Exit Strategy (54 page)

No time!

“Dubois!” I screamed. “Get out!”

I grabbed the nearest thing, a brass planter with a fake tree. I seized the thin trunk with both hands, and swung the planter at the window. It flew through the glass, the planter sailing free into the backyard.

One brusque sweep with the tree to clear the glass from the sill. Then I threw it aside.

“Dubois!” I screamed, voice cracking.

I backed up and took a run at the window. Grabbed the sill—vaulted through—a whoosh behind me—searing pain—a smack like an airbag going off—the force of explosion propelling me out the window—ground flying up to meet me—darkness.

I came to with a jolt, my limbs flailing as if I was still falling. I tried pushing myself up. A sudden “Oh, my God!” wave of pain, and I fell face-first to the grass again.

I had to get up. If Wilkes saw me fly out that window—

Quinn—Quinn and Felix. They were out here somewhere, watching the backyard. Had they seen—?

Another boom, and the night lit up. I craned to look over my shoulder. The house was in flames, the windows and doors yawning holes. Quinn and Felix would see that and assume I was still inside, that I’d been caught asleep.

Did Dubois make it? I couldn’t worry about that. Had to get up. Find—

Wilkes.

I reached for my gun. The holster was empty.

I started looking around wildly as I pushed up onto my elbows. A sharp throbbing coursed through my wrist. My right wrist. My gun hand.

Doesn’t matter. Just find the damned thing and worry later about whether you can fire—

Something moved across the lawn. A tall broad-shouldered figure. Quinn!

My lips were parting to call a greeting, then something in the house flared and the flash of light illuminated a face under pale hair. Wilkes. Looking right at me. Heading for me. A slender barreled gun dangled at his side. Even half-stunned, my brain coughed up an ID before I could ask it for one. A Ruger Mark II with a suppressor.

Fury coursed through me, so strong I had no hope of beating it back. Couldn’t even form a clear thought. Could only glower up at Wilkes like a cornered beast. Then I saw the gun glide down, moving into position, and my brain snapped back on.

Don’t fight the anger. Use it.

A gun like that is made for contact hits. Small caliber, inaccurate with the suppressor, still noisy if fired from a distance. He’d want to walk right up to me and put the gun to my head. I had a chance…

I moved into a crouch, my gaze on Wilkes. He smiled, close enough for me to see the flash of his teeth. Then he aimed. I rolled just as he fired and the bullet tore a furrow in the grass inches from my shoulder. A second shot as I rolled the other way.

I scrambled to my feet as I came out of the roll. Pain shot through my ankle. Just sprained, I told myself, even as the ripping pain screamed otherwise. Didn’t matter. Pain was nothing. An obstacle. Not a barrier.

I dove for the nearest shadow cover—the row of hedges alongside the fence. A bullet struck the middle of my back. The armor protected me, but the impact was like someone giving me a hard shove. I stumbled. My ankle gave way. I pitched forward.

No! Fall and you’re dead. Get into those bushes. Now!

I pulled myself out of the stumble as a bullet grazed my upper arm. Three lurching steps, and I dove into the bushes. A shot smacked into the fence boards. Wilkes let out a muttered oath.

Not used to firing that thing at a moving target, are you?
I thought. Not used to firing more than one shot, either. And time was ticking. A house had just exploded. Cops, fire trucks, ambulances, they’d all be here…if Jack and the others didn’t beat them. Wilkes was running out of time, shooting too quickly, wasting his ammo, firing at a moving target in the dark, the only light the flickering flames from the burning house, casting shadows every which way, hiding me better than total darkness would.

I could turn the tables, use his impatience and the flickering light and the shadows to my advantage, then—

Then what? I didn’t have a gun. To take him down without a weapon, I needed to get close enough to physically attack him. While the thought of putting my hands around his neck sent a delicious shiver through me, I knew I stood little chance of getting close enough to do it.

Little chance…

A deep part of me seized on that, said “It’s still a chance, good enough, take it!” But I’d promised Jack. Sworn I wouldn’t do this again.

Still darting from bush to bush, dodging Wilkes’s shots, I drew deep breaths, slowing my heart, reminding myself of my promise.

If I took this chance, and I lost, then maybe that didn’t mean as much to me as it should, maybe I’d say the risk was worth it, maybe I could even convince myself that Jack wouldn’t realize I’d broken my promise. But one thing I did know. If I went down, Wilkes would get away. He’d have no reason to hang around, and any chance that someone else would catch him—Jack, Quinn, Felix, Evelyn, the cops—would evaporate. He’d be free again, all because I couldn’t fight that need to stop running and strike back.

Best thing I could do was stall him. Wait for help to arrive. But the yard wasn’t that big, I was wounded, and he still had time to get off plenty more rounds. Eventually a shot would be serious enough to take me down just long enough for him to walk over and put a bullet through my head.

Goddamn it, if only I had my gun! Why couldn’t I see it out there? Why couldn’t I trip over it racing across the yard? If I had that, I could take the upper hand, put a bullet into this bastard so fast—

But I didn’t have a gun and all the wishing and raging in the world wouldn’t change that. Those same flickering flames that were making it hard for Wilkes to see me were making it impossible for me to see a black gun on the ground. Even if I could find it, would it work after the fall? Then there was my wrist. I could brace my hand or shoot with my left, but both would throw off my reflexes and accuracy. Too many ifs. I couldn’t waste time—and focus—searching for the gun.

One thing I knew for certain: from now on, I was wearing a backup weapon.

I dove and weaved through the perimeter shrubs, missing some shots, getting gazed or hit in the chest armor by others. With every few steps, I stumbled. Any minute now, my ankle would give out for good.

How many shots had he taken? My brain blurted an answer. Seven—Another
pffttt
just above my head. Eight. He had ten rounds. Eleven if he’d chambered a round and topped up. Plus he’d be able to reload quickly, and probably even carried a backup weapon. Making him run out of ammo sounds good in the movies, but it wasn’t going to work here.

So now what? Jack’s voice echoed in my head, and I knew what he’d say.
Run
.

I was injured, with no working weapon, and no backup. As much as I hated to run—oh, God, how I hated to run!—if I didn’t, he’d kill me, then escape. My best chance was to make a break for it. Not escape him, lure him. Play fleeing prey and he’d follow. Why? Because if it were me doing the chasing, I’d follow. To run was to surrender. He had to fight, kill, win.

To keep this chase going, I needed to get out of this yard. Problem was, the only way out was over the fence. Jack had chosen this setup for my safety. No one had ever considered the possibility that I could get trapped here.

Wilkes fired, the shot zinging so close to my head I swore I felt it pass.

Over the fence it was.

I didn’t have time to worry whether my ankle could handle it—I had to make it work. One quick look and I found the biggest bush—one I’d just squeezed past. I steeled myself, turned sharp and raced back, ignoring the pain. The second I was behind that bush and hidden in its shadow, I grabbed the top of the fence, swinging myself up, grimacing as my wrist screamed in protest. For that split second, as I crested the fence, I was exposed. All I could do was keep my head down.

He fired. The shot hit my shoulder, stopped by the body armor, but the impact was almost enough to make me lose my grip. As I flipped over the fence, something snagged my foot. I kicked. Fresh pain as my injured foot made contact. An
oomph
. Wilkes released his hold, and I toppled, face-first, over the fence.

I hit the ground and clambered up. I could hear Wilkes scrabbling over the fence. A split-second survey of the yard. Also fenced. No way out until I reached the end of the row…vaulting over a half-dozen more fences. Couldn’t do it. There was no “if” or “maybe.” Couldn’t. I had to take cover.

Unlike the other yard, here there was no long hedge to hide behind. There had been at one time, until student tenants moved in. Abuse, neglect, whatever the cause, there was nothing more than a few clusters of bushes left, none big enough to do more than cower behind. The house was dark, meaning unless I was somehow lucky enough to find the patio door unlocked, I wasn’t getting out that way.

A siren wailed.

I should surrender this fight now. Step aside. Let the cops come in and roust Wilkes, take him down. I should scream loud enough that I’d raise the alarm.

But what if my screams brought someone back here? An innocent bystander rushing in to help? I could not risk anyone else’s life. This had to end here. Now.

I hobbled for the largest clump of bushes, right up against the house. Whatever I did, I couldn’t still be out here when Wilkes hauled his ass over that fence. I dove behind the bush.

Through the leaves, I saw him swing to the ground. He turned, took in the yard in one sweep and headed right for my cover.

Could he see me here?

You idiot, there’s only one place in this yard big enough to hide you. Where else would you be?

A rock. I needed a—

As I felt around the ground, my fingernails clinked against something cold and smooth. A bottle. An empty glass bottle. I could have laughed. Thank God for student tenants.

Gaze still riveted to Wilkes, I gripped the neck of the bottle with my uninjured left hand and swung the base against the concrete foundation. As it smashed, Wilkes jumped, startled.

I wheeled from behind the bush and charged. Made it three strides before my ankle gave way, but as I sprawled forward, I smacked full-weight into Wilkes.

His gun fired. I felt pain. Didn’t know where. Didn’t care. We both went down. I saw his face below mine. Saw his neck, a pale strip in the moonlight, took aim, gripped the bottle neck, and slashed down with everything I could.

Blood spurted. He fell back. I twisted and grabbed his gun. He wrenched it, finger squeezing on the trigger, but I pulled it away easily as his grip slackened. I put the barrel to his temple. He looked at me. I pulled the trigger.

FIFTY-TWO

With Wilkes’s exit strategy permanently aborted, it was time to worry about ours.

Dubois was dead. Jack had found his body when he and Quinn had gone into the house, searching for me. I felt bad about Dubois. Yes, I’d tried to warn him. Yes, he’d accepted the risk when he came into the house. But I still regretted the outcome.

We didn’t hide Wilkes’s body. Evelyn sent a letter to the Feds, just in case they mistook Wilkes for some poor senior citizen who got caught in the cross fire. I’m sure they would have figured it out eventually, but the nudge—and his real name—would help. As they unraveled Wilkes’s story, they’d probably find out about his former occupation, so all the work we’d done to avoid that was for naught. But Wilkes was dead, and we weren’t. Good enough.

Felix and Evelyn stayed behind to clean up any loose ends and watch for unexpected fallout. Quinn and I wanted to help, but Jack refused. We were the most vulnerable—the youngest, and least experienced, plus we both had “normal” lives and “normal” jobs, and he wanted us to go back to those right away.

Before I left, Evelyn took me aside. She wanted a method of contact. I wasn’t comfortable giving it, but it was a case where refusing was more dangerous. She offered her training services, but seemed content to leave it at that, not pushing the point…yet.

Jack drove Quinn and me into Pennsylvania the next morning. Our first stop was the hospital. A half-day later, I walked—okay, hobbled—out with a reset ankle and wrist. I’d broken both.

I also had a nice collection of bruises plus a couple of bullet grazes. Jack had taken care of the grazes right away. He cleaned and bandaged them, and we came up with a cover story, in case someone at the hospital noticed the bandages and asked. They didn’t.

Once out of the hospital, I hid my wrist cast under my coat sleeve as best I could. The bandaged foot was bad enough; I didn’t need to call extra attention to myself.

When we got to the airport, Jack went to buy our tickets. Quinn helped me to a seat in a quiet corner, and bought me a coffee and muffin. He started to pass me the coffee cup, then stopped and opened the lid first. When he began peeling the wrapper off the muffin, I laughed and took it from him.

“Hey, don’t—” he began.

“It’s my wrist, not my hand.”

“Still, I don’t think—”

“I’m okay.”

He hovered on the edge of his seat, as if expecting me to fumble and dump coffee into my lap at any moment.