by Cindy Dees
Amanda scowled at her partner’s foolishness. But then their quarry turned onto a side street. They couldn’t lose him!
“Come on!” She took off sprinting for the intersection. Lord, that hurt her ankle. She was grateful to stop and peek cautiously around the corner. Four Eyes stood in front of a lighted doorway, fishing in his pocket. Another man joined him, reaching up to pull a chauffeur’s cap lower on his brow. A heavy white cast was prominent on his forearm. She stiffened in recognition. The guy she’d shot in the wrist at the hotel. A key glinted under the street lamp, and the bespectacled man let himself into the warehouse. With a quick look around, the second man followed, leaving the street deserted once again.
Amanda and Taylor moved quickly toward the building, circling wide around the same pool of light where the others had stood moments before. A red rocking horse was stenciled on the door. They walked on and ducked around the side of the large building.
The warehouse and its yard stretched all the way to docks behind the building. It was a big, old structure, and the dockyard behind the tall hurricane fence was cluttered. No security system was visible outside the warehouse, but undoubtedly, the building itself had some sort of alarm. A small freighter moored at the dock was lit, and several of its crew could be seen moving around the deck. But all else was quiet.
She crouched, leading Taylor along the fence to a tall stack of wooden packing boxes just inside the fence. She indicated with a hand gesture for him to climb over. He might as well make himself useful out here. He laid his sport coat over the barbed wire, helped her over the fence, and they scrambled down the pile of crates together. She silently cursed her theater dress as it caught on a nail and tore slightly. There was no time to retrieve any cloth fibers. She pointed to the side of the building and Taylor led the way, darting from shadow to shadow behind stacks of packing materials. He was quick. Enough so that she caught herself being grateful she’d worn flat shoes so she could keep up with him.
He paused behind a pile of wooden pallets, and she took the lead, edging closer to the chest-high concrete loading ramp across the rear of the building. A number of large garage doors opened onto it. It was at the closest of these she gestured. Taylor nodded his understanding. She had to give him credit. So far, he wasn’t doing half-bad.
Between them and the warehouse lay one last stretch of open ground. She knelt just short of it and motioned him to come up beside her. She whispered in his ear, “We’ll have to run for it across this lighted area. We’ll head for the first of those doors and I’ll pop the lock. You cover me while I cross.”
Taylor nodded.
She frowned. “You do have your gun with you, don’t you?”
He removed a silenced Magnum from his pocket. “I even remembered to bring bullets,” he whispered back.
His comment almost startled a laugh out of her. Barely in time, she controlled the urge and glared at him instead. “Very funny. Just don’t screw up.” She pulled her own pistol out of her handbag and secured her skirt above her knees with her belt. “I’ll go on the count of three.” She took one last look around. No sailors were visible aboard the freighter. “One…two…”
A blaze of light lit the entire loading dock as all of its overhead lighting came to life. Bugger! She threw herself flat on the ground and wormed her way back behind a pile of packing material. Fortunately, Taylor was right beside her.
With a screech of metal, one of the large doors slid open and several men walked out. They were all burly and dressed in rough clothing. Longshoremen. Their conversation sounded like French, but not quite. Quebecois. From the snatches of intelligible conversation, she gathered that a shipment was bound for the freighter moored behind the warehouse, and these guys were none too pleased at the hour of night they were having to load it.
She looked around for a better vantage point to observe the activity. She sidled off with a gesture to Taylor to follow. They worked their way back around the side of the building. About halfway down was a permanently attached metal ladder leading to the roof. She climbed it quickly with Taylor right behind her.
The roof was a large, flat space broken by skylights protruding at even intervals. Light came from one corner, and they moved carefully in that direction. She peered down through the dirty, scratched skylight and made out several men in suits. The group was seated around a table, in a pool of light within the warehouse’s cavernous darkness. She heard the murmur of voices, but couldn’t make out any of the conversation. She glanced over at Taylor and put her hand behind her ear questioningly. He shook his head in the negative. Damn. After a short search, she found a piece of iron pipe among the scattered debris on the roof and passed it to Taylor. He carefully pried up a corner of the metal sheeting beside the skylight.
Gilles Fortesque’s voice floated up to them. “Here’s the bill of lading for your employer. I’m sure he’ll find everything is in order.”
The bespectacled man spoke in a gravelly voice, “I have no doubt of it. Do you include the usual guarantee of performance?”
Fortesque answered quickly, “Mais certainment.” But of course.
“Do you always speak French when you lie?”
There was a moment of charged silence while Fortesque contemplated whether the question had been a joke or a mortal insult. He chose to chuckle. “Ah, my friend, you must be careful. Your jokes could get you in trouble with someone less blessed with humor than myself.”
The bespectacled man stared coldly at Fortesque until the Canadian stopped laughing abruptly and snapped, “You have something for me, I believe.”
Four Eyes removed his spectacles, polishing them deliberately with his handkerchief before replying. “Shall we have a look at the merchandise first?”
Stiff jawed, Fortesque led him toward the back of the warehouse. The other men took up places near their respective employers as they moved off into the darkness. Amanda and Taylor followed along on the roof, peering in a skylight that lit up near the middle of the building.
Two of Fortesque’s men pried open a crate pointed out by Four Eyes. The bespectacled man reached in it and pulled out a Stinger missile launcher. He hefted the antiaircraft weapon to his shoulder expertly, staring down its thick metal length. He turned the piece over, inspected the firing assembly, then gently replaced it in its crate.
He nodded at another crate, which was duly opened. Long rows of automatic rifles gleamed dully. In all, he inspected twelve crates containing a variety of firearms and explosives, enough to equip a small army. Fortesque’s men were left to renail crates while the others moved back to the table. Amanda and Taylor retraced their steps across the roof, as well.
Four Eyes laid his briefcase on the table and removed a flannel bundle. He untied the string around it, rolled it out flat, lifted the flap and removed a handful of folded tissue papers.
He opened each one carefully and, one by one, revealed sixty spectacular diamonds. Fortesque scrutinized each stone under a jeweler’s loupe and put it back into its tissue-paper nest.
The bespectacled man seemed impatient at the excruciating inspection.
Fortesque glanced up, smiling wickedly. “Just making sure there were no substitutions.” He put down his loupe. “Yes, these will do quite nicely. They’re as fine as the last batch.”
“Mais certainment.”
Fortesque threw a sour look at his business associate. “How did your employer acquire so many more of these inconspicuously. He has a private mine, perhaps?”
Four Eyes shrugged noncommittally.
A last pile of paperwork came out, and Amanda and Taylor leaned close to catch the conversation. Abruptly, a dull thud sounded beside her ear, and slivers of wood exploded from the frame of the skylight. Holy shit. She dived to her stomach and scrambled around the far side of the raised skylight with Taylor in tow.
He whispered frantically in her ear, “What the hell was that?”
Eight
“What in blue blazes do you think it was?” Aman
da whispered in response to Taylor’s frantic question. “It was a bullet. There’s a sniper on the roof of that building across the street.”
Taylor looked at the neighboring warehouse, whose roofline was some fifteen feet higher than the one they lay on, and stated the obvious. “He’s got the high ground. We’ll never get a shot off at him.”
She pointed out, “Our more immediate concern is to get out of here before the gang downstairs hears the commotion and joins the fracas.” She thought fast. “The only way we’re getting off this roof is to move too quickly for the sniper to target us. We’ll split up and run from skylight to skylight. Don’t go in a straight line toward the ladder, and don’t move at even intervals. If you can get a fix on where the sniper is, shoot back. But at all costs, be unpredictable. And be fast. Got it?”
Taylor nodded grimly at her.
“Let’s do it, then.” She ran at top speed for the next skylight, and dived for cover as the wood frame exploded beside her. She repeated the maneuver two more times. It was hairy enough making her way across the roof that she was only partially able to keep track of Taylor’s progress. At one point he got pinned down badly, and she glimpsed a muzzle-flash across the street. She didn’t have a clear shot, but squeezed off a couple rounds to buy Taylor a couple extra seconds to make it across a particularly wide expanse of roof.
One final sprint and she lay panting beside him behind the last skylight before the edge of the roof. She eyed the open space, perhaps thirty feet wide. “If we stay low, the sniper won’t have a clear shot at us. But we’ll have to belly crawl to the ladder. Once you start moving, don’t stop for any reason. Just get off this roof. You understand?”
“Yeah. Always create a moving target. Amanda McClintock’s rule number forty-two.”
She spoke through gritted teeth. “We’ve probably got less than a fifty percent chance of making it to that ladder in one piece. You can die joking if you want, but I intend to go out fighting. Now get your laughing hide in gear and start crawling.”
“Ladies first,” he replied gamely.
“Can the macho crap. I’m in charge and I say you go first. I’ll cover you until you make it to the ladder, and then you can cover me.” She didn’t mention the part where, once he was on the ladder, Taylor wouldn’t have any angle to shoot at the sniper. She’d be completely undefended for the last bit of her trip across the roof.
He took off crawling with alligator-like power. She had to admit he did a mean low crawl. Almost there. Five more feet and he’d be out of the line of fire. Abruptly, wood splintered around him. Damn. The sniper must have moved. She stood up and fired back rapidly, emptying her first clip. She ejected it and slammed in her spare clip. But in the moment of quiet between barrages, a muted grunt of pain from behind her warned her that Taylor had been hit. Oh, God.
Taylor didn’t think he was ever going to reach the ladder.
White-hot pain burned his leg as if the limb was being roasted over a blazing fire. So much for all that crap about not feeling bullet wounds right away. He had to keep moving. If he didn’t, Amanda would undoubtedly do something heroic and foolish. He would not be responsible for getting her killed. He placed one elbow in front of the other, dragging himself inch by agonizing inch across the endless roof.
Suddenly, he was at the ladder, the metal pipes within reach. He grabbed them and rolled off the roof, swinging himself onto the steel rungs. Moving down a few steps, he felt a rivulet of blood course down his pant leg. He looked up, pistol in hand, and realized too late he couldn’t do a damn thing to cover Amanda from here. He popped off a couple shots in the general direction of the opposite roof in hopes that he could at least suppress the bastard’s fire until she was clear.
Come on, darlin’, he begged silently. He waited an eternity, but there was no sign of her. Crap. A vision of her hit and bleeding flashed through his head. He was on the verge of heading back up to the roof when her feet finally appeared above him. “Hurry,” he called out low.
“You think?” she grunted. “Go on. I’m clear.”
He descended awkwardly, as fast as his injured leg would go. Each rung put him further out of the gunman’s angle of fire. He was afraid like he’d never been afraid before. Nothing could possibly have prepared him for what it would feel like to be shot at. He was hurt, he didn’t know how badly, and suddenly he was vulnerable, defenseless, and very damn mortal.
“You okay?” Amanda murmured from above him, following him down so closely she nearly stepped on his hands.
“Dunno. My right thigh’s hit. I’m functional for now. Haven’t stopped to look at it,” he replied, breathing heavily.
“Don’t worry about being quiet. Just move as fast as you can. Hopefully the folks inside will think we’re some rats scurrying around.”
She sounded more disgusted than afraid. Apparently getting shot at wasn’t anything new to her. As the endless ladder stretched away below him, his thoughts raced in a dozen directions at once. How had they been compromised? And who had compromised them? How bad was his leg? Were they going to be able to get away from the warehouse? If he couldn’t move, he’d have to convince Amanda to go on without him.
Although it seemed to take forever, in reality it was probably only a matter of seconds before the ground loomed. He dropped the last ten feet or so and rolled onto his side. He felt his leg, and the nature of his wound was instantly apparent. A six-inch-long shard of wood stuck all the way through the outside of his right thigh. A bullet must have struck close to him, shearing off the length of wood and spearing it into his thigh. He used his belt to secure his handkerchief over the entry wound, which felt like the worse injury of the two. Amanda dropped the last few feet to the ground beside him.
“Well, that was fun,” he panted raggedly. “What’s next, boss?”
“Can you run?”
“Does it matter?”
“Good point. Let’s go.”
They ran. They headed into the waterfront district with its dark alleys and twisting side streets. Amanda set a killer pace, despite her bad ankle. Their feet hit the ground in unison and they fell into a synchronous rhythm with each other. Abruptly, it didn’t matter who was the expert and who was the amateur. Running for their lives together was a great equalizer.
He had no idea how he kept going through the tearing pain, but the choice of agony or death made it possible. Now and then he heard feet slapping the pavement behind them. Someone was definitely chasing them, which was no doubt why Amanda kept pressing on relentlessly. They didn’t dare stop until they were in the clear.
After nearly a half hour, he began to stumble, and then to stagger. Pinpoints of light danced before his eyes, and his head floated, detached from his numb and clumsy body. He was vaguely aware when Amanda grabbed his elbow and steered him into an alley just past a bar. She guided him behind a trash dumpster and propped him against the wall.
“How much farther, boss?” he mumbled.
“You’re done. Rest now.”
“Hallelujah.” He squinted at the circling double images of her. “I have to say this hasn’t been the most romantic date I’ve ever been on, Amanda.”
She smiled gently at him. Damn. Was that compassion on her face? No way. Not the ice queen. She murmured, “I don’t know about that. This evening has had its romantic possibilities. Like now. Here we are, tucked away in a dark, secluded spot all by ourselves.”
He flashed her a weak grin and slurred, “You planning on taking advantage of me?”
She gave him a sexy smile. “You think you’re up to it? Why don’t you sit down and make yourself comfortable, sailor.”
“Thought you’d never ask.” He slid slowly down the wall to the ground. His head landed on his chest, and he fell gently onto his side.
A cold knife of fear stabbed Amanda. Taylor had just passed out. From pain or blood loss, she had no idea. Quickly, she loosened the belt around his leg and lifted away the sodden handkerchief. So much blood! Her heart jumped into
her throat. An incoherent prayer to several assorted gods raced through the back of her mind. For once, she was glad the light wasn’t good enough to see much. She didn’t relish seeing Taylor’s beautiful body mutilated.
She pulled away the tatters of cloth from the wound on the side of his thigh and saw not the round, blackened hole of a bullet wound, but a long fragment of wood piercing the flesh of his upper thigh. It wasn’t imbedded deeply, having penetrated the skin and the heavy muscle of his thigh at an oblique angle. Relief flooded her, so strong it made her light-headed and slightly sick to her stomach. His injury wasn’t life-threatening.
It was still bleeding freely, however, and most of Taylor’s pant leg was soaked with blood.
Normally, she’d leave the wood in place and seek medical care before she pulled it out. But since the entry and exit wounds were still bleeding heavily, and the likelihood of his seeing a doctor any time soon was nil, she elected to take advantage of his unconsciousness and deal with the injury now.
She grasped the fragment firmly and gave a sharp yank. The piece of wood jerked free, and Taylor lurched in a spasm of pain even in his senseless state. A gush of blood spilled out of the ragged wounds, and she slapped her neck scarf and his handkerchief back over them, pressing hard. She held the pressure bandages a long time, until she could no longer feel blood seeping between her fingers, then secured them snugly in place with Taylor’s belt.
She tried to rouse him but with no great success. He opened one eye briefly to glare at her and didn’t appear the slightest bit interested in getting up. His eyelid drifted closed. She put her face about twelve inches from his and shook him again. She spoke urgently. “Listen to me. This is very important. Don’t move. I’m going to leave you here for a little while, but I’ll be back to get you. Just stay put. Do you understand?”
His eyes flickered and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”
She scowled and stood up. The man was exasperating even when he was half-dead. She took off his watch, fished in his pocket for his wallet and checked his tanned, strong fingers for any rings. He wore none. Next, she took his gun and spare clips. He didn’t need to be robbed just now, and she definitely didn’t trust him to use a gun wisely in his condition.