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H
e couldn’t see her. Damn it. He couldn’t see Turner.
John stood just inside the tinted glass doors, scanning the courtyard in front. Somewhere on one of the floors above his head
were the offices of the federal prosecutor and Victoria Weidner’s office in particular. Behind him, just inside the building,
was a typical security setup: a metal detector, a scanner belt, and a couple of guards—a young woman who hardly looked older
than a teenager and a graying man with a paunch. He’d already briefed both the security guards and Ms. Weidner about how Turner’s
arrest would go down. Ms. Weidner had just strolled out into the sunshine in the courtyard to wait for Turner. From this vantage
point he should be able to see Turner.
But he couldn’t.
Two women were sitting on the low brick wall surrounding the courtyard. One African American, the other a platinum blonde.
The women were eating lunch and talking animatedly. Across the street, various people strolled by the state capitol and a
grungy youth—hard to tell the gender—slumped by a flower bed. A slight man with a little potbelly and a suit was walking briskly
across the courtyard, headed for the doors. A couple of kids were skateboarding on the wide, shallow steps leading to the
courtyard. The potbellied man pushed through the glass doors and slid a glance at John out of the corner of his eye when he
saw him inside. John nodded in return and the man kept walking.
She might have decided not to show. He’d been blunt with her this morning, and she’d appeared on the edge of a nervous breakdown.
Not exactly how a man hoped his lover would look the morning after a night of his best efforts, but Turner was nothing if
not tough. That was something he’d learned about her in remarkably little time. She might be small in stature, but he’d seen
war veterans with less mental stamina. If she didn’t show up for the meet, it wouldn’t be from fear of a confrontation.
Or from any fear at all.
And that’s what worried him the most: she seemed to have no physical fear. Hell, she didn’t even display mental fear. The
only apprehension Turner showed was emotional, and that rarely. And the emotional mistrust was just with him, come to think
of it. God, her dread of him hurt. It was like someone had reached in and wrapped a fist around his gut and squeezed. How
could it hurt this much when he’d known her only a couple of days? Her mistrust had made Turner cut him out of her life. Like
a dangling thread on a sweater. Snip, snip, and into the trash.
It bothered him that she hadn’t seemed to be as affected as he by their lovemaking. He’d been stunned by how good it was to
feel her move on him, how right it had felt to be in her. It had been like finally finding shelter after huddling out in a
snowstorm for a long, long time. Yet this morning she’d literally run out the door. As if she were ashamed of what they’d
shared the night before. Christ, and wasn’t that a blow to his male pride? Wasn’t it the
woman
who was supposed to be worried about the morning after?
John snorted. If—
The grungy young kid that had been sitting on the sidewalk across the street got to his feet. The kid was the right height,
the right shape to be Turner in disguise, but he’d seemed a long shot. He would’ve tagged the blond coed who’d just sat down
on the capitol lawn to eat an apple as a better bet.
But it was the boy who got up, so John watched him. And when the kid moved, started slouching across the street, he knew.
It was Turner.
That was the thing about disguises. You could change the face fairly easily—and he sure hoped the rings through her lower
lip and eyebrows were fake—and you could change the clothes, but it was damn hard to change the walk. Turner was doing a good
impression of a kid, but she walked like a woman. Too much swing in the hips, a slightly lower center of gravity. That simple.
It was Turner.
John watched her stroll closer. She’d flattened her short hair and made it dingy with either dirt or some kind of powder.
She wore faded black high-tops, overlarge camo pants torn away just below the knee to make baggy shorts, and a black T-shirt
with jagged orange writing on it. Various string bracelets decorated her arms and one ankle. But the pièce de resistance of
her costume was the tattoos. She’d covered her arms from wrist to shoulder in black, curling tattoos.
The corner of his mouth kicked up in admiration even as something in him was dying.
He really hadn’t wanted to arrest her. Especially not in such a public place. Turner was going to be humiliated. He’d have
to cuff her hands behind her back. It was standard operating procedure. Shit. What a crappy job he had.
Shit.
John reached for his handcuffs and prepared to kill what was left of their relationship. He watched Turner approach Ms. Weidner.
The assistant to the federal prosecutor still hadn’t copped to the fact that the young boy was Turner. She was scanning the
sidewalk in both directions. In fact, John saw the exact moment Turner spoke to her. Ms. Weidner’s head whipped around as
she stared at Turner. John started to push open the tinted glass doors.
And then all hell broke loose.
A crack sounded, echoing in the canyon of the office buildings. A woman screamed. The blonde on the lawn looked up.
And both Turner and Ms. Weidner went down.
Jesus fucking Christ.
S
o where do you want to go for lunch?” Victoria asked.
Turner was opening her mouth to answer when the other woman seemed to trip and fall against her. At the same time, there was
a loud
Crack!
Turner stumbled backward under Victoria’s weight and they went down together, Turner on the bottom. She hit the brick pavement
hard, banging her elbow and rear end painfully, as she scrambled to think. Was Victoria tackling her to arrest her? Adrenaline
stampeded through her veins. Then she heard the second shot.
Crack!
It echoed around the courtyard. Someone was shooting. The two women who’d been eating on the wall scurried to duck behind
it, skirts riding immodestly high. Victoria rolled off her, and Turner looked around wildly. She couldn’t see the shooter.
One of the women against the wall was crying, hysterical hiccupping sobs that echoed loudly in the courtyard. The skateboarding
kids still bumped down the steps, oblivious.
“Get down, goddamnit! Get down!” John yelled.
The skateboarders didn’t hear. Turner swiveled her head at his voice, strangely unsurprised that he was here. He crouched
against the building, his gun held in one hand. He was looking up, scanning the rooftops around them. He glanced in her direction
and his eyes met hers.
She could see the pale blue of his eyes, hard and angry as he shouted, “Are you hurt?”
Crack!
A brick in the pavement beside Turner exploded, sending up chips that stung her bare legs.
“Are you hurt?” John yelled again.
Crack!
She shook her head mutely. “What should we do?” Turner whispered to Victoria. It was fifty feet to where John hunkered against
the building. Fifty feet to safety. If they ran, would they make themselves a better target? But lying here in the middle
of the courtyard, they were sitting ducks. She had to assume the shooter was after them. It was only a matter of time until
he hit her.
Victoria moaned.
“I think we should try to run,” Turner said and turned her head to Victoria.
The other woman clutched her upper arm, her face twisted in a grimace of pain. Blood seeped between her fingers. “Run for
the building,” Victoria gasped.
Oh, Lord.
“She’s been shot!” Turner screamed. “John, she’s been shot!”
What an idiotic thing to say. How could anyone not see that Victoria was shot? She pulled her T-shirt over her head and wadded
it into a bundle that she shoved against Victoria’s shoulder.
Crack!
The skateboarders finally seemed to hear. One took off running; the other stood and gaped.
“Go!” Victoria rasped.
Turner dragged her eyes away from the wound and looked at her gray face. “What?”
“He’s shooting at you. You’re making me a target.”
Turner stared, trying to assimilate Victoria’s words.
Crack!
A rapid series of shots exploded behind her. Then big hands wrapped around her waist, dragging her, dragging her fingers from
Victoria’s wound.
“No!” Turner shouted. “I have to help her—”
“You can’t help her,” John said in her ear harshly. “You’ll only get shot.”
He half lifted, half dragged her to the front doors of the building. A young woman police officer was crouched to the side,
firing shot after shot from her handgun. Turner couldn’t see where she was aiming.
John thrust Turner inside. “Stay away from the windows.”
Then he turned and went back outside. Back to where the gunfire was. He had to save Victoria, too, but Turner felt a selfish
urge to recall him to safety.
A gray-haired policeman took her arm firmly. “Come sit down over here, miss.” He all but shoved her onto a marble bench and
stood over her, apparently so she couldn’t escape.
Not that she cared. John was still out there. What was he doing? Had he seen the shooter? Had he been shot? She whimpered
and clasped her hands between her knees.
Oh, please let John be safe.
And, as if in answer, the policewoman came bursting through the tinted-glass doors, supporting the two women who had been
lunching by the wall. John followed behind, holding Victoria.
He sent a piercing glance at Turner, then addressed the policeman standing over her. “She’s been shot. Have you called 911?”
“Yeah.” The policeman helped lower Victoria to the floor. Her eyes were closed now. Maybe she’d fainted. “The EMTs are on
the way.”
The policewoman was talking in a low monotone into her shoulder radio. Turner noticed that the woman’s hands shook.
John looked back outside again. He still held his gun in his hand. “He’s stopped shooting. I think he’s left.”
The older policeman’s head jerked up. “Wait for backup.”
“He’s probably leaving the area,” John said, tight and hard.
“Yeah, and you getting shot won’t stop him.”
John grimaced, still watching outside.
Sirens began wailing, growing rapidly closer.
The policeman straightened from where he was checking one of the women lunchers and moved cautiously to the windows. He kept
well to the side. “Any more shots?”
John shook his head. “No. The last one was when I reached Ms. Hastings.” He seemed to come to a decision. “Watch my back.”
Then he was out the door again.
Turner stared down at her hands. She had bloodstains on her palms. She flexed her hand, feeling the tackiness of the blood.
If she hadn’t asked Victoria to meet her, Victoria would never have been hurt. Victoria would probably be eating right now,
maybe meeting someone for lunch.
John came back through the doors. He was followed by a group of police officers and EMTs. He was talking to them, maybe explaining
something or giving them orders, but Turner couldn’t make out the words. And she didn’t care, anyway. He wasn’t shot like
Victoria. That was all that mattered to her.
Then John was squatting in front of her. He looked in her face and frowned. “I need a paramedic over here.”
“I’m okay,” Turner muttered, but he ignored her.
A young woman rushed over and began taking her blood pressure.
“I’m okay,” Turner said again, this time to the paramedic.
The woman had flat cheekbones with acne scars. She smiled professionally. “Just checking. Doesn’t hurt to check, does it?”
“No, I guess not.”
John strode over to talk some more with the police, but he glanced her way every couple of seconds. He still frowned at her.
Victoria was wheeled out the doors on a gurney, an EMT running beside holding an IV. Turner caught only a glimpse of her,
but the other woman’s eyes remained closed and her face gleamed with sweat.
“Is she going to be okay?” Turner asked the paramedic.
“Your friend? The bullet went straight through and we’re dealing with the bleeding. She should be fine.”
More people came into the lobby. These were in civilian dress, but they had the bearing of law enforcement. One slight young
man bent his head close to John and showed him a crumpled piece of paper. John nodded as the young man talked.
“Here.” The policewoman thrust a bottle of orange juice into Turner’s hands. Where had she gotten it? “Drink some of this.
It’ll make you feel better.”
“Thank you.” She hated orange juice, but Turner carefully unscrewed the cap and took a sip.
The paramedic smiled and began putting things back in her box. John looked at Turner and his frown deepened. He cut off whatever
the young man was saying and handed him a set of keys. He grabbed a paper bag from another officer, then strode toward Turner.
“She okay?” he asked the paramedic.
“Yes. A little shaky, but that’s mostly emotional,” the woman replied as if Turner weren’t there. “Make sure she finishes
that orange juice.”
“Gotcha.” John nodded. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” The paramedic smiled quickly and moved off to help with the two women lunchers.
“Put this on.” John took a denim jumper dress out of the bag. It looked like something a kindergarten teacher would wear.
Turner gazed at it stupidly. Where in the world had he gotten it? John said something under his breath and stood in front
of her, partially shielding her from the rest of the room. He took out a long-sleeved white T-shirt and only then did she
remember that she was wearing just her bra. He put the white T-shirt on her and then stuffed her into the denim jumper. Turner
lifted her arms passively, like a child being dressed by its mother. The dress was several sizes too big, but it covered everything,
including the baggy shorts she still wore. The final touch was a big straw hat John jammed down low on her head.
“Let’s get out of here.” He took her arm in a firm grip and helped her stand. She was surprised at how wobbly her legs were.
They walked past the knots of police officers and emergency personnel and through the tinted glass doors. Outside, the sun
still shone brightly as if nothing had happened. Except that in the middle of the courtyard there was a smear of blood.