by Liliana Hart
Two more shots pinged off the dumpster and another hit the brick just over her head, sending shards flying.
“Shane! Shane, wake up,” she said. He was dead weight on top of her and she pushed with all her might to roll him over.
He groaned as she rolled him to his side, and she could already see the lump forming on his temple. Rachel pushed to her hands and knees and felt around the knot. It was then she noticed the blood as it ran in rivulets down his arm and joined the puddles of water on the sidewalk.
“Oh, my God. Shane,” she said tapping him lightly on the side of the cheek.
“Stop beating on me, woman. I’m fine. Just a knock on the head.” His eyes were open now but he still looked a little unsteady.
“Oh, yeah? What about the bullet in your arm?”
He looked down at his left shoulder in surprise. “Damn. We don’t have time for this. At least it looks like the bullet went all the way through.”
It looked like he was losing a lot of blood to Rachel, and his hand shook as he tried to apply pressure to the wound.
“It’s no big deal,” he said between gritted teeth. “The shooter must have had a night scope to have such a clear shot, but the sun’s starting to come up. The direction of the sun’s in our favor. There will be a glare for a few minutes as he adjusts. He’ll change positions and try to trap us behind here. It’s what I would do in the same situation. I need to get a pinpoint on his location and take him out. Otherwise, we’re going to be sitting ducks. If something happens to me I want you to run for the car and get out of here. I’ll try to stall him as long as I can.”
The .22 lay on the ground. Shane’s voice was getting weaker and his pupils were large and black.
“Like hell,” Rachel said. “We’re in this together, Quincy.” She grabbed the gun from the ground and crouched low.
“Where are you, you son of a bitch?” she yelled. Shane grabbed for her, but she dodged his hand easily.
Her heart was racing and her mind was on Shane, but she knew she had to pull it together so they could both escape alive. Rachel slowed her breathing and cleared her mind like she’d been taught. It wouldn’t help to think that the target was a live human being instead of a piece of paper tacked up a hundred paces away. She’d never taken a life before, but she knew she was strong enough to do what had to be done. But could she live with herself after? The little voice in the back of her mind kept asking the question, and she didn’t know the answer.
The scuffle of feet moving across the pavement proved Shane’s theory right. The shooter was changing positions, trying to trap them between the dumpsters and the motel. She’d have to anticipate his moves and catch him off guard. If the shooter made it to his destination they’d never make it out alive.
She concentrated on breathing and listening for the tell-tale signs of movement—the whisper of clothing as it brushed against a car, the scrape of shoes, a spent magazine falling to the ground and a new one being loaded. She glanced at Shane and saw his eyes were steady on hers. He gave her a nod of approval.
Rachel looked between the two dumpsters and caught a glimpse of a man. He was soft around the jowls and hard around the middle. Built like a boxer, with a nose to match. She didn’t recognize him, but she recognized the type. He was dressed in a drab suit with a hat pulled low over his brow. He carried his weapon like he’d had lots of practice using it and had enjoyed every minute. There was no doubt in her mind he worked for Angelo Valentine.
She took aim and waited until he moved closer, but he sensed her movement and raised his gun in her direction. She had only a split second to think before she fired. His gun discharged only a moment after hers, but his aim wasn’t true. The .22 stayed steady in her hand as she watched the man fall to the ground. It had been a direct hit, and she knew he wouldn’t be getting up again.
Jimmy Grabbaldi should have taken retirement sooner.
***
When the shooting stopped, the man from the office stuck his head out the door.
“I’ve called the police,” he yelled. “You folks had better pay for destruction of private property.” He slammed the door, slid the locks into place and pulled the shades. Apparently Jake had some standards after all.
The sirens grew closer and Rachel looked down at Shane. He was losing consciousness, though the bleeding from his shoulder had turned sluggish.
“I’ll be right back,” she told Shane and ran out into the parking lot. She found exactly what she was looking for in the last row of the lot. A beige Volvo still had the keys dangling from the ignition. The shooter’s car. She got in, turned the key and it purred to life. She drove to where Shane was lying and loaded him into the backseat.
“We’ve got to get you to a hospital. You’ve lost too much blood,” she said.
“No, no hospital.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Shane. You can’t go on like this and last I checked I’m not a nurse. You need stitches and a brain scan, neither of which I can provide.”
“No hospital,” he said again. “I’ve had worse than this.”
His wallet landed in her lap, but she didn’t take her eyes off the road. She wasn’t going to argue with a man who obviously had no common sense.
“There’s a number in my wallet. Find a payphone and call Wildcat. Tell him what’s happened and that we need an immediate safe house. I can rest there for a couple of days until I’m back on my feet.”
“Shane,” Rachel said, shaking her head.
“I’m trusting you to do as I ask, Rachel. The minute we step foot inside a hospital you’ll have Angelo’s men all over you. I’d rather die than let that happen. Promise me you’ll do as I ask.”
She looked at Shane in the rearview mirror. His face was pinched with pain and he was fighting to stay conscious until she agreed to his plan. She’d never forgive herself if anything happened to him, but she found herself nodding in agreement.
“I promise,” she said and watched as his eyes closed and his body went slack.
***
Rachel waited until she was over the Missouri state line before she stopped to find a pay phone. They’d been on the run for more than an hour without incident, but she was cautious as she pulled into a gas station in a town called Joplin. Shane was still passed out in the back seat, but his breathing was nice and steady.
She circled the block just to make sure no one was following and then turned into an Exxon station. The payphones were on the side of the building, next to the restrooms. She parked the car and took the scrap of paper that held Wildcat’s number out of Shane’s wallet. It was impossible not to notice the picture of the pretty brunette behind the thin plastic protector.
Maggie Quincy had been killed in the prime of her life. She’d been a beautiful young woman with intelligent brown eyes and a stubborn chin. Rachel flipped through the other pictures. Most were of Maggie by herself, but there were a couple with both Shane and Maggie. It was obvious from the way they looked at each other that they’d been very much in love. It was ridiculous for her to think he could ever feel that strongly for anyone ever again. He’d had something very special, and part of her believed a love like that could only come along once in a lifetime.
Rachel left the car running, got out and went to the pay phone. She didn’t know anything about the man she was calling or what to expect, but she called him anyway and hoped Shane knew what he was doing. The phone rang several times and she was about to hang up when a man finally answered.
“This better be important,” the man said.
“Is this Jones Daugherty? Wildcat?” she asked.
“Maybe. Who the hell is this?”
This wasn’t the voice of the man she’d pictured in her mind. She’d pictured Jones Daugherty as a respectable FBI agent—soft spoken, with an obvious need to help others and search for justice. Why else do the kind of work he did? No, this guy sounded like he chewed nails regularly and stomped innocent victims into the ground just for laughs.
“This is Rachel Valentine. Shane told me to call you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“He’s been shot in the shoulder and I think he’s got a concussion. He refuses to go to a hospital, and he told me to tell you we need a safe house that’s close by. The idiot. He thinks he’s Superman.”
Wildcat laughed at that. “Don’t we all. He’s suffered from worse than a puny gunshot in the shoulder, and his head’s as hard as a rock. I’d be surprised if he didn’t crack the pavement. If he tells you he doesn’t need a hospital then he doesn’t.”
“I’m getting a little tired of the testosterone. Heaven forbid any of you macho men do the sensible thing.”
“Honey, if you’d lived through some of the things that we have you’d do your damnedest to never do another sensible thing again. Are you at a payphone?”
Rachel sighed out a frustrated breath and gave up on trying to talk sense into them. “Yes. At a gas station in Joplin.”
“Give me the number and let me call you back in five minutes. I don’t know what we have available in that area.”
Rachel gave him the number and he immediately hung up. She was beginning to think Jones Daugherty worked in Internal Affairs because he lacked people skills.
The phone rang exactly five minutes later and he gave her directions to a place less than half an hour away and the alarm code so they could get in.
“I’m still working on a few other things Ace asked for, but I’ll head in your direction after I leave the office this afternoon. It’ll be late tonight before I’m able to get there, so don’t let him die. He still owes me ninety-seven dollars from a poker game two years ago. Keep the doors locked and don’t go outside for anything. And stay alert.”
Jones hung up without giving her a chance to say thank you. Rachel hung up the phone and went back to the car. She turned off the ignition, grabbed some cash out of Shane’s wallet, locked the doors and pocketed the key. There was no way she’d make it to the place Wildcat had told her of without a map.
The inside of the service station wasn’t very busy. Only a few customers stood in line and a few others milled around the store. Music played on a radio in the background and people talked softly.
She grabbed a map, a few candy bars, a bag of peanuts, a Coke for her and a bottle of water for Shane. She found a few medical supplies on the opposite aisle and picked up the items she thought Shane would need. It looked like she was going to spend the next couple of days playing Florence Nightingale.
She got in the back of the line and tapped her foot impatiently, every second seeming like a millennia. The teenager in front of her was paying for his gas in pocket change, and if she’d had the extra cash she would have paid for him. When the kid finally left and it was her turn at the counter, she laid down her items and hoped she hadn’t forgotten anything. She had no idea what kind of supplies would be in the safe house—whether the refrigerator would be stocked or if there’d be sheets on the bed. Beds, she corrected. She couldn’t spend another night sharing a bed with Shane Quincy. It was torture at its finest.
The radio announcer picked that moment to issue an urgent bulletin.
“This information has just been released in a joint statement by the Tulsa Police Department and the FBI. The body of an unidentified man was discovered this morning with a gunshot to the head. An eyewitness claims two people are responsible for the death, and that they drove away in a tan sedan heading northwest. The witness believes one of the suspects was severely injured in the shootout, and the police corroborated the theory as they found blood other than the victim’s at the scene. The police have issued arrest warrants for Shane Quincy of Louisiana and Rachel Valentine of Illinois, and both are to be considered armed and dangerous. The FBI believes these two individuals are also responsible for the death of Galen Marsh, a high profile attorney who once unsuccessfully tried to put Dominic Valentine behind bars.”
Rachel kept her head down, not making eye contact with the man behind the counter, but she noticed he paused to look at her as he began to check out the rolls of gauze and first aid items. She’d never stopped to think that she was wearing Shane’s blood on her shirt. Her appearance hadn’t occurred to her once since she’d left Tulsa, and now she’d as good as advertised that she was a wanted criminal to a room full of people.
The radio announcer went on to explain her connection with the Valentine “mob family,” and how she’d been thought to have disappeared with her father eight months before. No one knew for sure if they’d gone underground or if they were dead.
Rachel counted out money and was relieved to see she had just enough. She grabbed the bag off the counter, mumbled a hurried “Thank you” and went out the door, feeling like everyone in the store had been staring at her. And when she glanced behind her it was obvious they had been.
She kept her head down on the way back to the car but used her peripheral vision to look and see if anyone in the parking lot was overly interested in her. The Volvo came into sight, and she hit the remote to unlock the doors, sliding into the seat and then immediately locking them again.
Shane was still asleep in the backseat, but he was roused awake as she started the engine.
“Did you call him?” he asked groggily.
“Yeah.” Rachel looked both ways and then sped out of the parking lot. She had a feeling their good fortune was quickly running out.
“Where are we headed?” Shane asked.
“To a little town called Alba. Your friend will meet us there tonight to make sure you’re still alive. Don’t move around back there. I don’t want you to reopen the wound on your shoulder,” she said navigating the turns. “How are you feeling?”
“Bastard of a headache. Otherwise, I’ve felt worse.”
Rachel dug around in the sack of supplies she’d just bought and handed him a bottle of aspirin and the water. He swallowed three pills and drank half the water and then poured the rest over his shoulder so he could see the damage.
“It’s not as bad as it looks. It’s a clean wound,” he said.
“I bought some supplies back at the gas station and found out some interesting news.”
“Yeah?” Shane said. “Like what?”
“Like we have warrants out for our arrest. It was on the radio.”
“I’m sure the cops down in New Orleans are getting a kick out of that information. I’ll be hearing jokes for months when this is over.”
“I’m glad you can stay focused on the important things,” she said, rolling her eyes.
They were headed down Highway 43 past the Joplin Airport when a black sedan pulled out in front of them.
Chapter Nine
Rachel hit the brakes and swerved. The tires squealed and the smell of burnt rubber filled the air. She heard Shane mumble a curse as he was jarred against the car door, and she braced herself for impact as the guardrail loomed before them. The crunch of metal was grating as the front of the Volvo glanced off the rail. There was a shatter of glass and then all was silent.
Her breathing was heavy and her hands gripped the wheel in a white-knuckled grasp. She wasn’t hurt, and the crash hadn’t been bad enough to deploy the airbags. She was just shocked.
“Are you okay,” she asked Shane.
“Dandy.” Shane moved into a sitting position so he could see the other vehicle.
The black sedan was pulled across the road so they were blocked in, and the windows were tinted so the inside couldn’t be seen. Cars honked as they drove around the black sedan and traffic was beginning to pile up behind them.
“We need to get out of here,” Shane said urgently.
“Where am I supposed to go? We’re blocked in.”
“I don’t know, but the guy in front of us has reinforcements coming.”
Rachel looked out the back window and saw a sedan identical to the one parked in front of them driving up the shoulder of the road and parking behind them.
“What should I do?” she asked.
Two d
oors opened from the black sedan and legs emerged. The driver was tall and dressed in black. His bald head was bare in the cooling weather and dark glasses covered his eyes. His top coat was unbuttoned and he held a gun down at his side. The man from the passenger side was shorter and stockier but dressed nearly the same, including the gun.
“Floor it,” Shane yelled.
“Oh, man,” Rachel said, putting the car in reverse and moving away from the guard rail with a squeal of tires. “Hold on tight.” She put the car in drive and punched the gas pedal to the floor. The tires spun and smoke rose from the pavement, but then the car took off like a shot. She headed straight for the black sedan and said every prayer she knew as the men raised their guns.
Both men dived out of the way as the Volvo hit the side end of the car. There was a crunch of fiberglass and the black sedan was pushed aside. Rachel jerked against her seatbelt and hit her head on the drivers’ side window. A gunshot shattered the back window and she ducked low in her seat.
“Take the off-ramp to the airport. The guys in the other car are getting closer,” Shane said and Rachel turned the wheel just in time to take the exit.
Rachel weaved through traffic with the pedal mashed to the floor, but the guys following them still gained ground. “What are you doing?” she asked as Shane folded down the back seat so he could reach into the trunk.
“I’m seeing if the previous owner of this car had anything that might be useful in a situation like this one.”
Rachel felt like an idiot. She’d never thought to check the trunk when they’d been stopped at the gas station.
“And bingo,” Shane said.
Rachel kept one eye on the road and the other on Shane as he pulled a hard-shell black suitcase out of the trunk and opened the lid. He had a rifle put together almost before she could blink.