaving grease everywhere. She wanted to hear J.D. crack
his knuckles and pretend to be tough. She wanted to go home. "Jess?" Mitch stooped, grabbed the gunman's feet and
pulled the weight off her gut. "Jess? Answer me."
She couldn't answer him, she still hadn't gotten all her
breath back.
"Nod or something!" He knelt beside her, his face so full
of concern that she wanted to turn away.
She didn't want to be tied to California, tied to this land of
craziness and killers and FBI and blood money. Though she
managed to nod, her muscles wouldn't respond fully. She tried again, tried to inhale more air than what was coming into her lungs. Why the hell couldn't she breathe? She'd had her breath knocked out of her before. It happened when you wrestled
with bikers, but nothing like this.
Her slowing heart began to race again. What's wrong with
me?
"Jess, it's okay. It's over." He sounded near tears. Yes, his eyes were glistening. He turned from her face
and began running his hands over her body. "Are you hurt?
Oh Jesus, answer me baby, did you get shot?"
"Don't," she whispered, "call me baby."
"This is no time for jokes." His smile was wan as his
hands left her shoulders, traveled along her torso, her ribs,
down her hips. "Are you bleeding?"
The previously bright light began to go dim. Am I really
passing out? Funny, I made it through all that, and now I'm
going to pass out. Part of her was hysterical, crying and
begging for more air, and yet another part coldly looked at
everything, merely curious about what was happening to her
body because it didn't seem that important anymore. Mitch rolled her and it worked like a flood of ice-water,
bringing her back to the moment, snapping her from the freefall of too little oxygen. She inhaled hugely, dragging in large
gulps of air.
"There you go, honey, that's it." He pulled the hair back
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