Then he pointed back toward the buildings.
Janelle followed his finger. She squinted, rubbed her eyes, peered into the darkness. A man stood at the corner of the nearest sound stage.
She couldn’t make out much of him, but she could tell he was on the chubby side. Something in his mouth flashed. A gold tooth. Was he grinning? His arm was bent and he seemed to have something in his hand. Was that what she thought it was?
And then she caught a glimpse of his hair. Neon green. It was Crow.
That bastard had set off the explosion with a remote control. Just like he’d done at the bank.
She felt for her weapon, drew it out, and scrambled to her feet. As fast as she could get over the littered ground, she ran straight for him.
“Red! Janey!” she heard Sloan cry behind her.
She ignored him.
But now Crow had disappeared inside the building.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Janelle reached the sound stage door where Crow had entered and flung it open.
The FBI issue Glock 22 Sloan had loaned her drawn, she stepped through and found herself in near darkness. She was in a hall of some sort. Doors on either side probably led to offices. At the far end of it, she saw movement.
She bolted toward it, but hadn’t taken two steps before the lights above her switched on. Turning her head, she saw Sloan with one hand on the switch, the other on his weapon. O’Cleary was coming through the door behind him.
So Sloan’s man had survived the blast, too. She felt a sense of relief to know that, though she wondered if Steele and Parker were still alive. She didn’t want to think about her sister.
She put a finger to her lips and turned around, leading the way to the end of the hall.
The passage made an L-turn, which she took, and made another turn after thirty more feet or so. Finally she reached a door at the end of the hall.
She opened it and found herself in a large dark space.
Crow had to have come this way. There was no other place to go. Unless he’d hidden in one of those offices. She should have checked them.
Unable to make out what was in front of her, she took a step and ran straight into a double rack of clothes. Sputtering, she stepped back as Sloan came up behind her with his maglite.
He ran it over the rack.
Loads of clothes were bunched together on hangers. Laced up bodices, long gathered skirts, petticoats, hooded cloaks. On the other side, headdresses and wigs were stacked on shelves. Medieval period. They must be in the costume department.
Something clanged at the end of the row.
Sloan moved toward it. Wesson hurried with him and O’Cleary to the end of the aisle and found a feudal-style knight’s helmet on the floor.
“He’s nearby,” Sloan whispered.
She nodded and listened hard. To her right was another long rack of costumes. Near the end of it, she thought she saw material flutter.
She dove in.
Now she was surrounded by thick full-skirted gowns with tons of intricate lace and brocade designs. Victorian period. The colors were gorgeous. Rich teals, deep purples, royal blues. And the fabrics. Silks and satins and velvets. Hats and fans and handbags were stacked on more shelves overhead.
Wesson had an involuntary urge to stop and admire the costumes, but she ignored it. That wasn’t her job anymore.
Now her job was to get the guy who had taken away her niece and might have killed her sister and her friends.
At Sloan’s hand signal, O’Cleary moved ahead of her and stepped to the end of the Victorian aisle. He peered down the next row then shook his head.
Had they lost him?
“Where the hell is he?” she hissed under her breath to Sloan, who was close behind her.
“Shh.”
“Don’t shush me,” she snapped.
“Jeez, you’ve got a temper worse that O’Cleary and he’s Irish.”
He was making her livid. “You sound like you’ve got him all sized up.”
“We go back a long way. He’s been a part of my team for years. He can be foolhardy at times, but the man is fearless.”
There was admiration in his voice, and affection. Janelle remembered what Miranda had said about Sloan losing some people who were close to him. She felt herself soften. After all, he was awfully good-looking.
“Look out!” O’Cleary cried.
Just then a wooden spear came flying through the air over the clothes rack and landed on the floor right next to the toe of Sloan’s dress shoe, its head wedged into the tile.
“That was close,” he said, trying not to sound rattled.
“Are you all right?” Janelle whispered.
Nodding, he pulled up the spear and gestured for her to follow him. They went around another rack of costumes—this one from the Twenties—with slinky glittery gowns and feathery boas and silk tuxedos brushing against their arms.
At the end of the aisle they came out at a wall full of shields, swords, axes, and spears. More medieval stuff.
O’Cleary grabbed a shield from the wall and headed through the open door.
“Are those real?” Janelle said softly.
Sloan shrugged. “O’Cleary didn’t stop to test them.”
Preferring her genuine weapon, she sprinted over to the door O”Cleary had gone through and peeked inside. It was a work room.
Two ironing boards stood near a dark window near several sewing machines. One of the dress forms had been knocked over, and a red-and-gold velvet cape lay on the floor.
Janelle wanted to pick it up and stroke the soft material. Instead she stepped over it and through the door on the other side of the room.
Now she was in a huge open space.
It was nearly dark, but she could make out the form of tall metal framework that climbed to the scaffolding thirty or so feet above. This was a storage space. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw the framework was actually a rack that held several large shelving units. Each shelf was stacked with poles and cameras, booms and light stands.
Beyond this rack a dozen more like it stood in symmetrical rows. They held carts and dollies, ladders and folding chairs, meters and electrical supplies. A myriad of filming equipment.
There was an open aisle before another set of racks picked up on the other side.
There must have been a mile of stuff. How were they going to find Crow now?
Suddenly a gunshot rang out.
Just as a bullet whizzed past their heads, Sloan ducked behind one of the side aisles pulling Wesson along with him. He peered around the end of the rack and fired back.
“Ah, hah. You missed me.”
Cocky SOB, wasn’t he? But now they knew he was nearby.
“You’re under arrest, Crow,” Sloan called out. “Give it up and make it easier on yourself.”
Crow’s reply was another shot, this time into the rack where they were standing.
Sloan ducked and grabbed Janelle’s hand so she came down with him.
“I’m okay,” she hissed at him.
He only gave her a confused scowl before crawling to the end of the rack and firing off another round.
It disappeared into darkness.
No comment from Crow. Had Sloan gotten him? And where the heck was O’Cleary?
Suddenly there was a loud clang and the clatter of poles falling to the floor. Then a few grunts and the sound of punches.
Then silence.
Crow’s voice called out again. “Come out into the open with your hands up, feeb, or I’ll blow his head off.”
Wesson peeked through the bars of the rack. Crow stood brazenly in the open aisle between the rows of racks. He had O’Cleary in a neck lock, a pistol pressed to his temple.
O’Cleary must have tried to sneak up behind him. How that fat little imp had won out over the big g-man, she couldn’t imagine, but the idea made her livid.
Sloan leaned close to her and whispered. “Stay here. I’ll take care of this.”
He wante
d to protect her? She didn’t know what to make of that. It felt kind of nice and her heart did a little flip. But there was no time for that now.
She had a better idea.
While Sloan stepped out into the aisle with his hands up, Janelle crept over to the far end of it. There was a space behind the rows of racks running alongside the wall. She could use it to make it over to where Crow was.
“Do you know what kind of time you’ll do for assaulting a federal officer?” she heard Sloan ask coolly.
“No time. I’ve got a good lawyer.”
“You’ve got Johnnie Cochran? I don’t think even he can save you.”
That’s right, Sloan. Keep him talking.
Janelle moved quickly, side stepping along the wall until Crow and O’Cleary came into view.
“Don’t need no fuckin’ Johnnie fuckin’ Cochran. Guess you don’t know how it works. Guess I’m gonna have to show you.”
Through the bars, she could see Sloan inching toward the target, his weapon still in his raised hand.
“You put on a pretty good show out back,” he said.
Crow cackled. “It was something, wasn’t it? And now all the Parker Agency dicks are dead dicks.”
Janelle’s breath caught. This creep had intended to kill the team from the Parker Agency?
She should kill him for that. But they needed him alive. They needed what he knew about Imogen.
She inched forward along the aisle. In the dim light she could see the gleam of Crow’s pistol. O’Cleary was crouched over, his face turning red while Crow’s chubby arm squeezed his neck.
Crow’s elbow waved free in the air behind him.
She’d have to be accurate or she could miss. Or worse, hit O’Cleary’s temple. But she was a good shot. She took aim, thinking of how she’d made the top score on the shooting range test at the Agency when she was an IIT.
“You don’t think you’ll go down for that, Crow?” Sloan took another step forward.
“You don’t listen, do you, feeb? Like I said, guess I’m gonna have to show you.” He raised his arm, turned it sideways in a gangstah-like move.
Now.
Janelle fired.
Her bullet whizzed through the air, caught Crow right in the funny bone.
With a ghoulish yowl, he let go of O’Cleary and leapt away as the gun tumbled from his hand. O’Cleary spun around and had the creep down on the floor in an instant.
Janelle knew it was only his training that kept him from choking the little twit.
She turned toward Sloan.
He had a silly grin on his face and was staring at her like he’d never seen a woman shoot before. Then he took over for O’Cleary, pulled a set of plastic flex-cuffs out of his pocket, and put them around Crow’s wrists.
“You’d better thank that lady over there,” he told his man. “She’s the reason your sorry ass is still alive.” And he turned to her and gave her a sexy wink.
Janelle couldn’t hold back a blush.
Finished, Sloan got to his feet. “Radio our unit to come take this guy in.”
“Yessir,” O’Cleary said, pulling Crow to his feet. “But I think the police are on the way already. That racket in the back was enough of an alert.”
Crow’s face twisted in an ugly grimace. “Ow. Watch it, dickhead. I’m gonna get you all on brutality charges.”
“Yeah? Tell it to Johnnie Cochran.”
“O’Cleary will get the information we need out of that guy,” Sloan said to her under his breath.
Just then Becker’s Brooklyn accent trickled through his radio. “Is anybody out there? We need some help.”
Sloan reached for the receiver. “What’s the problem, Becker?”
“We have a situation here. Can you spare anybody?”
“We’ll be right there.” Sloan nodded to O’Cleary and the man led Crow down to a door at the end of building.
Janelle started after him.
“Hey, Red,” Sloan said behind her.
She turned around. “What?”
And then he shocked the heck out of her.
He took her hand, pulled her to him, and planted his lips against hers in a soul-stirring kiss.
Janelle felt her knees turn to applesauce, her head start to spin like a top. She leaned into him, breathed in the smoky scent of his ruined suit, put her hands on his muscled biceps. Oh, this feeb’s lips tasted good after what they’d just been through. Tangy and sweet. Like salted caramel. Her heart was doing flip-flops.
Wow. He made her shiver all over. No one had ever done that. She’d never felt this way before in her whole life.
He let her go and they stared at each other with watery eyes for half an eternity.
Then O’Cleary’s voice rang out from the other side of the building. “You two coming or not?”
Chapter Fifty-Five
They found Becker and Holloway back at the “Three’s a Party” set straddling two big hulking guys in leather vests with long wavy hair and beards.
Savage Skulls.
“We caught them off guard when they came to get the money from the drawer,” Becker said with glee, holding onto a leather strap around his guy’s wrists. “You should have seen the smack Holloway gave that guy. Had to use my belt on this one so I could get my hand free to call for help.”
“Glad you did,” Sloan said as he pulled two more flex-cuffs out of his pocket. He tossed one to Holloway, who had his guy in a Marine style arm lock, and used the other one to take over for Becker.
When he was finished, he radioed O’Cleary.
“Back up’s on the way,” he told them after speaking with his man. “We’ve got a car to take these folks in along with Crow.”
As he got to his feet, Janelle saw blood coming from Holloway’s nose. There was a cut on Becker’s forehead. “Are you two all right?”
“These two put up a good fight,” Holloway said, swiping an arm under his nose. “But we got ’em.” He described the tussle he and Becker had had with the gang members.
After a few minutes, Janelle heard the door to the sound stage open and another FBI man appeared at the edge of the set. He helped Sloan hustle the two thugs out the door, amid more cussing and threats of lawsuits.
Sloan didn’t say goodbye. He had his hands full. Maybe she’d see him again. Maybe not.
They still had to find Imogen.
“Hey, what’s all the commotion out there?” Becker wanted to know after they had gone.
Janelle didn’t know how to tell them. “Draco left Olivia a message in the sci-fi set telling her to go to a wreckage scene in the back lot. He said Imogen would be there.”
“And was she?”
“No. As soon as we got there, the whole thing blew up. Literally. It was rigged with dynamite and fireworks. Crow set it off remotely. We just caught him.”
Becker stared at her wide-eyed. “It blew up?”
“That was the explosion we heard?” Holloway said.
Janelle nodded. “Yes.”
“Where is everybody? Are they okay? Mr. Parker? Steele?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see them. Or Olivia.”
“Then we have to go and find them.”
“You’re right. Let’s go.”
And with her heart breaking all over again, she followed her two colleagues outside and down the nearest path back to the back lot.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Parker lifted his head and coughed. The smoke in the air all around him burned his throat, his eyes.
He raised himself on one arm and turned toward the explosion. The last of the fireworks sputtered and shot through the air, but the devastation wasn’t finished. What had been the jumbo jet was now encased in flames, a fireball as high as a tall building, as wide as the set itself. He could feel the heat from here.
Destruction upon destruction. Like the end of the world.
And was it?
“Miranda,” he called out sharply, suddenly fearing the worst. Pain stabbed at his ribs
. His old injury from London flaring up.
He coughed, but forced out the name again. “Miranda.”
No reply.
He got to his feet. His jeans and shirt were torn and smelled burnt. He brushed them off as best he could and ran a hand through his hair. Dust and plaster fell from his head. He must look like a war refugee. And if he was in this state, what injuries had the rest of the team suffered?
“Sloan,” he cried. “O’Cleary. Janelle. Olivia.” He blinked and peered through the smoky air.
Silence was the only answer.
He went a few paces and found his maglite. He picked it up, pressed its button, and it came on. It still worked. The FBI had sturdy equipment.
He used it to scan the gray mounds of dirt and ash and debris around him. He found nothing but more debris. At least he hadn’t found a body. Yet.
“Miranda,” he called out again. “Miranda.”
Still no answer. Where was she?
As he continued to search along the ground, bitter thoughts began to consume him. They never should have taken this case. They’d failed. It hadn’t been worth the cost. But he knew neither of them had had a choice.
Had he lost her? Had he lost the love of his life? All for the sake of finding a lost little girl? Tears began to sting his eyes. But, no. Looking for a lost little girl was just the way Miranda Steele would have wanted to go.
Would he be uttering those words in her eulogy soon?
His heart was breaking, but he stopped wandering. The air cleared a bit. Down below the hill near the edge of the sound stages he saw a figure lingering alongside the farthest building’s corner.
Parker blinked, studied the shape of the face, the man’s build.
Was that who he thought it was? How could it be?
But even though he was far away, Parker knew the figure. It was the man he had seen less than twenty-four hours ago.
Sloan’s hunch had been right.
Parker reached for his weapon, found it where he’d tucked it in his belt. He drew it out, checked the clip. Fully loaded.
And then, rage suddenly consuming him like the flames behind him, he ran after the man.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The Stolen Girl Page 21