Hot Pursuit

by Christina Skye

  People came in and out of the front door, but none of them was Rains. Taylor summoned up the image of Candace’s friend, whom Taylor had seen once or twice in the building. The man wasn’t exactly movie-star material. Energetic smile, but a definite underbite. A thin nose and something aggressive in the eyes, as she recalled.

  She kept her eyes trained on the front door, which was the building’s only entrance except for the loading area and the lower-level parking garage. If Rains came out on foot, it had to be through this door.

  She flipped on her car stereo and tried to avoid her reflection in the rearview mirror, painfully aware that her hair was too bright, with too much gold and copper. But the layers were nice and Taylor had tugged on a black beret to cover most of her new iridescence.

  Just as well that Mr. Fixit had been nowhere in sight when she’d left her apartment. If he’d been baking fresh bread, she might have wrestled him to the sawdust and had her way with him.

  She glanced at the passing traffic. No police. No cars circling. So far, there had been no sign of a Lexus SUV either. If only Rains would put in an appearance.

  As the minutes crept past, caffeine withdrawal began to set in. Taylor glanced at her watch as she scratched her knee where the stitches were starting to pull.

  Still no sign of Rains.

  After writing half a dozen books on the subject, Taylor knew surveillance inside and out. On the passenger seat were a bottle of water, sandwiches, and a notebook. The telephoto lens on her camera would document everything Rains did. But as the afternoon dragged on, more people came and went, and none of them was Candace’s boyfriend. Novelty turned to boredom, then irritation, and finally Taylor tried calling his office number, but the secretary said he was in a meeting.

  Muttering, she cranked up Radiohead and watched the front door some more, reasonably certain that none of the businessmen in Armani couture was Harris Rains.

  Taylor tweezed one eyebrow and glared at the copper strands spiking out beneath her beret. She fidgeted, then tried calling Candace, but there was no answer. By now her cell phone battery was almost dead, so she pulled out her notebook marked surveillance and wrote buy car adapter in big letters.

  After that, she ate her last sandwich and wrote buy more egg salad.

  Then she sat some more.

  She had eaten most of a bag of corn chips, without any sign of Rains, when she decided the magical coffee sign shimmering across the street could no longer be ignored. She was halfway across the intersection, carrying an extra-large steaming moccachino with double whipped cream, when her target finally showed.

  She took a quick drink of her coffee, moaned as her throat suffered third-degree burns, then tossed the rest in a nearby garbage can and sank to a crouch behind a dusty Suburban while she staked out Rains. Walking beside him were two men, and one of them was the top science aide to the governor of California. Taylor didn’t recognize the other man, but he walked as if he was important, too.

  Taylor stayed out of sight as the trio passed, talking quietly. The two men shook hands with Rains, then left, and Rains continued walking. In no particular hurry, he stopped to buy a paper. Barely ten seconds later, three men got out of a parked car and moved up beside him. Rains looked startled and began gesturing a lot, which made the other men move even closer. Taylor sidled closer, too, straining to hear the conversation, but they were talking low and fast and she couldn’t pick up any details.

  As she continued to watch, Rains tried to pull away, but one of the men caught his arm, forcing him down the busy street. People passed, but no one seemed to notice Rains’ fear or the tense group of men flanking him. Taylor followed, staying several cars back and out of sight. One of the men gripped Rains’ shoulder, talking fast, while Rains bobbed his head, his face a sickly gray.

  Suddenly Rains called out a name. Taylor saw that the governor’s aide had appeared and was walking directly toward Rains, who forced a smile and pulled away from the angry men circling like sharks in chum-filled water. When the aide was a few feet away, the other men smoothed their ties, turned, and vanished down a side street.

  Candace’s boyfriend closed his eyes, going slack with relief. If he hadn’t been such scum, Taylor might almost have felt sorry for him. Just what kind of trouble had he gotten into?

  In a matter of seconds, the scientist seemed to regain his equilibrium, joking with the aide as they walked toward a nearby parking garage, where the aide got into his car. The instant he was gone, Rains pulled out a cell phone.

  Taylor closed the distance between them, trying vainly to overhear the conversation. When Rains walked down the street, she stuck right behind him. Five minutes later she was still on him like glue when he walked into a convenience store, talking quietly on the phone. Taylor shoved on sunglasses, pulled a newspaper in front of her face, and followed at a cautious distance, determined to hear what he was saying.

  The store was quiet as Rains walked down the snack aisle, still speaking quietly on the phone. Taylor stopped near the checkout area where he wouldn’t see her, and leaned on the counter. “I’m looking for imported chocolate and feminine hygiene products.”

  May as well kill two birds with one stone.

  The Asian man at the counter looked at her blankly, and she repeated the question, ignoring the sound of the door opening or the big man in a torn sweatshirt buying coffee at a nearby machine.

  Taylor tried another tack. “Do you speak English?”

  The old clerk’s expression didn’t change.

  The door opened again. A chunky man in a denim jacket entered, heading straight for the beer cooler.

  Taylor sighed. Rains was at the back of the store now, staring at one of the shelves as if it had grown horns. He had a frozen look of fear on his face, and his cell phone was dangling from his fingers.

  Behind Taylor the door opened again, and another man entered. Suddenly she realized it was unnaturally quiet in the store.

  She leaned closer to the clerk. “Hygiene? Paper? You know—women’s things.”

  When the clerk showed no sign of comprehension, Taylor gave up and ducked into the nearest aisle, intensely aware of the growing silence. The chunky man was standing beside Rains, who looked even paler than before.

  Taylor inched back down the aisle. Coming after Rains was probably a bad idea. His nasty friends on the street had looked like people who played by their own rules.

  She circled back to the checkout area, planning to head for the door.

  But before she could pass him, the clerk motioned to her and leaned forward.

  “Help,” he whispered, his lips barely moving. “You leave quick, miss. Then you call police fast.”

  Chapter Five

  He watched her from across the street. She was hot and sweaty, her hair glowing gold in the sun, black leather hugging trim curves.

  The woman had great legs, no mistake about it.

  Jack Broussard couldn’t help a flash of raw male speculation before his mind snapped back to work. He’d been tracking Taylor O’Toole under close surveillance since she’d left her apartment. During the jaunt, he’d noticed Rains’ altercation with a group of strong-arm men whom he knew to be Argentinean nationals. Jack had called in a situation report and was assured that his intervention was unnecessary because federal agents were already monitoring the scene.

  But to his infinite irritation, Taylor had calmly followed Rains inside the convenience store. The woman was stalking him, without a hint of a doubt.

  Jack glanced at his watch, scowling. Taylor O’Toole was everything her file had said—brash, stubborn, and smart. The file had told him all about her twelve best-selling books, the sister near Carmel, and the coastal resort that had been in their family for three generations. He also knew her shoe size, food preferences, important friends, and shopping habits.

  But files didn’t tell you how a woman moved, how she smelled up close. Taylor O’Toole got five-star reviews on both counts.

  Jack felt no gu
ilt at this intrusion into a stranger’s privacy. As a SEAL, he knew damned well that the U.S. government didn’t set up surveillance on civilians without justifiable cause.

  Not that Jack wanted this surveillance assignment. Demolition and bioweapons work was his real expertise, and he’d been in the middle of a training mission in the jungles of Puerto Rico when a chopper had landed, pulling him in for briefings about a top-level Navy scientist who’d gone missing with secret lab documents. Jack didn’t know what his attractive neighbor had to do with the kidnapped scientist, but as a SEAL, he wasn’t paid to know all the details.

  Right now his mission was to stay on top of Taylor O’Toole 24/7. If she was contacted, he was to document all details. If her involvement raised any red flags, he had orders to take her into custody. If she came under attack, he was to yank her out of harm’s way fast. Rumor had it that Taylor’s brother-in-law had pulled more than a few strings to ensure her protection, and Sam McKade had plenty of friends in high places after his act of heroism the prior year.

  But certain things continued to bother Jack, starting with Taylor’s fall from the rocks the day before. The explanation she’d given didn’t hold up. Jack knew that experienced climbers checked their gear and fixed protection obsessively, since their lives depended on it. Ropes didn’t just pull free, and bolts didn’t snap for no reason. Either her instructor had slipped up—or the equipment failure was no accident.

  Most people would have put the fall down to simple carelessness, the kind of thing that could befall any amateur, but Jack Broussard wasn’t most people and he never left questions unanswered. Being prepared had saved his skin a dozen times while walking point through a steamy Colombian jungle or prepping for a subzero dive in nightmare waters beneath a North Sea oil rig. Standing watch as part of a top-secret Navy operation involving experimental biological weapons and a missing Navy scientist meant you went by the book more than ever.

  Jack scanned the store again. Through the big front window he caught a glimpse of Rains, standing near a stocky man in a denim jacket. A third man had moved to the front counter, where he appeared to be buying cigarettes.

  A bus passed in a cloud of exhaust fumes, and a man in black spandex raced past on in-line skates. A few feet away a very pregnant woman crossed the sidewalk, pushing a collapsible shopping cart. Taylor O’Toole was still at the checkout counter, talking to the elderly clerk, and she looked up when the pregnant woman walked inside.

  As the door opened, the big man in the sweatshirt turned and angled his elbow across the front counter, studying the two women intently.

  Jack frowned, speaking quietly into the wireless mike at his collar. “Izzy, do you read me?”

  His hidden earphone crackled. “Loud and clear. What have you got?”

  “Standard surveillance so far. Taylor O’Toole seemed to be in pursuit of Harris Rains when he entered the Great Asia Convenience Store approximately two minutes ago. Over the last few minutes three males have entered, along with a pregnant female. The clerk, an elderly Asian male, is wearing a dark gray uniform. But something feels wrong.”

  “Say again?”

  “Something’s wrong, Izzy. Suddenly no one’s moving in there.” Jack watched the door, feeling another warning jab between his shoulders. “Check with the cops and see if a silent alarm has been reported at this location.”

  Jack rattled off the address impatiently, and his partner on this operation wasted no time on questions. Fast and thorough, Ishmael Teague was a man whose services didn’t come cheap, but so far they’d been worth every cent.

  Static hissed briefly. “No alarms called in.”

  “I still don’t like it, Izzy. Everyone looks too tense.”

  “What about Rains?”

  “He’s standing near the front of the store now, but he’s not moving. Neither are the two women.” Jack shifted carefully, looking for a better line of sight. “Wait a minute.” He stiffened as someone flipped the front door sign. “They just closed up.”

  “Barely two o’clock,” his partner said grimly.

  “So I noticed.” The SEAL looked around at the busy street. “Where are the Feds? They’re supposed to be baby-sitting Rains.”

  “Last I heard, they were in a Brown Taurus across the street.”

  Jack took a quick look. “No Brown Taurus. No sign of any Feds either.”

  “I’ll request an update on their status, but it may take some time.”

  “Something tells me we don’t have a lot of time.”

  Inside the store, the stocky man moved closer to Rains. Jack stripped off his nylon jacket, reached under his shirt, and eased the safety off his Beretta. “I’m going in, Izzy.”

  “Copy.”

  Jack was crossing the street when his tiny earphone crackled again. “Broussard, S.F.P.D. just received a silent alarm from your location. Robbery in progress—I repeat, robbery in progress. The Feds appear to have left the scene, so you are clear to move. I repeat, you are clear to move. Keep your head down and your powder dry, buddy. That’s an order.”

  Taylor stiffened as rubber soles squeaked behind her. She looked up to find the stranger in the torn sweatshirt moving closer.

  “Leave?” He leaned across the counter, frowning. His sweatshirt was stained and his eyes burned with angry energy. “Why would this beautiful lady wish to leave so soon, old man?”

  Taylor cleared her throat. “Because he doesn’t have what I asked for.” She tried to sound casual.

  “And what did you ask for? Maybe I have it.” The man’s voice ran over her like greasy fingers.

  Uh-oh. “Water,” Taylor said coldly. “Pellegrino water, I mean. And good chocolate. The Belgian kind,” she added. “Dark, no milk chocolate.”

  Once it was clear they didn’t have what she wanted, she would head for the door. Then she could call 911 on her cell phone.

  But the big man in the sweatshirt had other plans. He gave a little upward twitch of anger. “Water, old man. The lady wishes for the bubbly kind, yes?” As he spoke in accented English, he glanced toward the side of the store. The stocky man in the denim jacket had moved up behind Harris Rains.

  “Water, we have.” The clerk stood doggedly by the register. “But American kind only. And American chocolate only. Better the lady goes now.”

  Without warning, the man with the sweatshirt shoved the shopkeeper against the narrow counter. Taylor saw his hand slip into his front pocket.

  Not a gun. People pulled guns in the books she wrote, in scenes summoned from her imagination—not in living, breathing reality, inches away from her. The worst crime she’d ever witnessed up close had been an old woman trying to stuff Manolo Blahnik heels into her purse during Nordstrom’s annual summer sale.

  Toto, I think we’re a loooong way from Nordstrom’s.

  At the back of the store, the man in the denim jacket was speaking quietly to Rains, whose face was sheet-white.

  Taylor watched in shock as the man caught Rains in a wrestling hold and shoved him against the wall, searching his jacket. Taylor didn’t move, feeling the outline of her cell phone deep in her pocket as the man in the torn gray sweatshirt gestured angrily to his accomplice at the back of the store.

  “Finish it now,” he ordered. “We must go before they use the silent alarm.” Sweatshirt glared at the elderly Asian, shoving him against the counter again. “Is that right, old man? Did you just hit the alarm button?”

  “No alarms here.” The old clerk shook his head forcefully.

  “On second thought, American water will be fine,” Taylor said quickly. “Any kind will do.” As she spoke, she smiled and fingered the cell phone in her leather jacket. 911 calls via cell phone were automatically traced, and she prayed that the conversation would be audible through her pocket. “I’ll just take two of these little bottles right here on the shelf and be on my way.” She set two bottles of water firmly on the counter. Business as usual. Ignore the psycho glaring at you. “Can you ring that up, please?” she as
ked the frightened clerk. “I really need to get going.”

  Sweatshirt Man wasn’t having any of it. He hit the water bottles, knocking them to the floor. “Nobody will go anywhere until we’re done.”

  At the far side of the store, the man in denim gripped Rains’ arms and searched his pants pockets.

  Sweatshirt looked at Taylor. “A pretty lady like you should have whatever thing she wishes. I will help you, no?”

  Taylor stiffened. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

  The odd, restless eyes scanned the store. There was intelligence behind the cold energy, Taylor realized. There was also a plan at work. “Maybe you like to take a trip.”

  Taylor took a quick step back, only to feel a display case behind her. “Stay away from me.” When the man kept coming, she reacted without thinking, hurling her purse wildly toward him. But in her panic, the purse flew wide, sailing through the air and striking Harris Rains on the shoulder.

  Across the room, the pregnant woman fainted, knocking down a row of soda cans, which exploded across the floor. The man in the sweatshirt scowled, nodding at the third man in sunglasses, who pulled out a knife.

  The old man shot forward. “No. Leave her alone.”

  Everyone’s attention flashed to the clerk, who was brandishing a baseball bat which he had pulled from behind the counter. To prove his seriousness, he slammed the bat into a plastic candy display so that M&M’s shot through the room.

  Taylor noticed that the stocky man was on one knee, where he had stumbled on a soda can. Rains was now hiding behind a big plastic garbage can.

  Sweatshirt lurched across the aisle and began grappling with the clerk, who struggled to hold on to the bat. But the older man’s burst of energy was fading, as Sweatshirt yanked hard straining for control.

  Taylor decided now was the time for her to leave. Once outside, she could call for help. As she turned, the bat clattered to the floor behind her.

  A hand gripped her elbow. “You come too. We can use some company on the long drive ahead of us.”