by Pamela Clare
“Macy and White Jenny knew I didn’t want to come back, and they tried to get the Flesh Boys to go for a different ransom, but it was all about embarrassing Borgola with them—it had to be his rocks, it had to be his Fenton Furst. The Flesh Boys knew Furst died last month, which means his safes are fair game for the Fenton Furst-trained crackers who aren’t dead or in jail. Hell of a time to come out of retirement, huh?”
He fell silent—more of him not saying all he thought.
“What?” she asked.
“Why? Why stop stealing? If you enjoy the game?”
She leaned back against him, careful to put her weight on his good shoulder. “It didn’t sit right anymore.”
He stroked her hair. “Stealing didn’t sit right?”
“I realized I was hurting people. The people I robbed and my family. It wasn’t worth it, you know? Also, I wanted to do something positive. I know you probably think designing people’s homes isn’t important. But it is to my clients.”
“You did something important today. Getting into that safe, Angel. Your skills resulted in saving a lot of people’s lives.”
A strange feeling stirred in her chest. “Those people on the boat are for sure okay?”
He stroked her hair. “Yeah.”
She felt stupidly choked up with emotion. She’d never done anything truly important.
The phone rang.
She felt Cole rouse to attention behind her. She sat up. “It’s probably the pizza.”
Cole got off the bed and picked up the phone on the fourth ring. “Yeah?” She could hear a voice at the other end. “Thanks.” He hung up and went to the window, tipped back the curtain. “Pizza on the way.”
“You don’t like that they called? Pizza places do call.”
“Instinct. I don’t like being cooped up. I’m not used to it. He dug a few bills out of the satchel on the dresser. Something was still wrong.
He grabbed a gun and shoved it in the back of his pants, then grabbed the other one and cocked it. “Pay him and take the pizza. Stay a good ways away from him. I’ll be right beside you.”
A knock. Cole looked out the slit in the curtains, and then nodded. She went to the door and opened it to a young girl with dark braids and a Dodgers cap. Cole came and stood beside Angel, opening the door wider, keeping his gun just out of sight. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi.” She handed Angel the pizza, and Angel gave her the bills.
“Thanks. Keep it.”
“Thanks.” The girl smiled and left.
Angel closed the door. “Sometimes a pizza is just a pizza.”
He still seemed wary.
She brought it to the dresser as Cole watched the parking lot. “We’ve been here too long.”
“Macmillan thought it was fine.” The scent of cheese and spices as she opened the box nearly knocked her over. “And also, pizza, Cole. Pizza. Aren’t you starving?” She gave him a napkin and a slice.
“Yes.” He sat on the bed and started eating. She pulled up another slice, freeing it from slim tethers of warm, gooey cheese. She set it on the dresser on the napkin. “You want water?”
“That would be great.”
She went and filled glasses from the bathroom faucet and came out with them. Cole was on his second piece. “How is it?”
“Delicious.”
“I’m just glad it wasn’t a trap for how goddamn hungry I am.” She took a bite of her piece, biting right into a meaty mushroom. She spit it out.
“What’s wrong?”
“Mushrooms,” she said.
“I said everything except mushrooms.”
She looked down, dismayed. “Maybe they thought you said extra mushrooms.”
He frowned. “Let’s order another.”
“And wait? Hell no. I can pick them off.” Carefully she picked off the mushrooms, gathering them in a little pile. A lot of the mushrooms were chopped up tiny, so it took forever. When the piece was clear, she picked it up and folded it, New York style.
“Angel. Stop. Don’t.” Cole’s voice sounded funny. She looked up from her project to see him staring at a small pile of crusts. “Don’t eat it. It’s drugged.”
Panic shot through her. “Cole.” He’d eaten at least four pieces.
The shrill ring of the phone slashed into the silence and made her jump.
“Don’t answer it.” Cole stood, staring helplessly at the gun in his hand. “My aim is screwed unless I’m in their face. I might not be awake much longer.”
“Could we call the police?”
“No time. And too many cops belong to Borgola.” He touched his lips. “I can’t feel my lips.”
She took the gun from him. “I’ll shoot.”
He eyed her, seeming unable to focus. “Borgola’s coming. Borgola himself.”
“How do you know?”
“The drugged pizza—he doesn’t like people to fight. They would’ve attacked us more straightforwardly otherwise. We have to get you out.”
“I’ll pretend I’m drugged and ambush them.”
“That’s the one thing they’ll be ready for.” His breathing came more quickly. “Come on. Stay low.” He grabbed the other gun off the dresser, took her hand in his, and they snuck out the door, staying low, shutting it quietly.
“Can you do this?”
He seemed to ponder for a while. Then he said one simple word: “Yes.”
The balcony’s white railing stretched both ways outside the door. The stairs down were a few feet to their left. Crouched as they were, the overhanging portion of the roof hid them from the parking lot out front.
Angel’s heart pounded. Everything seemed to go slow motion.
“This way.” Cole directed her right, the long way. They crawled on their bellies. He gave her a phone number to memorize. “You get away and call that number when I make my move.” Even his words were slurring now.
She stayed right behind him. “You don’t have any moves left, Cole.”
“There’s always a move left,” he said.
“Is that a logistics maxim?”
“Yeah,” he whispered after way too long a pause. She could hear the faint ringing of their room phone start up again. Then it stopped.
Car doors slammed somewhere nearby.
“Crap.” Cole stopped. She scuttled up next to him. He took off his glasses.
“Cole?”
“Can’t focus my eyes anyway. Lemme rest a sec.”
“Don’t rest!” Her hands shook. She didn’t know if she could aim any more than he could.
“Shhh.” Footsteps below them. “Taking the long way like us. Three.”
“Should I shoot them?”
“They’ll kill you first. You get out. Concentrate on that.” He pulled the gun out of his waistband and began to crawl, seeming to listen intently to the footsteps below.
Like hell she’d get out. Like hell she’d leave him. “What are you going to do?”
“Simple logistics. Supply and transportation.” He held up his gun. “This is the supply.”
He wasn’t making sense. She felt stupid with fear. She wished she had one of Macy’s grenades.
“Get out,” he whispered. Then he launched himself right over the railing, rolling over the roof lip and onto the ground.
She gasped, dumbstruck.
Grunts and yells sounded from below. A gunshot. Another.
That was his move. Throwing himself onto them. He couldn’t aim—unless he was in their face.
Sounds of a struggle intensified. She scuttled low to the far steps and crept down, one step, then another, until she had the men in view.
Two men lay on the ground and Borgola was fighting with Cole. They were just beyond the two parked cars below her, close enough that she could hear their grunts and sniffs. Cole struggled madly, more like a windmill than a boxer. He was giving her time to get out.
She crouched on the landing.
“Cole,” Borgola grunted. “Damn you!”
She aime
d the gun, obscured by one anemic palm tree, resting her hand on the lower rail. She could see the fear and anger in Borgola’s eyes, but she couldn’t get a clear shot with the way they were moving.
Cole fought valiantly, but sloppily; he wasn’t in control of his limbs. Her hands shook like mad.
The two tumbled onto the ground. She winced at the smack of Borgola’s fist connecting with Cole’s face.
She aimed. Took a breath. Contrary to what Cole seemed to think, she knew how to shoot. She just didn’t like it.
“Angel, run,” Cole grated.
Borgola straightened up, pulled a gun from his shirt, and aimed it at Cole’s head. “You have three seconds to come out or I blow his head off. One. Two…”
Cole rolled away from Borgola. This was her chance—she squeezed the trigger and hit Borgola in the chest. He staggered back and shot wild in her direction. Cole grabbed his leg and he went down.
They struggled some more. She ran down the steps. Another shot rang out.
Panic filled her. Who’d gotten off the shot?
Borgola was flat on his back, now, with blood seeping out of his neck and chest. Cole had gotten off the shot. “Help,” Borgola said, reaching a hand to her. “Help.”
She went to Cole, who lay nearby. Drugged. Injured.
“Out. Get us out,” he whispered. “More.”
More would come.
She rushed into action, searching the guards’ pockets and found car keys. She pressed the unlock and the lock. Clicks sounded from a black Volvo across the lot.
“Come on.”
Cole didn’t stir. “Can’t move.”
She ran to the car and started it up, then drove it to where he lay. She opened the back door and pulled him up to it by his good shoulder. His wound would be totally open again, but getting him out was the priority. She tried to haul him up, but he was a big man and she just wasn’t strong enough. She noticed with horror that his other arm was bleeding. Another gunshot. She whipped off one of her socks and tied it around his forearm.
“Wake up!” She slapped his face.
“Ow.”
Good.
“Try to get in the car.” He tried. It was what she needed. She wrapped her arms around his chest and heaved and heaved him the rest of the way into the back seat.
She got into the driver’s seat and sped off. They were leaving all kinds of evidence behind. “You were shot again.”
“No hospitals,” he grated out.
“You’re losing blood.”
“Minor,” he whispered.
She dialed the number Cole had made her memorize.
Voicemail. She hung up. “No answer.”
He didn’t reply.
She turned down another street. Did Borgola’s network extend even to hospitals? Was this something with the mole?
“It’s cool,” she said. “It’s under control.” They needed to go somewhere safe. Somewhere neither of them had any connection to. Macy and White Jenny were under surveillance, but not their newest safecracker. She pulled up the number Macy had given her for Rhonda. It was time to meet her replacement.
Chapter Sixteen
Rhonda, the gang’s new safecracker, turned out to be a short redhead who reminded Angel vaguely of Harriet the spy, and she lived in a flashy high-rise condo near downtown.
Rhonda met them at the service entrance in back of the building with a wheeled office chair and a colorful shawl. Together they sat Cole into the chair and Rhonda draped the thing over Cole, hiding his bloody everything.
He mumbled incoherently as they wheeled him into the service elevator. Rhonda hit the ten. “His color’s bad,” she said.
“I know.”
Cole groaned as Angel tried to shift him to make him less akimbo and twisted up. She didn’t want him more injured than he was.
“Nice to meet you, by the way,” Rhonda said.
“Same here.” It wasn’t so painful after all, meeting her replacement. “And I really appreciate this.”
“I live for danger,” Rhonda said.
This turned out to be largely true. Rhonda, as far as Angel could see, was a smart and wild rich girl. And her uncle was a doctor, which seemed to make her feel qualified to field treat Cole. That’s the term she used: field treat.
“I don’t have butterfly bandages,” she announced, “but I fashioned some out of duct tape while I waited for you. Sounded like we might need some.”
“Oh, good,” Angel said. The elevator doors squeaked open. They wheeled him down the hall to her condo and into the bedroom.
“I put a tarp on my bed. I hope you guys don’t mind, but it’s a new mattress.”
Angel nodded. “No, that’s smart.”
Cole was just conscious enough to mumble now and then and protest feebly as they worked together to strip off his shirt. They took off the sock and inspected his new wound—a shot in the forearm.
“So bloody,” Rhonda said.
“Do you think it went through?” Angel asked. “Is this an exit wound?”
“Hell, let’s just stop the bleeding,” Rhonda said.
Angel put her hand on Cole’s forehead. “You’re okay, baby,” she said. “We’ve got you.”
But really, she was scared as hell. His face looked horribly swollen. He’d been severely beaten. And drugged, of course. Could there be injuries they didn’t see? How much could a man go through?
Rhonda’s bandages were pretty good, carefully folded in the part that went over the wound.
They worked on assessing his injuries.
“He needs proper medical attention,” Rhonda said.
“No,” Cole said. “No.”
“What if you’re bleeding internally?” Rhonda asked.
“I’m not. Call Mac…”
Angel tried Macmillan. “Voicemail.”
“S’fine,” Cole mumbled.
Rhonda got an ice pack and Angel held it to Cole’s eye, and then his lip. She held his hand, too, whispering encouragement. Rhonda wanted to at least call her uncle, but Angel refused. She was Cole’s voice now. Cole knew what he needed. And anyway, the bleeding had stopped.
But he’d almost died saving her yet again. He’d dropped right down onto his foes, using himself like cannon fodder, then getting a few shots off. He was amazing. He was everything.
Every now and then, the look of Borgola as she shot him flashed into her mind. His eyes as he’d asked for help.
A half hour later Cole’s color seemed to be coming back, but he was still groggy and not making sense. Probably the drugs.
A figure appeared at the bedroom door.
Macmillan.
Rhonda whipped a pistol from the bedside drawer. “Hands where I can see them.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” he said, strolling in, looking professorial.
Angel frowned. “It’s fine, we know him,” she said, and then to Macmillan, “You could’ve knocked.”
Rhonda squinted. “He’s okay?”
“If you don’t count manners,” Angel said.
“You slay me.” Macmillan took Cole’s pulse and checked his wound. Angel pointed out his arm wound. “The bullet’s still in there. But he seems fit to go.”
“You a doctor?” Rhonda asked.
Angel snorted.
Macmillan sent Rhonda out for a pitcher of cold water, which he promptly threw in Cole’s face.
“Hey!” Angel said.
Cole mumbled.
Macmillan ordered Rhonda out of the room.
“Next time you knock, asshole,” Rhonda said.
“And spoil the surprise?”
Rhonda left with her pistol.
Macmillan placed a hand on Cole’s forehead. “You want to tell me what happened?”
Angel told him about what happened at the motel. Cole mumbled at one point.
Macmillan told Cole that they found the mole—an administrative assistant of some sort. Cole nodded feebly. A name she didn’t know, and probably not a real name at that, but it
meant a lot to Cole, out of it as he was.
“How’d you find us?” Angel asked.
“Cole’s phone. Hey old man, wake up.” He patted Cole’s cheeks. “He really is out.”
“It’s a side effect of being drugged, beaten, and shot,” Angel said.
“Which demonstrates how little you know about Cole.”
Angel stiffened with anger. “I know he deserves better than water in the face.”
Macmillan turned to her then, with an icy-blue look that made her blood go cold. He pulled her away from the bed and over to the window. “You don’t know anything. About anything. Am I clear?”
Angel glared back. “I won’t say anything,” she said.
“You don’t know anything,” Macmillan said.
She leaned in. “I won’t say anything. Anyway, you’ve got more on me than I have on you.”
“And we’ll use it if need be. We will disappear into the margins,” Macmillan whispered, “but don’t let that fool you. We are all-powerful, and not the enemy you want.”
Angel didn’t know what to say about that. “You don’t have to be an ass about it.”
Macmillan straightened. “Actually, I do.” With that, he returned to Cole. He pulled back the covers and inspected Cole’s torso and stomach. “I’m taking him. Help me get him into the chair.”
“Can’t we let him rest?”
“No, we can’t. That bullet has to be extracted, and Martha Stewart medical supplies won’t cut it. You’ll help or not?”
She helped him for Cole’s sake.
Not ten minutes later, they were back outside. Angel held doors and chairs while Macmillan settled him into the passenger seat of his SUV. Angel strapped him in. He was passed out again. “Cole?”
No response.
Macmillan started around the front of the car.
“Wait.” Angel followed him, pulse pounding. She grabbed his arm in front of the headlights. “I can’t just…”
“What?” Macmillan jerked his arm from her grip. “Let me take him? Let him leave without a tearful goodbye? I’ll give him a message when he wakes, how about that?”
She saw how he saw her. Leaving the condoms like she was this nursemaid whore, there for Cole to have fun with while he was recovering.
“This man doesn’t exist,” Macmillan bit out. “And the wrath of hell will come down on you if you try to find him. He’ll be on another continent within the week. Say your goodbyes.”