Finders/Keepers (An Allie Krycek Thriller, Book 3) (13 page)

“You all right?” Dwight asked.

“I really could use some of those painkillers, partner.”

“Hurts, huh?”

“What do you think?”

“Must hurt a lot. You look like you’re about to poop in your pants.”

Reese sighed. “I need
something.
”

“Hold your horses.”

“Trying…”

It took thirty minutes, with Dwight driving around the scheduled meeting place, before they eventually pulled into a gas station. Dwight found a spot at the side of the main store, away from the bright lights in the lot. The semidarkness kept them, Alice, and the damaged windshield mostly hidden, just as long as someone walking by didn’t look too closely.

Dwight put the car in park. “What about your girlfriend?”

“We keep her alive for now,” Reese said.

“Give me one good reason.”

“Aren’t you curious who she is?”

“It’s pretty obvious who she is. Juliet’s in custody somewhere, and she sold us out. That girl back there’s a goddamn cop. She must have gotten her hands on a phone when you let her go into the diner by herself. Case closed.”

“I didn’t let her go by herself. I followed her.”

“Not quickly enough. That place probably had a pay phone…”

“She didn’t go for it.”

“You saw her?”

“I did. She didn’t use it.”

Dwight shrugged, but he was not convinced. “Then she got her hands on a phone some other way. I don’t care how; I just know that she’s a cop and you should have left her back there. Better yet, you should have put one in her head as a good-bye gift. She did shoot you, remember?”

Reese shook his head. “I don’t think she’s a cop.”

“She has to be. It’s the only answer that makes any sense.”

“I don’t think so, but I’d like to find out for sure.”

Dwight squinted at him. It wasn’t nearly dark enough for Reese not to see the smirk on his partner’s face.

“What’s on your mind?” Reese asked.

“I think you don’t want to believe she’s a cop because you just want to keep her around.”

“I just want answers, Dwight. How long have we been partners? You know I don’t do well with blissful ignorance.” He sighed and tried to blink away a stab of pain. “Now can you please go into that store and get me something before I pass out again?”

“It’s a gas station, dude; don’t get your hopes up for a bottle of Vicodin.”

The ceiling light flickered on temporarily as Dwight opened his door and climbed out. Reese checked his bandages for the second time since waking up, and finding it stark white against the blackness of the car’s interior, leaned back and attempted to slow down his breathing.

He glanced up at the rearview mirror and looked back at Alice, still unconscious in the backseat. Or, at least, she looked the part. For all he knew, she could have been faking it. The woman was apparently very good at that. Which was just one more reason why Reese wanted to get to the bottom of who she really
was.

After that, well, Dwight wasn’t completely wrong. She was much too dangerous to keep around forever. Sooner or later, whether he got his answers or not, they were going to have to say good-bye to her because they had more pressing business on their plates. That was something Reese had no doubts about, just like he knew there was nothing waiting for them at the scheduled midway point where they were supposed to meet their employers’ representatives but bullets with their names on them.

Live by the gun, die by the gun, isn’t that the old saying?

H
er legs were broken
. She was certain of it. Maybe both, but definitely one. How else to explain the explosion of pain that coursed through her body when she raised herself from…

A bed.

She was lying on a bed. How did she get on a bed?

After a while, she gave up trying to move and simply lay as still as possible. There was an odd smell about the mattress under her, but after fruitlessly trying to see in the darkness, she came to the conclusion that the odor wasn’t just from the bed, but all around her. While the aroma wasn’t completely gag-worthy, it wasn’t anywhere close to being pleasant. It was…sterile.

She reached down to touch her legs, hoping to—

There. They were still attached, and moving them while they hurt was still possible, so she
hadn’t
broken either legs after all. Thank God, even if she didn’t want to see what they looked like or what color they were underneath her pant legs. If the continuous throbbing that originated all the way from her toes and went up to her chest was any indication, it wasn’t pretty.

She tried to turn her head to get a better look at her surroundings, but just rising off the pillow (not fluffy exactly, but not too hard, either), regardless of how slight her movements, made her spine creak as if it might snap into a dozen pieces at any moment. The fact was, everything hurt, and maybe that was a good thing. Pain was better than not feeling anything at all after what had happened.

She was still trying to piece together the sights and sounds from memory when a male voice, familiar, said, “Maybe a broken bone or two.”

She turned her head slowly, very slowly, and saw him standing next to the window looking outside. Streams of moonlight splashed across one side of his face, and she thought,
Of course he’s not dead. I’m not that
lucky.

“Maybe a couple of ribs,” he said. “Legs look fine. Or, well, as fine as they can possibly look after what happened. The upside? They’re not twisted into odd shapes.”

Her sides were on fire, and every inch of her ached.

The car. She recalled the car.

It had come out of nowhere, bright headlights giving her just enough warning to jump—or start to jump, anyway—as it was about to strike. That stunt had saved her life, even if it didn’t spare her the brunt of the collision. She remembered rolling across the hood and impacting the windshield, hearing it shatter against her body, followed by that whole flying through the air moment that still felt like a dream, one that was happening to someone else.

But it was definitely me.

The fact that she was starting to remember the details was another good sign, because it meant she hadn’t broken her head open against the parking lot of Andy’s when she fell back down. Broken bones could be mended and gashes sutured, but there wasn’t a whole lot you could do for a cracked skull.

She should be grateful. Ecstatic, even, because despite everything she was still
(mostly)
intact. It was more than she could have asked for, though looking at Reese as he stood at the window peering out, his back to her, there was a very good chance her good fortune wouldn’t last. Lady luck, after all, was known to be a very fickle bitch.

They were in a motel room, that much she had managed to figure out. The slightly uncomfortable bed under her, the Spartan decorations, and most of all, the smell were all indications of that. They must have left the interstate behind by the lack of back-and-forth traffic noises from outside. How long had it been since she was upended by Dwight in Andy’s parking lot? No idea. It could have been a day or a week or just a few hours.

Reese was there, but she didn’t see Dwight. Not that she had any delusions she could take Reese even if he were by himself and wounded. Besides the fact he still had his gun holstered behind his back, she was in no condition to do anything other than stare at him. She couldn’t even breathe properly without her chest threatening to cave in on her, for God’s sake.

Maybe this is it. The end of the road. Lying on a stinking motel bed waiting for the ax to fall. I can definitely think of better ways to go…

“Why am I still alive?” she asked.

He looked over. His face was partially hidden in shadows, so she could only see one of his brown eyes. “If Dwight had his way, you wouldn’t be.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s running an errand. He’ll be back soon.”

Reese was doing everything possible not to show it, but she could tell he was in pain. It was in the way he stood, in the way he talked and even breathed. He was still wearing his black blazer, but he’d taken off his shirt and it was easy to make out the white bandages wrapped around his stomach where she had shot him.

“Dwight thinks you’re a cop,” Reese said. “He’s pretty sure of it.”

Is thinking I’m a cop good or bad?

More importantly, which answer would keep her alive a little longer until she could heal enough to fight back? She didn’t like the idea of dying inside this motel room. Hell, she didn’t like the idea of dying at all. At least, not yet. Not while Faith was still out there, somewhere…

“What do you think?” she asked him.

“I told him you couldn’t possibly be a cop.”

“You sound very sure of it,” she said, wondering if this was the right play. Was keeping him off-balance the correct move, or was it better to confirm his suspicions? Maybe it was the pounding in her head, but Allie found it difficult to think clearly.

Concentrate!

“I am,” he nodded. “I know cops. I’ve been around a lot of them, in a lot of places—cities, countries, continents. And you, my dear, are not one of them.”

He walked over to her
.
He was being very careful with his side, flinching whenever he moved or turned too quickly. Even reaching over and bringing a chair to sit down next to the bed made him wince noticeably.

“Which is why you’re still alive,” Reese said.

“Why’s that?”

“You’re not a cop, but you’re not a criminal, either. So what are you?”

“You seem to have all the answers. You tell me.”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Maybe I’m both.”

“Both?”

“A crooked cop. A cop and a criminal. I hear they actually exist.”

“They do,” he said, but then shook his head. “But you’re not that, either. I’ve been around criminals all my life. Small time, big time—all the other times in between. But you’re not one of them. I’m absolutely certain of that.”

“Apparently you know a lot more about me than I do.”

“Not true, but I’m getting there. You’re very interesting, Alice.”

“Did you find Juliet interesting, too?”

He smiled. “You mean, did we ever have a sexual relationship?”

“That’s not what I meant, but sure, let’s pull that thread.”

“No.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“She’s not my type.”

“Juliet is everyone’s type.”

“She’s Dwight’s, but I like my women more interesting. Like you, Alice.”

There’s that word again.
Interesting
. Well, I’ve been called worse.

“So what else do you know about me?” she asked.

“Not very much at all, Alice. Is your name even Alice?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a lie.”

“If you say so.”

“But I’ll call you Alice anyway. You look like an Alice.”

“Is that right?”

“Sure, why not. So tell me, Alice. Why are you here? At first I thought your goal was to save the girls, but if that were the case, you would have done it much sooner, well before Andy’s. You had so many chances before then.”

“Did it work?” she asked.

“Did what work?”

“The big rig. The girls…”

He nodded and gave her an almost amused smile. “It did.”

She sighed with relief and didn’t bother to hide it from Reese. She didn’t care if he knew; not anymore, anyway.

Thank God I did something right today.

Thank God…

“Job well done,” Reese said. “The girls are safe in police custody. All of them.”

He watched her closely, with that same intensity that was annoying and disturbing and more than a little unnerving. Okay, it was a
lot
unnerving.

“So the girls were important to you,” he said. “But they weren’t your priority. At least, not at first.”

For some reason, Reese was starting to drift in and out of her vision, and she swore he split off into two Reeses at one point, which prompted the amusing thought,
Great. I can’t even kill one of him, now there are two?

“Before the truck stop, you were content to ride it out to the end with us,” he continued. “I had to ask myself why—what was so important that you were willing to risk losing the girls?”

He leaned slightly forward, as if to get an even better look at her, though she wasn’t sure how that would be possible given how close they already were. If she could move her arms, she would have been tempted to throw a few haymakers in his direction.

“So what was it, Alice? Was it to get to my employers? Were they your primary target? Am I close?”

She was doing her best to maintain her concentration, to force the two Reeses back into one, and failing miserably. If Reese noticed her waning focus, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he sat back in his chair and casually touched his side with one hand, over the spot where she had shot him.

Hurts, huh, asshole?

Reese looked down at his watch. “Dwight should be back soon.”

“Where did he go?”

“I told you, errands.”

“Does he know you’re about to fall off that chair?”

He gave her a wry look. “Yes, well, we’ve both seen better days, haven’t we?”

He was still talking when she glimpsed a shadow flitting across the curtained windows over his shoulder.

Dwight’s back
, she thought, when Reese suddenly stood up and a Glock appeared as if by magic in his hand.

Or not?

Reese moved silently across the room, abandoning the chair for the wall between the windows and door. Almost at the exact moment Reese pressed his back against the ugly wallpaper, the doorknob turned slightly, as if someone on the other side was trying to see if it was locked. It wasn’t just locked; there was also a deadbolt and chain in place.

When she looked back to Reese, he was facing her with one finger held up to his lips. She sat up, wincing as every joint in her body seemed to pop and enough pain flooded her senses for two, maybe three people. But she kept going, pushing every bruised muscle and (broken?) bone, because the alternative was to lie in bed and do nothing, and there was no way in hell she was going to ignore the alarm bells going off inside her head. She might have been able to convince herself she was just being paranoid, that nothing bad was about to happen, except Reese clearly believed the same.

She swung her legs off the bed, biting back the tears and misery. There was something odd on Reese’s face as he watched her. If she weren’t too busy trying not to scream and pretending that every inch of her wasn’t hurting, she could almost believe he looked...impressed?

Go to hell, Reese
, she wanted to tell him, but it was hard enough to breathe, never mind get the invective out.

Voices, coming from outside, whispering
back and forth, just before a second (or was it the same one?) silhouetted figure appeared at the window to Reese’s left. With the bright parking lot lights behind him, the man (and it was a man, she was sure of it from the shoulders and frame) looked enormous, and he was holding something in his hand. The man turned slightly, giving her a good look at the barrel and the pistol grip underneath it.

Crash!

It had to have been a heavy boot, because the motel door smashed open and wood paneling along the frame snapped and splinters speared the darkened room. A figure—another man—blotted out the open doorway, gripping something short and black and metallic in its hands. The intruder was trying to reestablish his balance in the aftermath of the kick that had sent the door into the wall, the doorknob slamming hard enough to embed in the drywall.

The man took one step inside, his face becoming visible for the first time—he was in his thirties and had a mustache, his cheeks pockmarked with acne scars from his youth—and the thing in his hands was an MP5K—

Bang!
as the man’s brain, along with the 9mm round from Reese’s Glock, exited the left side of the intruder’s head and splashed the door, his body slumping sideways from the impact before collapsing to the doorway in a useless heap.

Reese pushed off the wall and spun around even as the silhouetted figure outside the window reacted to the gunshot and took the first step toward the door. He got halfway before Reese unloaded into the window. The man’s outline seemed to jerk once, twice, before disappearing underneath the windowsill on the other side.

A car alarm began blaring in the parking lot, which set off a chain reaction.

Reese was leaning against the wall, his chest heaving loudly against the spill of moonlight, when they both heard a steady stream of gunfire from outside. The shooting was so loud and ferocious that it actually managed to drown out the car alarms.

What now?

The idea that there were people shooting each other outside hardly computed before she looked back at the dead man just inside the motel room. She searched for and quickly found the shape of the submachine gun nearby and tried to conjure up a scenario where she could stand up and walk to it and pick it up and shoot Reese with it before he noticed.

She was still cycling through the possibilities when Reese snatched the MP5K off the floor
(Goddammit!)
before leaning against the open door for support. Reese hadn’t been looking out at the parking lot for more than a few seconds when the gunfire suddenly stopped, the last shots fading until there were just the car alarms wailing away, except now it sounded like more than just one or two fighting with one another for attention.

“Reese,” she said, “who’s out there? What’s happening?”

Maybe she was still too groggy from the pain, from almost dying earlier today (Days ago? Weeks ago? She still didn’t know how long it had been since Andy’s), but it was incredibly difficult to figure out what was happening.