Seconds to Live(92)

Stella checked the two-by-two closet. Empty. “Clear.”

She rejoined Brody in the hall. The final door was closed. Brody opened it and they went in, a table lamp lighting their way. The room was empty. Stella checked under the bed. Brody headed toward the closet. “We’re all clear.”

Relief tried to slip through her, but her instincts were still on alert. Post-traumatic stress or real threat? That was always the question these days.

“I guess Mr. Crawley isn’t that anxious to talk to us.” Brody holstered his weapon.

But Stella still had the creeps. She put her Glock away. “I don’t like this.”

“Stella.” Brody was staring at the opposite wall. Stella turned. Over the bed, bright red letters spelled BOO.

Fear prickled hot on Stella’s back. Unfortunately, it wasn’t her PTSD.

“Let’s get out of here.” Brody prodded her with a hand to the arm.

Crack. Something struck the ceiling above her head. Bits of ceiling rained down on her. Gunshot?

Confusion and fear jolted Stella.

“What was that?” She ran to the hall with Brody shoving her from behind.

“Gunshot.”

With his gaze on the floor, Brody steered her to the edge of the corridor. The floor squeaked underfoot.

Crack.

“Shit. He’s shooting at us from the apartment below.” Brody’s hand dropped off Stella’s shoulder. She turned. He was down on one knee. Blood seeped through his gray slacks. He waved her away and yelled, “Go! Get out of here.”

Not going to happen.

Drawing her weapon, she fired three shots through the floor, aiming at the bullet holes. Then she turned back to Brody, grabbed his wrist, and ducked under his arm. She half-dragged him to the door, staying off the direct path. Another shot came though the floor inches from her foot. Wood splintered. Something stung her ankle.

Stella yanked the door open, and they staggered onto the wooden landing of the staircase. Brody’s weight sagged on Stella’s frame, and she was forced to holster her gun and wrap her right arm around his waist to keep him upright as they hobbled down the steps. Stella’s ears rang as they made it to the walkway.

A door slammed and footsteps on concrete faded.

The shooter was getting away. Stella wanted to chase him. Brody went down, and Stella stumbled. Recovering, she turned to look back in the direction of the gunman.

But Brody was on the ground, pale and bleeding.

She’d have to let the shooter go. Again.





Chapter Thirty-Three

“Have you seen this girl?” Mac held up the picture of Gianna.

A man in jeans and a T-shirt bearing the logo of a local bar emerged from his apartment, closed the door behind him, and locked it. He squinted at the photo. “I think she lives around here.”

“She lives in the next building,” Mac said. This apartment had a good view of the parking area. “She disappeared sometime last night.”

“Sorry. I’m a bartender. I work nights.” He took a step toward the lot.

“Have you seen any weird activity around here lately?” Mac asked.

“Nothing any weirder than usual. I gotta go. Hope you find your friend.”

“Thanks.” Mac tucked the picture into his back pocket. He’d knocked on every door in Gianna’s building, and every door with a view of her apartment or the parking area. Now what?

He walked back to stand in front of Gianna’s unit, facing the rows of cars. A strip mall lined the road on the other side of the cracked asphalt. Tattoo parlor, Laundromat, check cashing. He walked across. Cool moisture in the wind promised another storm.

He stepped onto the curb on the other side. The streetlight was out, and darkness smothered the sidewalk. A shoe scraped on cement. Mac froze, his instincts on alert.

In the storefront window, he caught the reflection of two figures moving in the shadows behind him. Mac ducked into an alley between the buildings. The narrow space would force the men to attack him one at a time, if that was their intent.

Since they followed him into the alley, he assumed it was.

A hulk of a man rushed him, his beefy arm looping over his head. Mac whirled and focused on his attacker’s hand. A knife. The blade ice-picked toward Mac’s head. He side stepped out of the weapon’s path and caught the man by the wrist with both hands. Redirecting his assailant’s momentum, Mac guided the weapon down. Following the natural arc of motion, the point slid into the man’s thigh.

He howled. A second man rushed at Mac from behind the first. Small, lighter, more nimble. Ripping the knife free, Mac swept the first man’s leg out from under him and shoved him at the second. Number two tripped over his pal and went face-first into the cement. He got a knee under his body and turned back, blood streamed from his nose and triangled over his chin. With a roar, he scooped a broken bottle from the ground and charged.