At the corner, Stephen paused long enough to see Julia moving backward toward them, pistol poised. Then he and Allen were around the corner, into a different world where crowds didn't gather to witness bloody battles. Halfway down the block, in the circular drive of the Marriott-Knoxville's entrance, guests pulled luggage from their cars' trunks. Taxis and private vehicles lined both sides of the street.
A shot rang out, and Julia rounded the corner, crashing into them.
"Move it! He's coming!"
They bolted toward the hotel entrance, then Julia yelled, "Wait! Wait! Not there. It's too obvious."
She scanned the narrow stores that occupied this half of the block. All the shops carried expensive jewelry, clothes, and objets d'art. Their facades were all display windows and glass doors, which led no doubt into tastefully sparse showrooms; none looked like a particularly shrewd place to hide. Certainly they had back rooms, but not necessarily rear exits.
"The hotel!" Stephen rasped. "It's the only way!"
"No, here!" Allen said, pointing at the curb.
"What?" Stephen asked.
"Yes!" Julia said. "Under the cars! Now!"
She dove into the space between two parked cars, pushed the gym bag under the front one, and disappeared after it. Allen shoved Stephen toward the car behind hers and shimmied under the vehicle behind that. Stephen hunkered down and slid into the narrow space. Something bit into his back, and he pushed closer to the asphalt, scraping his body along. He craned his neck to be sure his legs weren't exposed.
Through the slim opening between the high curb and the car frame, he witnessed the killer's head pop around the corner. Gone again. A second later, he swung into view, a silenced pistol extending from one arm. Failing to spot his quarry, he lowered the gun and stepped to the first display window. He moved to the next window, spinning around between the first and second to check the area across the street and down toward the hotel. He moved with fathomless agility, like water erupting from a fountain. He flowed past Allen, past Stephen.
A boy of about thirteen on a skateboard approached at top speed, the wheels of his ride clack-clack-clacking on the pavement seams. The killer's arm shot out. He grabbed the boy by the shirt and lifted him off the skateboard, which sailed on without him.
"Where are they, boy?" the killer hissed into the teen's face. "A woman. Two men. Where?"
"I . . . I . . . don't know what you're talking—"
He tossed the boy aside like dirty laundry. The kid tumbled on the cement, coming to a stop facedown. When he lifted his head, he was staring right at Julia.
forty-three
The boy's eyes were huge. His mouth quivered, and she
was sure he would scream out.
She raised a finger to her lips.
The boy rotated his head a bit, saw Stephen under the car behind her. He swiveled around to look over his shoulder. The killer was glaring into a store window thirty feet away. He turned again to Julia, frightened eyes staring into frightened eyes. With a slight smile, he hopped up and bolted away from the killer, toward his wayward skateboard.
More man in that hoy than I thought.
As the killer made his way toward the entrance of the Marriott-Knoxville, Julia tried to anticipate his moves. Would he assume they took refuge in the hotel? Would the lobby area occupy his time long enough for them to escape? Or would he simply threaten the valets for information, as he had the boy? Perhaps this time with his pistol— picking off one to motivate the others.
Yes, she suspected that was his style.
Even if no one had seen them dive under the cars, the valets would surely convince him that the three hadn't entered the hotel. He'd keep tracking them outside, eventually thinking to look under the parked cars.
So what to do?
A pebble bore into her elbow. She tried to push it away and knocked her head painfully on the car's undercarriage. Something warm and wet touched her scalp—blood or oil. No matter . . .
He was almost at the hotel entrance. Could she bear to see him sacrifice a life in his search for them? No way. A threatening move was all it would take to push her into offensive action.
Images of last night's firefight brought a dark cloud of pessimism to her thoughts. Acid roiled through her stomach, and her mind ached at the need to know how this man had survived, how he had come back. Even in the heat of battle, the perplexity of it pushed at her thoughts. Had last night really happened at all? Had she been hypnotized? Drugged? Was she going crazy?
Not now, Julia! she scolded herself. Focus. Focus on this killer— whoever, whatever he was.
He had turned from the window and was scanning the row of cars parked along the street, paying particular attention to the taxicabs closest to the hotel entrance. He stepped to the next store's window.
She fished something out of a side pocket of the gym bag, then twisted around to look back at Stephen. The big man was absolutely packed under the vehicle. Bits of gravel clung to his beard, and a smudge of grease marred his forehead. His face expressed miserable distress. He spread his hands and opened his eyes wide, as if to say, What are we going to do?
She signaled him to stay put. Behind him, Allen was making emphatic hand movements at her, shaping his hand into the form of a pistol and jabbing it toward the killer: Shoot him! She gave Allen the stay-put signal as well. She crawled on her belly until her head was even with the front bumper. The car in front of her was a taxi. The killer had just stepped to the next store window when she made her move: she crawled out from under the car, staying low; then she turned onto her back and pushed herself under the taxi. A few moments later, her head popped out from under the vehicle on the street side. As she expected on this hot day and with the engine turned off, the cabbie's window was down.
203
"Hey," she whispered sharply. When there was no reaction evident in the elbow that protruded from the window, she tapped on the door. The elbow disappeared, and the car rocked a bit as the cabbie looked around.
"Down here!"
The door opened just a crack, and a startled face looked down at her.
"What the—?" he began, but she stopped him by displaying her badge and photo ID.
"Shhhhh," she whispered. "I'm a federal agent." She flipped her credentials case closed and raised the other hand, which held a wad of cash. "Take this, close your door quietly, and I'll tell you what I need you to do."
He hesitated briefly, then did as she had instructed.
While he was counting the bills, she whispered, "Don't look my way. Just do what you were doing before I got here." She lowered her head to see that the killer had reached the hotel and was scanning the area. She tucked her head under the car before a passing vehicle took it off. She whispered louder.
"Okay, listen. Give me fifteen seconds to get out from under here, then burn rubber outta here. Make a U-ie and haul down the street as fast as you can. Don't stop for anything—lights, traffic, anything. Got it?"
The whispered voice floated down from the cabbie's window. "Lady, you only gave me forty-seven bucks."
"It's all I have. If you get in trouble with the cops, with your boss, the Bureau will straighten it out. All you have to do is push it for about five miles, and you're forty-seven dollars richer. Deal?"
"Yeah, yeah. Fifteen seconds."
She backed away from the edge of the cab. Then she saw the killer and froze. He had a valet by the hair, bending him back and gripping his neck with a gauntleted hand. She knew too well what that felt like. She was reaching for her pistol when the cab's engine roared like a waking beast. She moved away fast, banging her head on the muffler. She'd just rolled onto her belly and slipped back under the other car when the cab screeched in reverse, slamming into hers. Grime rained down on her. She wondered frantically if the cabbie had misunderstood or was trying to annoy her, then realized that he had to pull away from the cab in front of him to get out. The rear tires started spinning on the blacktop, generating an unbelievable amount of smoke and sound.
The cab shot out into traffic, cutting a semicircle across three lanes, and sped away in the other direction. Horns blared and wheels locked in a chorus of wailing tires. Several cars smashed into each other.
And the killer did precisely as she had anticipated.
He dropped the valet and galloped into the street after the cab. His feet flashed by Julia's hiding place. She turned to watch his progress, but he was instantly out of sight, lost among the traffic. She heard cars a block away sounding their horns and locking their brakes. The cabbie was doing quite a job for forty-seven bucks.
She was out from under the car in seconds, chunks of greasy dirt falling from her hair and clothes.
"Allen! Stephen! Move it!"
She draped the gym bag's strap over her shoulder and stood on her tiptoes. The killer was two blocks away, only a half block from the cab. He stopped. Julia's breath wedged in her throat—she knew what he was doing. The back window of the cab shattered, shot out by the killer's silenced weapon. The cab veered and bounded onto the sidewalk.
I got him killed!
But it kept moving, coming off the sidewalk and swerving around a parked car. It made a sharp turn and disappeared. It took the killer a full ten seconds to reach the same spot and disappear himself.
Sirens warbled around the corner where the bank stood, then stopped. Witnesses would soon inform the police of the direction they had fled.
Allen and Stephen reached her side, congratulating her for a brilliant move.
"It's not over yet," she said. "Stephen, you going to make it?"
He touched his side and grimaced. "Yeah. Nothing a tight Ace bandage and some ibuprofen won't ease."
"Good enough." She ran to the first taxi in line.