Set Up With The Agent. Lori Harris L.
let it out slowly. Think. No one had followed her here. She was certain of that. And for the past few months she’d been careful to avoid any hint of a pattern in her activities—she never took the same route, never scheduled an appointment on the same day. But all three of her sessions with Carmichael had come at the end of the day…
And then she realized if Rheaume had sent someone after her, bailing now wouldn’t stop them. There would be a next time. One she might not see coming until it was too late.
Better to confront it now.
As a blast of frigid air screamed through the garage, she strode purposefully toward her car, a plan already formulated. She wasn’t going to let them win—not the Monroes or the Carmichaels, and definitely not the Rabbit Rheaumes.
Keeping her eyes on the van, her thumb worked the automatic trunk release on the key fob. If anyone was in the van, they obviously were waiting until she walked between the two vehicles. Otherwise they would have already made their move.
The raised trunk would offer some protection while she grabbed her weapon. And if she was wrong, if the van was empty, she’d just get in her car and go home. Soak in a hot bath. Forget she’d nearly made a fool of herself.
She was already leaning into the trunk when she heard the nearly silent footsteps behind her. Her fingers closed around the holstered SIG-Sauer, and she had it free of leather when the sharp pop echoed. White-hot heat streaked just above her right temple.
Diving toward the side of the car, hoping to use it as cover, she brought the SIG-Sauer up, getting her first look at the shooter—a stocky male in dark clothing. She fired two quick rounds. Both slammed into his chest.
He kept coming.
A loud crack sounded. The taillight next to her shattered. Small bits of plastic exploded, some of it hitting her in the face, causing her to blink. Causing her third shot to miss.
As a bullet punctured the fender next to her, she squeezed the trigger again, this time going for a head shot.
Like a tethered pit bull hitting the end of its chain, the guy’s forward momentum vanished, and for the briefest of moments it was as if both time and motion stood still. His expression changed, bloomed from one of aggression to chagrin and then to stunned disbelief.
And then time kicked in again, and he was flying backward.
Beth got to her feet, her weapon trained on her attacker as she checked out the darkened garage for additional signs of danger.
Nothing.
No hint of movement or sound. But then, she hadn’t heard her attacker until it was nearly too late. Where had he come from? Why hadn’t she seen him sooner?
Her pulse scrambled uncontrollably. No matter how fast her lungs worked, she remained winded, gasping for air.
Keeping her weapon leveled at the body on the ground fifteen feet away, she forced herself to focus.
Part of her training had involved role-playing, learning how to survive a situation like the one she’d just been involved in, one where taking the time to weigh options could get you killed. And it was that same training she fell back on now, her attention flipping between her attacker and her surroundings.
She kicked aside the weapon he’d dropped—a .45 Smith & Wesson automatic—before closing the last few feet and getting the first clear look at his injuries. His right eye was gone.
As she reached down to check for a pulse—something she knew was a wasted action even before she did it—the warm scent of fresh blood reached up and grabbed her. Swallowing the bile that piled in her throat, she straightened.
He was younger than she’d first thought, midtwenties maybe. He wore a black ski cap pulled low over his ears. Seeing no sign of hair, she assumed his head was clean shaven. The rest of his clothing—jeans and sweatshirt—were also black.
When her gaze made it as far as his feet, she realized the reason she hadn’t heard him. He wasn’t wearing shoes. Who goes barefoot in November? In freezing temperatures?
Still facing him, she backed away, fumbling for the cell phone at her waist. She couldn’t stop her hand from shaking, so it took several tries to disengage the phone from the clip.
After placing calls to 911 and to Bill Monroe, she sat on the bumper of her car to wait. It was unlikely that Monroe would show up. When she’d reached him, he’d been at some type of social function.
For the first time, she allowed herself to really think about what had just taken place. She’d taken a life. And no matter how prepared she’d thought she was to do it, how certain she’d been that she could live with it, she suddenly realized she might have been wrong.
Inhaling sharply, she tried to dislodge the growing tightness in her chest. She couldn’t fall apart now. Deep breaths. Cleansing breaths. She’d killed a man, and there was no going back.
An hour later Beth was still sitting on the bumper of her car, but she was no longer alone. Minutes after she’d placed the 911 call, the first responding officer—a street cop—had secured the area and taken down an initial report.
Two Baltimore detectives and the crime-scene unit were the next to arrive. And less than two minutes ago, three FBI special agents from the Baltimore office had shown up. At one time she’d considered them office allies. But ever since Monroe had tagged her for termination, they’d distanced themselves from her.
It was always the office relationships that were the first to go. Next would come the stripping of security clearances. So far she’d dodged that bullet, for the same reason she still had a job—because they needed her testimony. Testimony that would carry more weight coming from a special agent whose security clearance hadn’t been downgraded or revoked.
She lowered the wad of fast-food napkins she’d found in her glove box and had been pressing to the side of her head. The gash just above her right temple was a minor one, but like most head wounds, it had bled pretty profusely at first. She glanced down at her shoulder. The white silk scarf was probably a lost cause, but because the coat she wore was navy-blue wool, the bloodstain wasn’t particularly noticeable and would probably clean up okay.
Her gaze returned to the three special agents and two detectives who were still conversing near the ramp. What were they discussing now? Just the shooting? Or were her coworkers eagerly explaining to the detectives that her appointment tonight had been with a shrink and not some other type of doctor?
Beth shifted her attention away from them and onto the dead man. His body remained uncovered. At least the shooter had a name now. Leon Tyber. The shoeless hit man. But even if he’d forgotten footwear, he’d remembered to wear body armor, the reason the first two shots to his chest hadn’t stopped him.
He’d come prepared to take me down swiftly and efficiently. But instead, I killed him.
As another sharp breeze blew through the structure, she shivered. She wasn’t really dressed to hang out in a cold garage. Like everyone else at the scene, she was waiting for the medical examiner to show up and release the body for transport to the morgue. Until he did, she couldn’t move her car without destroying evidence. Of course, if she’d been really eager to go home, she could have called a cab and come back tomorrow to pick up her car.
Hearing footsteps, she glanced up. Special Agent Tom Weston, a seventeen-year FBI veteran, walked over and propped his backside next to hers. He was tall, well built. In her early days in Baltimore, he’d been somewhat of a mentor to her. Up until a year ago, she’d considered him a friend.
Hands clasped in front of him, he looked over at her and then motioned at her injured head. “Maybe you should consider a trip to the emergency room to get that checked out.”
“It’s just a crease.