Detective Crane hung up the phone and turned to his young partner.
“Well, they’re on their way,” he said in a low voice.
Karen Stillwater nodded, feeling a thrill of excitement that she carefully kept from showing on her face. They were making progress at last. Between Fireson and Rockford’s statements and the information they’d gotten from Mistretta’s ledger, they might be able to finally move against the conspiracy. It would all depend on what they said, and whether Captain McLaglen believed it.
She looked around the precinct office to make doubly sure they couldn’t be overheard.
“So, what do we do now?” she asked. She tried to say it in as offhand a manner as she could, not as though she were really uncertain.
“Now we make sure we’re the ones they meet when they arrive,” said Crane. He checked his watch. “Fireson’s house is out of the city, so we’ve got some time.”
He looked over at the pegboard showing an outline of the case. It didn’t show anything about Mistretta or Deaney; only details of Gallano’s fight with the mysterious El Jefe. As far as that went, it was accurate, but it didn’t help much with their current problem.
“Here’s something I don’t get,” he said suddenly. “El Jefe’s lost about thirty people in only a couple weeks. I’m sure he’s got men to spare, but it still seems like a big price to pay just to get a new marketplace.”
Karen frowned at the board. The same thought had occurred to her, but she hadn’t wanted to mention it (thinking it might reveal her inexperience).
“I suppose all empires want to expand,” she said.
“Yeah, but he’d probably make more money just selling to Gallano rather than trying to muscle him out of his territory,” said Crane. “There’s something else going on here; something we haven’t found yet.”
Karen’s heart sank at that. There always seemed more to this case; it was like a bottomless pit.
At that point, the phone rang. Crane picked it up.
“Crane.” He listened a moment, then frowned. “May I ask why, sir?” He glanced at Karen. “I see. We’ll be right there.”
He hung up. Karen looked at him expectantly.
“Captain McLaglen,” he said. “He wants to see us. Says it’s important.”
Karen could sense there was more to it than that.
“That’s not so unusual, is it?”
Crane tapped his fingers, still frowning at her.
“You know, after almost thirty years as a cop, you develop a sense for when something’s not right. And something isn’t right about this. Why now? And why did he so specifically say he wanted me to bring you?”
A cold weight seemed to drop into Karen’s stomach. She saw what he meant, but took care not to show her unease.
“So what do we do?” she asked.
He thought for a moment.
“We go,” he said at last. “But listen carefully; if things go wrong, I want you to do exactly as I say. Understand?”
“Also, I think you should take this,” he said, taking the notebook containing his data on the case out of his pocket and handing it to her.
“Why?” she said.
“Just in case,” he said. “If anything goes wrong, there’s some stuff in there you might need to know.”
She accepted it and tucked it into her pocket, though she didn’t like the implications.
“All right; let’s get this over with,” he said.
Captain McLaglen was a thickset, middle-aged man whose remaining hair was salt-and-pepper grey. He was a thirty-year veteran, like Crane.
As they entered his office, they saw he wasn’t alone.
“Detective Tyzack,” said Crane, nodding. “Detective Aldrige.”
“Crane,” said Aldridge. He was tough and thick, in his mid thirties with a thick brown mustache. Tyzack was a thin, almost bony man with a gaunt, prematurely lined face and deep-set eyes.
“I assigned Tyzack and Aldrige to work an angle of the Gallano case,” McLaglen said.
“You mean my case, sir?”
“Different side of it,” said Aldrige.
“I’ll bet,” said Crane.
“They came up with some rather interesting information,” said McLaglen. “I’ll let them explain. Aldrige?”
Aldrige pulled out his notebook, cleared his throat, and read out:
“At approximately nine-twenty-two last night, Detective Tyzack and I interviewed the manager of the Kiber club on Mellon Blvd. He identified a photograph of Salvatore Puchino, a known associate of Eugenio Gallano, as a regular customer. He testified that Puchino regularly meets with a young woman, with whom he has long, hushed conversations, and to whom he has been observed passing small paper bags. The witness further testified that, to his knowledge, these bags contained sums of money.”
He paused a moment, glancing up at Karen.
“When presented with a photograph of Detective Stillwater, the witness identified her as Mr. Puchino’s regular date.”
A flood of outrage filled Karen’s chest, leaving almost no room for her to register the sense of dread that accompanied it. She struggled to maintain her composure.
“Can you explain this, detective?” asked the Captain.
“Yes,” said Karen, looking straight at Aldrige. “You’re lying.”
“I’m only repeating what the witness told me,” he said.
“Is this witness, by any chance, acquainted with a man named Antonio Mistretta?”
The two other detectives glanced first at each other, then at Captain McLaglen.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” said Aldrige. “Do you sir?”
“No, I don’t,” said McLaglen.
Karen looked from one to the other. She felt as though a trap were closing in on her. They were all in it: the captain too. That meant her chances of clearing her name were next to zero.
“Out of curiosity,” she said, squaring her shoulders, lifting her head, and looking straight at them. “How much is Gallano paying you? Or is Deaney the one footing the bill?”
The three men exchanged glances.
“I think that sounded like a confession to me,” said Aldrige. “What do you think?”
“I think so too,” said McLaglen. “How about you, Crane?”
Crane looked at the three men with an expression of utmost disgust. Then, without warning, he drew his gun so fast the others didn’t even have time to react.
“Hands up!” he snapped. “All of you. Captain, step away from the desk.”
Whatever the three dirty cops had expected of the veteran, it hadn’t been this. They stared at him in blank shock for a moment, then slowly raised their hands.
“You’re making a big mistake, Marvin,” said McLaglen.
“Funny, that’s just what I was gonna say to you, sir,” Crane answered. “In the corner. Now!”
They obeyed, keeping their hands raised and their eyes on the two honest detectives. Karen had drawn her gun as well and was aiming right at Aldrige with a hand as steady as rock, though inside her mind was whirling. How on Earth were they supposed to get out of this? They couldn’t just shoot the captain and two other detectives in the middle of the precinct.
“Karen,” Crane said in a low voice. “Get out of here.”
“Find Fireson and all of you get somewhere safe. I’ll keep them here as long as I can to give you a head start.”
“But…” she began.
“That’s an order, detective.”
Karen remembered her promise, swallowed, and holstered her gun. There was nothing to say and nothing else to do; she left the office, closing the door on her partner, mentor, and friend.
In two minutes she was in her car and driving away from the precinct. How long did she have? Not long; ten minutes at best. People were always coming in and out of the captain’s office, and the moment someone knocked on the door or poked their heads in, that would be it. Then the chase would begin.
Her mind, as it usually did in a crisis, had become remarkably clear; she needed to stop Fireson from entering the precinct. He had almost certainly already left, but it was just possible that she might be able to contact him. First, though, she needed to look after herself.
About two blocks from the precinct there was a Lutheran church: Christ the Savior Parish. The parking lot was mostly full, as it was a Sunday morning, but there were one or two spaces left. She picked one as far from the street as she could and hurried into the church.
Services were in progress, but seemed almost over. The congregation was singing a triumphal hymn. In a corner of the lobby, she found what she had been hoping for: a clothing donation box.
With little time, she selected a black t-shirt with the logo of some band or other on it and a brown leather jacket and ducked into the restroom. It gave her a pang of conscience to steal from a church donation bin, but as she was going to be replacing the clothes with much better alternatives she thought it would be acceptable. She quickly changed in the stall, discovering the process that the shirt was a couple sizes too small for her and the jacket a few sizes too big. There was no helping that, though; she couldn’t keep trying on clothes until she found ones that fit. She adjusted her shoulder holster under the jacket and tried to make the shirt reach all the way to her belt. She also put her hair up into a ponytail, just to try to change her appearance as much as possible.
This done, she exited the rest room and joined the crowd of worshipers who were now eddying out of the church. A line of payphones stood just outside the church, and she made for these, concealed in the crowd.
In the phone booth, Karen checked Crane’s notebook for Fireson’s number and dialed. It was answered on the third ring.
“Yes?” asked a low and rather stern voice.
“Who is this?”
“This is Detective Stillwater with the LAPD. I was supposed to meet with him today. Who is this?”
“This is Liu Sho, gardener,” he said. “Mr. Fireson left some time ago.”
“That’s what I want to stop,” she said. “The precinct has been compromised and Detective Crane has been arrested. If Fireson shows up here, he and the girl will be arrested too.”
“Thank you. I shall alert him immediately,” Liu Sho answered with what Karen thought was admirable presence of mind and hung up.
That was that. Karen hung up and waited a moment, thinking. She pretended to be studying the phonebook, while surreptitiously looking back and forth along the street for anyone suspicious.
She’d wait five minutes, then call Liu Sho again to confirm he had gotten hold of Fireson. Then…she didn’t know what she would do after that. She had never considered this scenario. She was herself a fugitive, and though she knew not every policeman was corrupt, she had no way of knowing who was and who wasn’t. Besides, with the story they’d cooked up against her and with Crane holding the captain at gunpoint, even honest cops would be after her.
Unexpectedly, she thought of Breezy Windworth. He probably would know what to do. But she hadn’t seen him since he’d pulled her out of Mistretta’s hideout the other day, and she had no way of contacting him.
Perhaps, she thought, if she could head off Fireson, he might be able to help. He was rich and powerful, and probably had his own way of dealing with problems. In any case, he might have somewhere to hide.
The minutes crawled by as she dwelt on her predicament and tried to watch every passerby and every car without being obvious. She picked up the phone and pretended to be speaking for a while, just so as to appear natural. Finally, she dialed the number again.
Please say you reached them, she thought. Please say they’re on their way back now.
“Mr. Liu Sho?” she said.
“Detective? What has happened to my master?” he demanded. “I called his car phone twice. The first time, no one answered. The second, the line did not work.”
Karen felt icy fingers tapping at her heart. If they had gotten to Fireson and the girl, that would mean she was pretty much the only person in the city who knew about the conspiracy.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “I’m sorry, Mr. Liu Sho.”
She hung up, bit her lip, and tried to think. What to do now?
It seemed almost certain that the conspirators, anticipating the move, had ambushed Fireson on his way to the police station, probably about the same time they went after her and Crane. She had never met Fireson, but Crane seemed to think him a fairly capable man. Was it possible he had slipped the net, as she had? Perhaps. But if so, it was likely he was still making for the precinct, in which case he’d be walking into a trap.
Karen saw what she had to do. She didn’t like it, but that had never stopped her before.
She left the phone booth and back in the direction of the precinct. She would hang about until Fireson or the girl showed up, then hopefully be able to head them off before they went in. And if they didn’t show up…well, then she’d really be on her own.
Sarah Rockford had never stolen a car before. Or rather, she had never borrowed a car from necessity before, as she hastily corrected herself. Then again, she’d never found herself dropped from a helicopter in the ocean and needing to escape quickly before the same people who had tried to kill her discovered she was still alive before.
She was angry at Fireson, less for throwing her into the ocean than for not jumping off himself. Now who knew what was going to happen to him, while she was left soaking wet and in the care of his ex-mobster valet.
“Why didn’t he come with us?” she demanded for about the third time as Benton drove the ‘borrowed’ car away from the pier where they had climbed out of the ocean.
The human refrigerator sighed.
“Like I say, he’ll have his reasons. Probably he wants to see who was behind this and thought he could do that better without worrying over you. Probably he figured one of you needs to get to the station to make your statement and you might have better luck splitting up. Probably a lot of things, but rest assured he did it mostly to keep you safe, so quit complainin’.”
Sarah had to admit he had a point, and so she lapsed into silence. After a while it occurred to her that Benton seemed to be taking a rather roundabout route to the police station: he kept turning around or taking side-streets as if he couldn’t quite remember where he was going. She then realized that he was making sure they weren’t being followed. Considering they had dropped out of a helicopter by an industrial dockyard and subsequently ‘borrowed’ a car five blocks away, she didn’t think that was too likely, but then again she still hadn’t worked out how the bad guys had found them that morning in the first place.
Finally they arrived in front of the precinct: a five-storey, white stone building set on a wide, grassy lot. Benton parked across the street, looked up and down, then got out. Sarah followed, her heart hammering. At last, they’d made it…
Sarah jumped and turned to see a young woman hurrying toward them from an alleyway. She looked to be several years older than Sarah and a little more than a head taller. She had jet-black hair tied in an untidy ponytail, large dark eyes, and wore a leather jacket over a black shirt with a ‘Hee-La’ logo on it. Sarah’s keen aesthetic tastes appreciated that she was very beautiful, though in a totally different style from herself (she also couldn’t help feeling a pang of jealousy accentuated by the fact that the woman’s shirt seemed a few sizes too small).
“I am Detective Karen Stillwater; Detective Crane’s partner,” she said hurriedly in a slight but peculiar accent. “You have to come with me.”
“Why?” Sarah asked suspiciously.
“The precinct has been compromised; Crane’s been arrested.”
“He’s what?!” Sarah exclaimed.
“Keep your voice down!” Stillwater snapped. “We have to leave now.”
“Hold on, hold on,” said Sarah. “How do we know we can trust you?”
The other woman opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Apparently, she hadn’t considered this. But before she could come up with a good argument, two plain clothes detectives appeared.
“All right, Detective Stillwater, we’ll take it from here,” said the first, a burly man with a bushy brown mustache. His partner – whom Sarah thought looked as though he were recruited from the Egyptology wing of a museum – merely nodded.
The two detectives had their hands on their holsters. Stillwater’s went to hers, but she didn’t draw. Sarah took a few steps back, not sure what to make of the situation.
“That’s Detective Aldrige,” said Stillwater, still speaking to Sarah. “He and Tyzack are the ones who went to your apartment last night; they’re Gallano’s men.”
“Don’t listen to her; she’s the dirty one,” said Aldrige.
Sarah didn’t feel the slightest temptation to believe him; she’d already leaned that these two were dirty just that morning from Andre Fireson. Only trouble was, now that she knew Stillwater was telling the truth, they weren’t really in a position to follow her lead and get out of there.
“Woah, woah!” said Benton, putting up his hands and walking toward the detectives. “I think we all need to calm down a bit. I know these two gentlemen, and I’m going to take their word for it.”
Sarah didn’t understand what he was doing; he knew these cops were dirty as well as anyone. He’d been the one who had identified them in the first place when they’d come to abduct her the night before.
“I’m telling you…” said Stillwater.
“Now, listen, I think I’ve got a pretty good eye for people,” said Benton, speaking over her. “And I’m sure if we just talk about this, we can come to some kind of agreement.”
“That’s right,” said Aldrige, who seemed to think he’d found an ally. “Listen to him, Stillwater.”
All the while he’d been talking, Benton had been casually drifting closer to Aldrige and Tyzack. Now, with sudden, explosive speed, he sprang forward and his massive fists slammed first into one face, then the other. The two detectives fell like bowling pins under the two blows before they had even begun to draw their weapons, but they hadn’t even hit the ground before Benton was sprinting back towards the two stunned women.
“Best be moving, ladies,” he said, slinging himself back into the driver’s seat with surprising agility for a man of his size.
Stillwater recovered first, seized Sarah by the arm and pushing her into the back of the ‘borrowed’ car before climbing into the front seat even as it peeled away from the station. The altercation had apparently not gone unnoticed, for cops were already pouring forth from the front doors.
“Now what?” Sarah asked as they pulled away.
“First thing, we gotta lose the bacon brigade,” said Benton. “Excuse me, detective; force of habit.”
He drove fast, though not so fast as to draw attention, turning first down one street, than another. Sirens were wining behind them, but there were not cops in sight just yet.
“You’re a cop, right?” said Sarah.
“Yes, a detective,” said Stillwater.
“So, you’ve got a radio that feeds into the main cop channel, right?”
“Yes, but I switched it off…”
“Let me see it.”
“Of course not!”
“I’ve got an idea; come on!”
“Detective, give her the radio please,” said Benton.
“I can’t just give a civilian…”
“We don’t have time for that!” said Sarah. “We’re all in the same boat now, sister; just give the radio.”
With evident reluctance, Stillwater handed it to her. Sarah switched it on.
“Dispatch, tracking fleeing vehicle: grey four-door Ford, traveling south on Rothcar Avenue.”
“You need to give a call sign!” Stillwater snapped.
“This is dispatch; who is this?”
Sarah stared blankly.
“Say Adam 10,” said Stillwater.
“Dispatch, this is Adam 10,” said Sarah hastily. “Repeat, grey four-door Ford spotted heading south on Rothcar.”
“Roger, that Adam 10.”
“See?” said Sarah, switching it back off.
“Good idea,” Stillwater admitted. “Assuming they buy it.”
“So, what happened to Crane?” Sarah asked.
“Aldrige, Tyzack, and Captain McLaglen tried to frame me,” Stillwater answered. “They’re all on Gallano’s payroll. Crane drew on them and made me run for it.”
“But what’s gonna happen to him?”
“By now he’s been arrested,” said Stillwater.
“Well, we have to do something!” said Sarah.
“You think I’m not going to?” Stillwater snapped with her first serious display of feeling. “He’s my partner! But we can’t do him any good if we get caught too.”
The sirens seemed to recede. Sarah’s ruse apparently had worked. They drove on, Benton driving seemingly at random, but always away from the precinct.
“What about you?” Stillwater asked. “Where’s Fireson? And…why are you both soaked?”
“Oh, just the usual,” said Sarah. “We were on our way when a big helicopter came by and picked the car up with a magnet.”
“Mm-hm,” said Sarah. “Crazy, right? My readers are never gonna buy that. Anyway, we all climbed out onto the magnet just before they dropped the car into the ocean, then we saw the chopper was making for this big yacht, so Fireson pushed me off and Benton here jumped in after me. We swam to shore and borrowed a car.”
Stillwater gave a low whistle.
“Wait, this yacht; did you happen to see the name?”
Sarah shook her head. “It was too far off, why?”
“Because Mr. Gallano owns a yacht called the Fulmine. A yacht with a helipad, and word is that he’s been living there ever since someone took a shot at him last week.”
“Sounds like the place,” said Sarah, now more annoyed than ever that Fireson had gone there.
“And Mr. Fireson rode the helicopter to the yacht?”
Sarah nodded. She didn’t want to talk about that.
Stillwater breathed what sounded like a prayer under her breath.
“Don’t worry about my boss,” said Benton. “He knows what he’s doing, and he’s been in tight spots before. Besides, he’s the one who stopped Gallano from taking those bullets, so I think he’ll be alright.”
Sarah nodded vaguely, wishing she could believe that.
After a minute or too, Stillwater said, “I think we might have lost them.”
“Now where do we go?” Sarah asked.
“Back to the mansion,” said Benton. “Don’t worry; there are places there you can hide where no one’ll find you. Trust me, it’s the safest place in the city, and once the boss gets off the boat that’s where he’ll be headed.”
He pulled onto another street and started heading back in the direction of the mansion. For a moment, they drove in silence.
“Where are you from, anyway?” Sarah asked after a moment.
“Springwood,” said Stillwater.
“Little north and east of here. Quiet little town.”
“Oh. Well, with you accent I thought maybe…”
“English father, Mexican mother,” she answered.
“Ah, that makes sense!” said Sarah. “Hope you don’t mind my asking questions; part of the job, you know.”
“I kind of do, as a matter of fact; I’m trying to think.”
“Sorry,” said Sarah. “I’ll be quiet.”
“Thank you…” said Stillwater, but at that moment all idea of quiet was shattered. Sirens suddenly blared, not just from behind, but from all sides. Two cop cars pulled into the intersection in front of them, and two more pulled in behind. All at once, they were surrounded.
Benton swore loudly, as did the two women, but he didn’t hesitate. He was an excellent driver, and as quick as thinking he whriled the wheel about, drove over the corner (narrowly missing a businessman in a brown jacket, whose briefcase went flying as he dove out of the way, spilling papers everywhere), down the wrong side of the street for a moment, then over to the right side just in time to avoid an oncoming pickup. More sirens blared, and the police came racing after him.
“How did they find us!?” Sarah exclaimed.
“I…I don’t know,” Stillwater said. “They’re not using the usual tactics. They must have…must have guessed your ruse and gone the opposite way, kept everything off until they’d found us, then…just all came at once. I’ve never seen this sort of thing before!”
Benton gunned it, barely slowing down as he went around a corner, making for more open areas, but the police had a lot more speed than he did. What’s more, rather than following all in a pack, they seemed to be splitting up and trying to cut off his escape routes.
“I hate to admit it,” said Benton. “But I don’t think I can shake them.”
The two women exchanged glances. Stillwater’s face was pale, but set and focused, as if her whole being was concentrated on their present problem. Sarah wished she felt as calm as that.
“Only one thing to do,” he went on. “If I’m not mistaken, there’s bunch of warehouses coming up where I can cut across from one road to another. There’ll be a few seconds where we’ll be out of sight, and when that happens, you two pile out and hide. Cops will keep chasing me and you can make your way back to the mansion.”
“What?!” said Stillwater.
“No!” said Sarah.
“Boss told me to keep you safe; that means outta jail, and this is the best I can do for you,” said Benton firmly. “I’ll meet you there if I can. Now get ready; it’s coming up.”
He braked hard suddenly, causing the pursuing police to do the same, then gunned it and turned into the warehouse lot. The car seemed to fly down to the end of the lot, then he turned sharply, braking as he did so.
Sarah didn’t stop to think or try to argue: she threw open her door and jumped out. The car was nearly at a stop, but it hurt nonetheless and she scraped her knees on the pavement. Stillwater, with her police training, rolled and landed on her feet. She grabbed Sarah by the hand as she stood up and pulled her behind a dumpster that stood next to one of the doors.
Benton didn’t hesitate a second after they had left the car, but drove on as if he hadn’t stopped, mounted the curbed and bounced into a neighboring parking lot. The pursuing police cars surged after him and did likewise, while the two women crouched behind the dumpster, pressing their bodies tight against the warm metal to try to make themselves as thin and small as possible.
The sounds of the chase quickly receded, but it wasn’t until they had waited in silence for nearly two whole minutes before they dared to speak even in a whisper.
“Do you think he can get away?” Sarah asked.
“He seems to know his business,” Stillwater admitted. “But then, so do our people.” She thought a moment. “Honestly, I don’t expect him to escape.”
Sarah slid down on the pavement, resting her back against the dumpster and her head in her hands. She felt exhausted, bewildered, and scared all at once. Stillwater sat down next to her, leaning back and staring off into space.
“It’s like everything falling apart at once,” said Sarah. “To think just yesterday I was sneaking about Deaney’s house, and now I’m a wanted fugitive.”
“You think that’s strange, I was a cop this morning,” said Stillwater.
They both laughed. It wasn’t really funny, but in their state it was either laugh or cry, and neither was willing to cry. Sarah felt, and thought Stillwater probably did too, that they needed to be strong for each other. After all, at the moment it seemed they were the only two people in the whole city who knew about the conspiracy and were relatively free to do something about it.
“Something I don’t get, Detective…”
“You can just call me Karen.”
“Alright; that’s easier. You can call me Sarah. Anyway, something I don’t get, Karen, is how did they know we were even coming to the station today? Do you think they had your phones tapped.”
“Crane and I thought of that,” said Karen. “We’ve been checking, and no, they’re not tapped. Besides, we never really thought they would do that, since it would be too hard to explain if anyone caught them.”
“Okay, then what do you think happened?”
“Honestly, Sarah, I think Gallano or Deaney or whoever is really in charge just saw that it was the smartest move you could make and guessed you’d do it.”
“Like a game of chess.”
“Exactly. They anticipate what you’ll do and plan for it.”
Sarah thought about that. She didn’t like it.
“So,” she said, ticking off on her fingers. “Gallano manages the drug trade. Mistretta does dirty work for him to keep the locals in line. Deaney handles shipping and probably does some funding. And someone or other manages the whole thing according to a master strategy.”
“Possibly Deaney himself?”
“I don’t think so,” said Sarah. “I did a lot of research on him, and the guy is smart, but no genius. I think he got hit in the head too many times for that.”
“Well, we’ll work on it when we get somewhere safe,” said Karen.
“You think we can go?” asked Sarah.
They listened a moment, but only heard the sound of normal foot traffic.
“Yes,” said Karen. “But quietly.”
“I thought that would go without saying,” said Sarah, getting to her feet.
“And try not to attract attention.”
“Karen, I hate to break it to you, but you and I walking down the street are going to attract attention.”
“What do you mean?” she said with a slight edge of defensiveness in her voice.
“Let’s just say I hope whoever this master strategist is doesn’t think to follow the whistles.”
Karen opened her mouth, then shut it again. Sarah chuckled. She was starting to like the detective; she had a straightforward sincerity and unselfconsciousness that she found refreshing.
“Never mind; you’ll find out,” she said. “Lead the way, detective!”
The two of them started down the long drive that would take them back to the street, where hopefully they would find crowds and be able to blend in until they could catch a cab or ‘borrow’ another car to take them back to the mansion.
But they never got there.
When they were About halfway down the drive, a van pulled in from the street and began driving toward them. Sarah felt a twinge of anxiety as they stepped out of the way to let it pass.
It’s only a van, she thought. Perfectly normal…
But it didn’t pass. It stopped right in front of them. Karen drew her sidearm and pushed Sarah behind her, but as the back of the van opened she found herself immediately covered by two shotguns. Sarah looked back the way they had come, wondering if perhaps…
Then two more men, both armed with rifles, emerged from inside one of the warehouses, aiming at them. Sarah and Karen looked in front, then behind, then at each other.
“Check mate?” Sarah whispered.
Karen nodded and lowered her gun.
The two groups of guards converged on the women, and sooner than Sarah would have thought possible their wrists were handcuffed behind their backs and they were bundled into the back of the van.
There was a man in there waiting for them. Sarah had never seen him before, but he was compact and muscular, and his face…his face made her wince. It seemed to bristle with crudely-done stitches all down his right side, holding together a series of deep, irregular cuts. It looked as though he’d recently had his face slashed by a tiger.
Worse, Sarah felt the sudden intake of breath and rigid tension in her companion and knew that Karen recognized their captor.
“Mistretta,” she breathed in a voice that was half terror, half contempt.
“Hola, chiquita,” he said, his face breaking into a terrible, lopsided grin. “I was hoping to see you again.”