Pausing for just a moment outside the mall, she took Mattie’s hand in hers.
“Stay with me,” she said, leading her across the taxi and tour bus service road and weaving through the throng of summer vendors, lined up under umbrella carts, selling bottled water and WASHINGTON, DC T-shirts. The air was thick, but she didn’t know if it was humidity or dread.
She cursed herself for not taking a closer parking spot. Her pride had made her want to show off to her daughter, so she’d parked across the street in the larger Costco lot, hoping to demonstrate that she was tough and resilient.
The blond man didn’t move from his post by the Metro escalator, and made no secret of the fact that he was now staring directly at Kim. He must have taken the Metro tunnel out from the food court level of the mall and surfaced outside to wait.
Kim shot a quick glance up and down the street. She fought the urge to scream for help, realizing she was in the middle of a crowded sidewalk, and nothing had actually happened. The area around Washington, DC, was a busy place any time of year, but summer was the worst with visitors from all over the world pouring out of buses, taxis, and rental cars. Every ten feet she saw someone who looked like they might be working with the man by the Metro. There was a crosswalk to her right, halfway down the block at Fifteenth Street. It would be closer to where she’d parked the car across the street at the Costco lot. But the crowds thinned out down there. She made a decision to cross mid-block, staying with the herd for protection.
There were plenty of people here, she reasoned. No way anyone would try anything in the open in broad daylight.
Mattie kept quiet, sensitive to her mother’s mood. With Jericho Quinn as her father, she was much more accustomed to sudden violence that any seven-year-old should have to be.
Kim was sure the pedestrian light was the longest in history of mankind. A middle-aged man in a loose Hawaiian shirt asked if she needed help crossing the street and she nearly punched him out of panic. Realizing he was just being kind, she thanked him instead and assured him she was fine. The last word had no sooner escaped her mouth than a tan minivan squealed up to the curb and stopped directly in front of her.
The door slid open and two men jumped out to the sidewalk. Both wore absurd-looking clown masks. One grabbed for Mattie while the other planted both palms in Kim’s chest and gave her a rough shove, sending her sliding on her butt on the pavement.
The man in the Hawaiian shirt stepped in between the kidnapper and Mattie, shooing her behind him as he punched the other man in the jaw. He was strong, certainly no out-of-shape tourist, and the blow connected with a loud crack. He went to follow up, but the man who’d shoved Kim shot him twice for his trouble. He staggered, then slumped to the sidewalk.
“Mattie, run!” Kim screamed. She was on her feet in a moment, forgetting how difficult such a simple task had been in physical therapy. Swinging her cane like a baseball bat, she struck out at the gunman, impacting on the base of his skull. He squealed in pain and staggered into his companion. Kim swung again, but the aluminum cane was much too light to do any real damage and the kidnapper grabbed it in midair, yanking her to him and into his waiting fist.
Kim had never been hit so hard in her life and found it oddly liberating. She’d heard Jericho say punches didn’t really hurt until later and was astonished to find out how right he was. Instead of wilting like a battered woman, she launched herself against her attackers with the renewed fury of a mother protecting her child. She tore at the gunman’s eyes with her fingernails, screaming like a madwoman, intent on ripping his face off his body.
Nearly back to the doors of the mall, Mattie stopped in her tracks when she heard her mother’s cries. She had her father’s blood in her veins, so it was no surprise when she turned on her heels and ran back to help her mother.
The man with the blond flap of hair caught her as she came past and scooped her up in his arms.
“Let’s get you out of here,” he said, trapping her arms and legs so she could do the least damage with all her kicking and screaming.
“No!” Kim screamed, as the gunman hit her again, this time sending a shower of fireworks exploding behind her eyes. “Mattie!”
A distant roar seemed to fill the street, growing louder as Kim’s vision cleared enough for her to make out what was happening.
A Harley-Davidson motorcycle roared up the mall service road, scattering tourists and vendors. At the same moment a black GMC pickup jumped the curb, ramming the minivan and raking the gunman with a running board. The biker rode straight for the blond kidnapper, striking him with the front tire before he could throw a squalling Mattie into the minivan. She scrambled out of the way, running back toward the mall.
Six feet, two inches of extremely angry grandfather boiled out of the black pickup. Pete Quinn sent a massive fist crashing into the temple of the stunned gunman, felling him like a tree. He bounced the second man’s head off the hood of the minivan as the man on the motorcycle jumped off the bike and ran for the open door of the van. He was wearing a helmet, but moved with the same easy stride of Jericho. It had to be his brother, Bo.
The frantic driver threw the minivan in reverse, narrowly missing the downed Good Samaritan in the Hawaiian shirt, and then sped away down Hayes Street, fishtailing around the corner to disappear down Fifteenth.
Kim breathed a measured sigh of relief.
The sullen blond tried to push himself to his feet, but Jericho’s father put the toe of his heavy leather boot to good use, nearly kicking the man’s head off his body. As far as he was concerned, anyone stupid enough to grab his granddaughter would get no forgiveness in this world or the world to come.
The gunman’s jaw hung oddly to the side, half out of its socket, courtesy of the punch from the man in the Hawaiian shirt. He jumped up and attempted to run, but Bo grabbed him by the collar, yanking him into a devastating left hook that reset his jaw and crumpled him into an unconscious heap.
Once she saw Mattie was okay, Kim half knelt, half fell to the pavement beside the wounded Good Samaritan. Her damaged prosthetic splayed awkwardly to one side, but there was nothing she could do about that now. She put a hand to his chest, pressing against the bullet wound. He was still breathing but losing a lot of blood.
“Thank you,” Kim whispered. “For helping us.”
The man smiled, but grimaced when he tried to speak.
A crowd of onlookers began to gather, happy to form a circle around the commotion now that the apparent danger had passed. Several people called 911 at the same time, arguing about what happened and their actual location. There was a firehouse just blocks away and sirens blared moments later. An ER nurse coming out of Fashion Center mall stepped in and relieved Kim to care for the man in the Hawaiian shirt. Pete Quinn, Jericho’s father, helped her back to her feet.
“You okay?” He put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. His dark hair was mussed and the top button of his shirt had been torn off, but there was a glint in his eyes that said he’d enjoyed the scrap. He was broader than either of his sons, bigger boned, but he moved with the same purposeful intensity that Kim had always seen in Jericho. In all the years she’d known her former father-in-law, he’d always been in the shop or out working on the boat. They’d really never sat down to have a long conversation. To see him now, like this, was nothing short of mind-blowing.
Kim thanked him, panting so hard she could hardly speak. She fanned her face with an open hand. She’d just thought she’d been sweating before.
“I think my new bionic leg is toast,” she said, glancing down at the bowed metal that no longer bent correctly at her knee. She dabbed her lip, tasting blood. “Where did you guys come from?”