Sneak and Rescue

by Shirl Henke

  That was when the cagey Elvis made his move. He and Farley started to ease along the wall toward their room, which was closer to the elevators than to her. No one but she was paying the slightest attention to them. Sam tried shoving the drunk away but unless she really wanted to hurt him, she had a better chance of uprooting a sequoia.

  “I’m not your trophy, pally, so back off,” she snarled, hooking her foot behind his knee and buckling it. Unlucky for her, he tried to regain his balance by seizing hold of her T-shirt. She went down with him.

  Sam quickly rolled to her feet, mad enough to give him a sharp kick in a place where he’d feel it the most, but she didn’t need an assault charge lodged with the St. Louis PD, so checked the impulse. He lay spread-eagle, shaking his head as the hallway spun around him and his friends guffawed and cheered.

  “Hey, lady, that was some move!”

  “Way to go, beautiful!”

  “Who’da though a girl could take Griff down like that?” a third said on a loud beer belch.

  Sam didn’t stay to enjoy their plaudits but started to move toward Farley and Elvis, who were now unlocking their door. But before she could get clear, her woozy lothario had miraculously gotten to his feet, no doubt with a little help from his friends. Once again he seized hold of her shirt. Dammit! What was this—the best two out of three?

  With a particularly nasty oath she’d learned from Uncle Dec when his rig was held at a weigh station on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, Sam whirled around to face him. Her shirt ripped but she was so furious she didn’t even notice. She just grabbed the bowling bag from the guy who’d run up beside him and hurled it at her attacker’s foot with the dead aim only lifelong practice affords.

  Under her uncle Dec’s tutelage, Sam had bowled her first three hundred game when she was twelve years old.

  Griff let out a howl and tried to raise the injured hoof and wrap his big hands around it. She knew she could have broken his bones but didn’t particularly care. The goon in Farley’s room might do far worse to her client. The Derby Bowler toppled backward into his buddies, who by now had figured out that this was no longer fun and games.

  “Give it up, Griff,” one said.

  “We better get him ta ’is room…or the hosh’pital,” a second one slurred.

  Sam was clear of them and closing on the door where Farley and Elvis had entered only moments ago. She could hear sounds of a struggle and cursed again. Of course, the door had locked automatically when they’d entered. She pulled her own small tool from her fanny pack and had the lock open almost as quickly as the thug. Holding the stunner ready, she stepped inside, flattening the door against the wall to be certain no surprises would come from that direction as she swept the room.

  One large table lamp cast a pale glow across a wide sitting room filled with upscale hotel furnishings and one furry Pandorian lying across the center of the floor with a red stain oozing through one of his antennae. “Farley?” she called out, looking down the hallway to the bedrooms and bath.

  Elvis groaned and tried to sit up, holding his injured head in his hands. Then Sam saw the sliding door to the balcony was ajar. Warm sticky heat poured inside. Practically leaping over Elvis, she yanked the handle to the side and looked out. She could see the thug with Farley slung over his shoulder vanishing over the side of the balcony railing three units down.

  Not only big and good with his hands, but fast, too. Narrow metal rails divided each suite’s share of balcony space. Sam took them like hurdles until she reached the end—a fire escape ladder. She looked down at the parking lot and some carefully landscaped shrubbery and trees designed to conceal it. The big guy carried the slight youth as if he weighed no more than a feather pillow. He was already halfway to the ground.

  Sam debated. If she started after him, he might drop Farley to his death in order to escape. She held back until he was close enough to the pavement that the fall wouldn’t be fatal, then climbed over the edge and started half climbing, half sliding down the rungs the way she’d been trained during her stint as a police-paramedic. She only hoped the darkness and her fast movements would keep the kidnapper from hitting her with the piece she knew he carried once he was on the ground.

  She lucked out. He jumped the last rungs and landed, pivoting and making a run across the crowded lot without looking back at his pursuer. In the distance an engine revved to life and started wending down the narrow aisles toward the fleeing felon and his prize. Sam had to get to them before the getaway vehicle.

  Dammit, I’m not the one carrying a hundred twenty pounds of dead weight! She jumped the ladder from six feet and hit the ground at a dead run. The trip down the ladder must have taken some of the wind out of the abductor’s sails because he slowed and she gained some yardage. But all she had was the stunner—paralyzing at close range, but useless until she closed the gap.

  She let out a blood-curdling screech and yelled Farley’s name, then “Stop, police!” at the top of her lungs, holding the stunner up as if it were really a firearm. By this time, a dark-colored van had pulled alongside the goon, its back doors open. Still holding the kid on one broad shoulder with his left hand, the kidnapper pulled the gun from under his jacket and fired at Sam.

  The bullet whizzed by her ear, a narrow miss owing only to Farley’s regaining consciousness. The kid started wriggling like a Dribble, throwing off his captor’s aim. Sam dived for cover, then darted from car to car as bullets pinged and ricocheted around the lot. The thug tried to toss the boy inside the vehicle but Farley delivered a groin kick and received a swift drop to the pavement as his reward.

  Sam dived closer as the thug jumped in the back of the van and yelled to the driver, “Run over the little bastard, then get the hell out of here!”

  He closed the doors as the driver put the engine in reverse and aimed for where Farley lay, too stunned by his injuries to move. Sam made one clean leap and yanked at his inert body, pulling it from beneath the wheels an instant before he became Klingoff roadkill. With the boy in a death grip, she rolled them both beneath a big SUV, praying the kidnappers would give up.

  Lights and people filling the balconies around the parking area made the decision for them. The van screeched forward, burning rubber to escape. From her cover beneath the SUV Sam tried to catch plate numbers but couldn’t make them out as the van turned left and flew out onto a one-way street. It was some dark color, an older model Plymouth or Dodge, but she couldn’t be sure.

  Sam debated calling 911 on her cell but thought better of it when Farley began to groan again. If the police took him and Elvis to the hospital and questioned them, the boy would certainly be turned over to his father, who would leave him to Reicht’s tender mercies. And she’d be out her fee. No way was any of that happening.

  “Come on, Farley, let’s get you to the E.R. and see what needs fixing,” she said as she pulled off the rubber mask covering the boy’s head. No signs of blood on him. That was always good. “Time to wake up, Farley,” she said, knowing there was no way she could flip him over one shoulder and lug him away like that gunsel had.

  “What… Where am I?” he said, eyelashes fluttering as he stared into Sam’s face. His dazed expression reminded her of a deer caught in headlights. He had big brown eyes and a scraggly attempt at a beard darkening his jawline unevenly.

  “You’re gonna be okay, but just to be sure—”

  “Where’s El? That guy hit him over the head.”

  “That guy tried to run over you with a van. Right now I’d say that’s a bigger problem.”

  He muttered something Sam couldn’t quite make out as she helped him to his feet. Then he looked around and seemed to get his bearings. “We’re in the parking lot.”

  Good. No addled brain—at least any more addled than it had been before the abduction. “Yeah, we are. You remember anything about the guy who tried to snatch you?” she asked.

  “Wow! Wait till I tell El! His disguise was really good. He looked human.”

  “Na
h, those kind of thugs are really a lower life form. Closer to muscular amoebas,” she replied soothingly, trying to lead him toward the other end of the lot where she’d parked her van earlier that afternoon. How far was the nearest E.R.? She had a map and guidebook in the glove compartment.

  Then she noticed the kid had started to look as if he’d just had a fabulous adventure instead of a brush with death. He was actually grinning. “Hey, you could’ve ended up as flattened fauna,” she reminded him.

  “I know. He’s on to me.” Farley tried to pull something from his pants pocket as he babbled on. “I’m really a Confederation agent, but you must know that. You have to be one, too, or else you wouldn’t have been sent to rescue me.”

  Talk about being a few screwdrivers short of a Mr. Goodwrench set, hoo boy. “I’m not—” Sam bit her tongue and stopped. No sense getting the kid worked up so he wouldn’t go voluntarily with her. She had to have him checked out by a doc before she dared use any kind of force to subdue him. Better to play along. “Yeah, guess you have me pegged.”

  “Who the hell are you?” a hostile voice with a pronounced panhandle drawl asked.

  Sam looked from Farley to Elvis P. Scruggs, who was standing directly in their path. He’d removed his antennaed headgear and his right temple was covered with dried blood. He did not look happy to see her.

  Chapter 8

  “El, this is…” Farley looked at Sam as if realizing he didn’t know her name.

  “I’m using the name Sam Ballanger,” she said, wondering if Scruggs was armed. In spite of his hostile glare, he looked barely older than the kid. But bigger, a lot bigger, with long greasy black hair that partially obscured his face, framing it à la Mr. Presley in his prime. Thick eyebrows curved around small, crafty eyes that missed little. What looked like a collagen-enhanced lower lip and a straight jawline added to the “Presley persona.”

  By the time Sam had decided Scruggs wasn’t armed, Farley had his ID pulled out of his wallet and was flashing it in front of her, talking a mile a minute about the Klingoff conspiracy against the Confederation. “I’m an ensign and Elvis is a lieutenant. What’s your rank?”

  Knowing she couldn’t pass ID muster, Sam said, “You shouldn’t be carrying that. What if those guys had stolen it?”

  “You’re right. That’s probably how they nabbed Leila last week. They had stolen ID. Being a Spacefleet officer, she’d know a fake from the real thing, wouldn’t she, El?”

  Sam studied him to gauge his reaction to Farley’s nonsense. He nodded slowly, as if considering the possibility.

  “Sure could be. Farley saw Commander Satterwaite transponded to a Pandorian vessel last week,” Scruggs replied with a straight face.

  “That’s why Elvis is in Pandorian disguise. He’s been trying to find out what they’ve done with her. The Pandorians have made a secret alliance with the Klingoff Empire. They’re trying to conquer the Confederation.”

  Yeah. Gotcha. Sam figured there was only one way a street-smart guy who’d served time in juvvie would go along with this fantasy, and it wasn’t to save Earth. “Say, you both look like you could use some medical attention. My van’s just over there.” She pointed in the general direction where she’d parked. Once they were at the E.R., she could call Pat and see about having the local cops detain Scruggs for questioning while she slipped away with Farley.

  Elvis touched his hand to his injured head and winced, starting the bleeding again. “That jack—er, Klingoff really nailed me square on the noggin. You don’t look so hot yourself, Far. Maybe she’s right. What did you say your name and rank were, again?” he drawled, looking at Sam.

  “Sam Ballanger and I’m not giving out my rank to anyone. Now, let’s see how bad you’re hurt.”

  That seemed to settle the issue as both of them followed her to her van and climbed inside. She toyed with using the stunner on Elvis, but decided against it. With a bleeding head wound, he might be injured further. Somehow, she’d have to convince Farley to split with his “lieutenant” and trust her. Putting the juice to his buddy was definitely not the way to win the kid’s heart and mind.

  “You know, Farley, considering that your cover’s blown here in St. Louis, I think it might be a good idea if you went back to Miami with me. I could protect you. That’s my prime directive,” she coaxed as they waited while a doctor in the St. Louis University Hospital complex was stitching up Elvis’s head wound.

  They had agreed, for “security reasons,” not to say anything about the abduction attempt that might land them both in custody as material witnesses. Instead, much to her relief, both Farley and Elvis produced insurance cards at the checkin and Scruggs smoothly explained that they’d been in a bar fight precipitated by some drunk making fun of Space Quest.

  While they were busy doing that, she’d made her call to Patowski. Why couldn’t she ever get in a scrape during sensible working hours? The old cop had been nasty as a poked rattlesnake when she’d awakened him, asking him to talk with his friends in the St. Louis Police Department After lots of cursing, he’d said he’d see what he could do.

  It turned out to be zip so far. No cops.

  Farley shook his head at Sam’s suggestion to return home. Elvis, who had quietly slipped up on her from the cubicle where he’d been treated, chimed in. “Far ’n me, we drove a long way to get to this here convention.”

  “You drove Mr. Winchester the fourth’s Jag. He told me he wants it returned immediately,” she said, wondering how Scruggs would handle that curveball.

  Fielding perfectly, he shot back, “Mr. W. said he was cool with us borrowin’ it.”

  “Far” nodded agreement, then grimaced. “He did, but it’s just like him to change his mind and spoil everything,” the kid said petulantly.

  “We got bidness and we ain’t leaving till it’s finished. Remember, Leila Satterwaite was our commander. How’d you know about Mr. W’s Jag anyways?” Elvis asked, oh so casually.

  “All part of my job as an agent,” she replied blithely. “If you borrowed the Jag, did you borrow the money, too?”

  Both of them looked blankly at her.

  “What money?” Scruggs asked.

  “Yes, what money?” young Winchester seconded.

  “The twenty thousand dollars you withdrew from one of your dad’s passbook accounts,” she said to Farley.

  “I only took out two hundred the day we left—my allowance for the past month. My father ‘forgot’ to arrange for me to get it. He’s done that a lot lately. We wanted some cash in case of an emergency on the road.”

  “You wouldn’t by any chance have a withdrawal slip to prove that, would you?” Sam asked.

  “Maybe, back at the hotel,” the kid replied vaguely.

  “What bidness is it of yours about Mr. W’s car or his money? I thought you were a Confederation agent?” Elvis said, his eyes moving from Sam to Farley and back.

  “Confederation agents don’t steal from respectable businessmen on my watch,” Sam replied.

  With a crafty smirk, Elvis replied, “Oh, we got no reason to steal, do we, Far? His daddy lets Far charge anything he wants on that there credit card of his.”

  Scruggs might look like a kid, but Sam recognized the hard glitter in his eyes. He was light-years ahead of his young friend when it came to life experience. And, coming from a background of poverty and jail time, he knew a sweet deal when he’d latched on to one. She would have to figure a way to separate the two and knew Elvis wouldn’t make it easy for her.

  The best thing was to play along with the whole charade until she figured something out. Patowski’s St. Louis PD connection obviously hadn’t worked out. It was almost as if her old mentor had found out something about Elvis that he wasn’t willing to share with her. Well, that sure wouldn’t be a first.

  After they got Farley checked and pronounced little the worse for his ordeal, the trio strolled back to where she’d parked her van. “Highway robbery!” she said as the electronic screen at the parking gate
flashed what she had to pay to get out of the lot. “We’re in the land of Jesse James, but he was an honest man compared to this. At least he used a horse and a pistol.” Still muttering to herself, she paid up and asked for a receipt. Looking at her as if she were some yokel from the sticks, the yawning clerk pulled it from the machine and barely stuck his arm out of the booth. She stretched her whole body out the van window to reach the damn thing.

  As they drove east down Olive Street toward the downtown area, Farley and Elvis carried on an animated conversation about the great conspiracy to destroy Earth. “The Klingoff Empire’s behind it,” Elvis said as if he believed it. “They’re workin’ with them Pandorian skunks.”

  “That’s why we’re undercover trying to infiltrate their inner circle,” Farley explained. “Did you know they’ve been here for over a hundred years?”

  “No!” Sam took her eyes from the wheel for a moment and cast an amazed glance at Farley.

  “Yes! Who do you think Hitler was? Who was behind Lee Harvey Oswald? More recently—”

  “Let me guess,” Sam interrupted. “Osama? 9/11?”

  “Now you’re startin’ to get the big picture,” Scruggs said.

  Farley nodded silently.

  Her head was ringing with intergalactic conspiracy theories by the time they reached the hotel. Damn, she was going to have to pop for a room…or spend another night with Harriett Mudd and her Dribbles. At the front desk she asked for the cheapest room they had. When the clerk told her the price, Sam opted for the Dribble sisters.

  As she walked Farley and Elvis to their room, Sam cautioned, “I want you to double lock this door as soon as I leave.” She inspected the bath and both bedrooms, down to the closets to make sure no surprise visitors had returned to lie in wait. Satisfied that they were alone, she closed the sliding-glass door and placed the floor lock securely behind the moving frame.

  “Don’t open this for anyone and keep these drawn tight,” she said, pulling the drapes until not a crack of light showed through from outside. “And, especially, don’t open the front door, even if it looks like room service. Speaking of which, don’t order it. Too easy for someone to pose as staff and get inside. Call my room in the morning and I’ll come get you,” she instructed.