The Girl Who Knew Too Much(54)
“Turn down the lantern,” he said.
She heard him slam the old, rusty bolt home, locking the door. Unfortunately, that left the two windows. Both had been shattered long ago, leaving only a few shards of glass in the frames.
She hurried to the lantern and put it out. At least they would no longer be silhouetted in its glare.
She whirled around to see what was happening. The headlights of two motorcycles were halfway down the warehouse road. They were forced to halt behind her Ford.
The engines roared, the riders enraged by the obstacle.
“Your car is blocking their path,” Oliver said. He spoke from somewhere near one of the empty windows. “They’ll have to get off their motorcycles if they want to come any closer. That will even the odds a little. Get down. Stay away from the windows.”
She lowered herself to her hands and knees. In the glare of the motorcycle headlights shining through the windows, she saw the silhouette of Oliver’s gun.
She fumbled with the catch of her handbag. Her fingers closed around the grip of the small pistol she kept inside.
“I’ve got one, too,” she said.
“Of course you do,” Oliver said. He sounded resigned. “Ever fired it?”
“No. How hard could it be?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“There are bullets in it,” she said, offended by his tone.
“That helps.”
She ignored the sarcasm. “Do you really think they mean to kill us?”
“Damned if I know,” he said. “But whatever they came here to do, they intend to do it to you. They don’t know I’m here. Not yet, at any rate. That gives us an edge.”
“Daisy Jennings?”
“She’s dead in the water out back.”
“Dear heaven. Another drowning. Just as you predicted.”
There was some shouting from outside. Two men, Irene realized. One man yelled at the other.
“Do it. Hurry.”
“One of them is off his motorcycle,” Oliver reported. “He’s coming toward the warehouse. He’s got something in his hand.”
“Gun?”
“Yes, in one hand,” Oliver said. “That’s not what’s worrying me. It’s what he’s got in his other hand that could be a very big problem. I just saw a flash of light. The bastard lit a fuse. Stay down.”
A rapid staccato of gunshots roared in the night. Irene heard some of them thud into the wall behind her.
“Cover fire,” Oliver said. His tone was devoid of all emotion.
“Cover for what?” Irene asked.
A fiery object sailed through one of the empty windows and landed on the floor. It exploded on impact. Flames leaped.
“Cover for a firebomb,” Oliver said.
His gun roared once, twice.
“The bitch has a gun,” one of the motorcyclists screamed. “No one said she was armed.”
“Oliver,” Irene said.
He fired two more quick shots.
There was another scream from outside the warehouse, an unmistakable howl of agony.
One of the motorcycle engines roared furiously in the night.
“Dallas, I’m hit,” a man yelled. “Wait for me.”
The single motorcycle howled away on the dirt lane, the sound of the engine fading rapidly.
“One down,” Oliver reported. “The other one is leaving. We have to get out of here. Rear door.”
The hungry flames had begun to consume everything in their path. The heat was mounting but Irene knew that the real danger was the smoke.
She dropped her gun into her handbag, leaped to her feet, and ran for the wedge of moonlight that marked the freight door.
She heard the heart-stopping thud behind her and knew instantly what had happened. She stopped and whirled around.
In the blazing light she saw Oliver sprawled on the floor.
“Oliver.”
“Go.” The order was ice-cold and infused with savage determination. “Get the hell out of here.”
“I’m not leaving without you.”
She rushed back to him and grabbed his arm.
“Damn it, Irene—”
She crouched and got her shoulder under his arm. Calling on every ounce of strength she possessed, she straightened.
Somehow, between her desperation and the leverage he was able to apply with his undamaged leg, he was able to regain his feet. She grabbed his cane and handed it to him.
Together they made their way toward the freight door. Oliver’s limp was worse than ever—he was staggering now, forced to lean on her to keep himself upright. She knew he must have been in agony but he did not say another word. Neither did she. There was no point. Either they both made it out of the inferno or they didn’t.
They passed the crate where Jennings’s handbag sat.
“Get it if you can,” Oliver said, his voice harsh.