Grace blew out a frustrated breath. What the doctor said made sense, but she didn’t have to like it. “Will I at least be able to get up and walk around more? Staying in bed is getting old.”
“I’m sure we can ease some of those restrictions. Give it another day and we’ll let you take a walk around the floor.”
“I’d rather be walking around my own house.”
“It won’t be much longer,” Dr. Gilmore said.
“That’s what I keep telling myself.”
* * *
Devin navigated the familiar roads in the borrowed car. He supposed he should at least be thankful that after two years of attending Stanford, he was well acquainted with San Francisco and the various routes to the airport. Of course, the last few times he had flown in and out of this airport, he had been shuttling back and forth to see his wife. If only he knew that would be the end result this time.
As he’d been taught, he checked his mirrors to make sure no one was tailing him. Not that he expected anyone would be able to find him here. He took note of the vehicles behind him and turned his attention back to the traffic in front of him. His flight wasn’t scheduled to leave until eight, but he knew how bad traffic could be in the city. Besides, he didn’t want to take any chances of getting caught in security. The idea of traveling under a fake ID was stressful enough. He certainly didn’t want to add to his stress by not having enough time to deal with any unforeseen problems.
He started over the Bay Bridge, the water of the San Francisco Bay mirroring the crisp blue sky. Construction on the bridge had backed up the steady stream of cars to a crawl for the first quarter mile. He checked his mirror again, mentally making a list: green minivan, gold BMW, black Jeep, blue Civic, two silver Camrys that could be twins.
One of the twins shifted lanes and attempted to pass him only to get cut off by the Jeep. The flow of traffic picked up slightly, and he switched lanes to get around a particularly slow Corvette. The red sports car tried to move at the same time, but Devin accelerated and forced his way forward before the driver managed to cut him off.
Why someone would spend ridiculous amounts of money on such a vehicle and then drive like a little old lady was beyond him. He looked to his left to see it was indeed someone on the elderly side driving, but Devin hadn’t expected to find himself facing such danger.
The elderly Chinese man turned to look at him, a gun in his hand.
Devin ducked just as a gunshot sounded, the bullet shattering his driver’s side window. The whole car shook with the impact, and Devin instinctively pressed on the gas. The brief question of why the man was shooting at him entered his mind, and he quickly dismissed it. He knew who wanted him dead. The real question was how he had been found.
Another shot rang out. Another window shattered.
Desperate for a means of escape, Devin jerked the wheel to the right and ran over two orange cones that cordoned off the closed lane. The tires thudded over the cones, and the front bumper of the car sent a third one flying.
Behind him, tires squealed, and someone honked.
He tried to concentrate on the maze ahead. The actual construction work was more than half a mile away, a dozen men wearing bright orange vests clustered in his lane along with several work vehicles.
Devin glanced behind him at the Corvette trying to follow his path, while the minivan cut the guy off. Devin sped up, bearing down on the construction workers, who were now scrambling to take shelter behind a dump truck.
His breathing coming rapidly, he checked his rearview mirror, no longer able to see his pursuer. With only twenty yards to spare, he slammed on the brakes, cranked the wheel, and cut back into traffic.
Two more cones went flying, and this time the accompanying honks came only an instant before his rear bumper clipped the car he had cut off.
He checked his mirrors again in time to see the driver throw his hands up in anger and the sports car trying to weave its way closer.
Devin was only halfway across the bridge, and the urge to flee overwhelmed him. He crept past the construction workers, ignoring more hand gestures, and analyzed his options once more. The actual roadwork and the work vehicles spanned only a few hundred yards. The moment he was past the last of it, Devin broke back across the barrier and stomped on the gas. He was only a quarter of a mile from the end of the bridge when he saw the sports car follow his path, the distance closing between them.
This time when he broke back into traffic, Devin laid on the horn and even signaled before cutting off a Lexus. Though the driver managed to miss Devin’s car by only inches, his reflexes were sufficient to give Devin the wiggle room to enter traffic moments before reaching the end of the bridge.
He managed to move to the left again and tried to hide himself behind a rather large pickup truck. He could no longer see the sports car, but he could hear the revving engine moving at high speeds, followed by screeching wheels and honking horns.
The sounds were too close.
Think! Devin told himself.
He gripped the wheel tighter, his mind going over different routes he could use to evade and escape. He only hoped he could use his familiarity with the city to his advantage.
As soon as he passed the end of the bridge, traffic started flowing once more. He had gone only two blocks before his car shook and the back window shattered.
He ducked, glancing back to see a gun once again pointed in his direction, this time the driver’s arm visible as he reached out and aimed.
Devin swerved to his right as the man pulled the trigger again. He jerked the wheel and made a quick turn, slowing enough to keep from letting the hill bottom out the car, and then made the first left.
As he was turning, he saw a glimpse of red. He made several more turns, each time not able to shake the man following him.
With less than a half mile between them, Devin turned onto Filbert Street, the steep hill leveling only at the intersections. As he had done far too often, he accelerated well above the speed limit on the inclines, braking hard right before each intersection. The car bottomed out at the second light, sending sparks flying. Another shot sounded. Devin sped up.
A red light ahead sent a tidal wave of fear through him. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t go.
The rev of the Corvette’s engine grew closer, and he knew he had little choice. He slammed on the brake, did a quick check of traffic, and cranked the wheel once more. His car skidded into the intersection, drifting as he made the sudden right, two wheels coming off the ground.
He threw his weight toward the passenger side, the car thudding back down with a bang.
Tires squealed behind him, and he looked back to see the sport car not only skid but lose traction through the turn. An oncoming car crashed into it and sent it rolling twice through the intersection before landing hard against the streetlight at the corner.
Devin was still debating whether he should go check the driver’s condition when another car weaved past the wreckage and headed straight for him.
His eyes widened. Jalen sat behind the wheel of a gold BMW.
Punching the gas, Devin swerved back into his lane and accelerated. The car behind him already had more speed and quickly pulled up beside him. A man he hadn’t seen before sat in the passenger’s seat, holding a shotgun.
Out of sheer desperation, Devin slammed on the brakes. His new pursuer blasted past him before braking as well.
Devin did a quick U-turn, this time not pausing to consider the consequences when he blew through the red light. Car horns blared. More people had honked at him in the last ten minutes than over the past ten years.
His car rumbled over the trolley tracks, and his eyes searched for another way out. The simple sedan was designed to blend in, not outrun sport cars.
Three quick turns helped him maintain the slim distance between them, but he knew it wouldn’t be much longer before Mr. Shotgun got off a clean round.
A bell rang, and a spurt of hope surfaced. Devin sped up. Ant
icipating his next move, he reached over and grabbed his backpack, slipping it over his shoulder as he drove. He couldn’t let the laptop fall into the wrong hands.
A trolley came into sight, its bell ringing again as it left its stop.
Devin sped up until he was only a few yards from the rear of the trolley, then he screeched to a stop, turning his car so it blocked the entire right side of the road. He shoved open his car door and raced toward the back of the trolley. He hadn’t run sprints since high school, but today he had no doubt both his old coach and Grace would be proud.
He didn’t look back when he heard the brakes of the oncoming traffic, and he prayed the passengers on the trolley would provide him some protection from the gunman. He leapt onto the back of the trolley, grabbed the pole to keep from tumbling back onto the street, and immediately weaved his way through the crowded back section.
Finally, when he was surrounded by a dozen staring faces, he looked back at the havoc he had left behind him.
Chapter 37
Devin should have known his stall tactics wouldn’t work. The BMW had taken up position right behind the trolley, and it wasn’t going anywhere until these men got what they wanted—him. He forced himself to look away from the men who wanted him dead and focus on where he was in the city and where they were headed.
He was still processing his location when the trolley driver announced, “Next stop: Lombard Street.”
The crooked street, he always called it. With its ridiculously steep grade and eight hairpin turns, the one-block stretch of road had a posted speed limit of five miles per hour.
Devin pushed his way to the front of the trolley and exited with a handful of tourists. He managed to shield himself behind a particularly broad-shouldered man for the first few yards. Then the crowd spread out, and he felt his vulnerability.
Though he knew better than to look back, he did anyway. As he’d feared, the men chasing him were right behind the trolley.
The shotgun barrel appeared out the window once more, and Devin sprinted toward the nearest building. He never heard the expected gunshot.
After plastering himself against the brick wall, he leaned out the few inches required for him to view Hyde Street. When he saw the car heading down the brick road, he bolted toward the footpath leading along the side of Lombard Street. It was a more direct route to the bottom of the winding road, but it was also crowded with people.
“Coming through!” he shouted, pressing past a mom and daughter. The thought of these men shooting into the crowd made him add, “Gun! Get down!”
That comment had much more effect. Someone screamed behind him, and the people in front of him ducked behind hedges and scurried into bushes.
With the path now relatively clear, he took the steps two at a time. A horn blared, and Devin glanced over long enough to see the BMW nearly bumper to bumper with the hatchback in front of it.
Hope surged at the sight of the obstacle in its path, and he picked up speed. He made it down the equivalent of four flights of stairs before he had to shout again in an attempt to clear his way. “Coming through!” he yelled, his breathing now labored.
The sound of an engine revving followed by a screech of brakes drew attention once more. The hatchback that had been holding traffic to the snail-paced speed limit had pulled into a parking alcove at one of the bends in the road.
The hand that had previously been holding a shotgun now gripped a pistol.
“Gun! Get down!” Devin repeated with only moderate success. The pedestrians who had ignored his warning all had second thoughts when the gun fired.
Devin ducked at the sound and took a quick look around to see if there had been any casualties. Thankfully, the only people on the ground were those who had taken cover with him behind the low barrier wall that separated the path from the street.
Afraid the next shot would be more accurate, he held his position, searching for an escape.
The brakes squealed again, but this time he heard the crunch of metal against stone, the ground beneath him vibrating with the impact. He looked over the edge and saw that the driver had taken a turn too fast and had hit the wall only a few yards away.
Devin was nearly halfway down the winding path and considered a new option.
As though a starting gun had gone off, Devin sprang up and sprinted once more, only this time, instead of heading toward the bottom, he reversed his course and started back the way he had come.
The grinding of gears and the scrape of metal filled the air as the car started forward again. In the distance, police sirens wailed, and Devin hoped they were heading his way.
On the steep one-way street, his pursuers had to continue forward, and Devin hoped he could disappear before they reached the bottom and circled back to the top.
The muscles in his legs burned, but he forced himself to keep moving. The bell from the trolley rang again, and he was nearly to the top when he saw it pulling to a stop across the street from where he had gotten off a few minutes earlier.
Out of breath, he kept sprinting and jumped onto the running board as the conductor started to pull away. Devin dug in his pocket, paid the fare, and looked back down Lombard Street. The BMW was nowhere in sight.
Keeping his spot on the running board, Devin pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed.
“Someone’s after me,” Devin said the moment he heard Ghost’s voice on the line. He noticed some odd glances from his fellow passengers, but at the moment, he didn’t care.
“Are you in immediate danger?”
“I lost them, but I don’t know for how long. I’m on the trolley, and it isn’t exactly the fastest mode of transportation.”
“Where are you?”
“San Francisco.” Devin looked up at the cross street and relayed his current position.
“There’s a market on the edge of Chinatown.” Ghost gave Devin the address. “I’ll have someone meet you there in fifteen minutes.”
“What if they find me again?”
“Keep your head down. We’ll get you out of there.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Devin disconnected the call and willed his heartbeat to slow, but the adrenaline pumping through him kept his body from cooperating. He could feel the energy surging, and he waited anxiously for the trolley to reach his stop.
He hopped onto the street before the trolley reached a complete stop, and he headed for the center of Chinatown. Even though the shop where Devin was supposed to meet his contact was several blocks away, he had enough time to kill that he didn’t want to go directly there. Besides, he had been trained better than that.
The smell of Chinese food permeated the air along with an underlying scent of fish and garlic. The signs on the storefronts displayed Chinese characters and only occasionally offered the English translation below them. Round paper lanterns hung on thin wires stretched across the street. He let himself get swallowed up by the foot traffic on the sidewalk, his height betraying him over the locals of Asian descent.
A clothing shop caught his eye, and he walked with purpose toward it. Five other people were inside, a middle-aged Chinese man sitting beside a cash register.
Devin zeroed in on a rack of jackets. He riffled through them, selecting one in black leather. Working his way farther into the store, he found a selection of 49ers apparel. It seemed a bit out of place in Chinatown but fit his needs beautifully.
He took a scarf and a baseball cap from the rack and carried them with the jacket to the cashier.
After exchanging cash for the items, he removed the tags, pulled the jacket over his faded blue sweatshirt, and donned the scarf and ball cap.
Slipping his backpack over his shoulder again, he approached the entrance of the store, looking both ways before stepping onto the sidewalk. He was just turning to his right when he saw a gold BMW turn the corner, a huge dent in the front fender.
Devin mustered every ounce of strength he had to continue onto the sidewalk, his path putt
ing his back to the driver of the vehicle. His breath backed up in his lungs, and he struggled against the urge to flee.
The lessons learned during his summers with the CIA replayed through his mind. Relax. Move casually with purpose. Don’t look back.
With the changes he’d made in his clothing, he wouldn’t be recognizable from the back. He kept reminding himself of that fact as he walked, the sound of each car passing him sending waves of apprehension through him. Less than a minute after he spotted the BMW, it slowly passed by. He tried to keep his gaze lowered enough to avoid recognition, but his effort wasn’t rewarded.
The car was only ten yards past him when the driver suddenly slammed on the brakes.
Devin didn’t know it was possible for his heart to beat any faster, but he discovered he was wrong when he saw the passenger jump out of the car and start running toward him. Panicked, Devin took off, pushing people away as he wove through the crowd. He was less than a block from the market where help was supposed to meet him, but he’d never make it that far. All it would take was one gunshot into the air for the crowd to scatter and for his pursuer to get a clear shot at him.
Sure enough, a gunshot sounded behind him, accompanied by screams and racing footsteps. Devin reached the corner of a building and ducked into the narrow alleyway between it and the building beside it. In front of him, clotheslines stretched between the two structures, many of them hanging only five feet from the ground.
Devin ducked under the first one, using pants and shirts to create a shield. He zigzagged between articles of clothing, several pulling free and flying through the air.
Footsteps pounded behind him, stutter stepping through the hanging obstacles.
Devin reached the back corner of the building to his left and made a sharp turn behind it the instant a shot fired. The brick inches from his head thudded with the impact, little bits flying into the air.
Kept Secrets Page 22