I gave him a look. He smiled, as if he'd been teasing me. I was a sniper. I could hold position for hours.
He stayed behind me, leg against mine, chest brushing my back. I could feel his fingertips brushing, too, skimming my ass. I was sure he didn't know where his hand was, but my heart picked up speed. His hand moved and came to rest on my hip, as if bracing me. I was keenly aware of him there, right behind me. I figured he'd moved in to talk. Only he didn't say anything.
I leaned my head back, slowly, stretching at first, then rested it against his shoulder. He didn't budge. I could smell more than the cigarette smoke now, picking up shaving lotion and shampoo, too, which reminded me of why he'd showered and shaved.
"About dinner," I said. "I'm sor--"
"Uh-uh. Already apologized. Only one freebie."
I nodded. I wanted to just stay there, but while I was sure he wasn't distracted, I was. So I straightened.
"Should get back inside," he said.
"Have a beer for me?"
A soft chuckle. "You wouldn't want it. American beer."
A squeeze on my hip, and he was gone.
By the time Roland left the bar, he was pissed. By that, I mean he was angry, having wasted his time, but I suspect he was a little drunk, too. The combination of the two meant he wasn't paying any attention to his surroundings. I zipped ahead of him, climbed a fire escape, and took up position on a rooftop overlooking the parking lot, where I could watch for his silver luxury car.
There were two exits from the lot. One headed north, the other south. Quinn would wait in his rental along the north street, Jack along the south. My job was to see which exit Roland used and which direction he went. The closer of the guys would pursue while the other picked me up.
A perfect tactical plan. Except Roland didn't climb into the driver's seat. He walked to the passenger door, looked around, and then took out his phone.
Gravel crunched behind me. I whirled, gun up, finger on the trigger. I didn't fire. I couldn't because all I could see was a male figure, and in the second it took for me to be sure it wasn't Quinn or Jack, I'd lost my chance. I still fired my gun, but he saw it coming. He ducked and came out shooting.
Two guns. Two shooters. In the Old West, it'd be a simple matter of hammering away at each other until someone went down. But we weren't on a dusty street with six-shooters. In an urban close-quarters firefight, you have two options. Either you duck and weave, while hoping to hell your wild shots hit your opponent. Or you stand still and get a decent shot--while giving your opponent an easy target. I go with the combination platter. Dodge and shoot until I can get to cover and take a real shot. Which works so much better when there is cover. Otherwise? Well, my gun didn't have unlimited ammo.
Shot number three hit his arm. His left arm, unfortunately, meaning he didn't drop his weapon. But he did stumble. I raised my gun and--
"Drop it," said a voice.
I glanced back quickly. It was Roland at the top of the fire escape. He had a gun--pointed at my head. My attacker had recovered, his gun going up--
I hit the roof. Stop, drop, and roll. One of them fired. The bullet whizzed through my jacket. I leapt up and scrambled for the edge.
"Stop her!" Roland said. "Don't shoot--grab her."
My attacker ran at me. I skidded onto my stomach, arms outstretched over my head like I was sliding into home base. If I really had been trying to escape over the edge, I'd have fallen three stories, headfirst. I wasn't suicidal. I had something in my other hand--the radio. I dropped it and then leaped up with a very uncharacteristic roar of rage to cover the sound of it hitting the pavement below.
My opponent hit me. He took me down and wrested the gun from my hand. I put up a token struggle, but not enough to get the shit kicked out of me. I dropped the radio because I knew I wasn't winning this fight. I had two rounds left, and two gun-wielding attackers, and not enough ego to think I could pull that off. From Roland's orders, he didn't want me dead. Not until he figured out what was going on.
So I let my opponent win while putting up a very noisy fight. Quinn and Jack were both down there. Inside cars. And we'd been shooting with silencers. So I made all the noise I could, until my
attacker jammed a beefy hand over my mouth. That's when I got my first really good look at him. In the dark, I'd thought he could be Quinn's size. He wasn't. He had a good two inches and fifty pounds on Quinn. A big bruiser of a thug, with a badly set nose and hair chopped crew-cut short.
Bodyguard. That's why Roland had been getting into the passenger side. It's also why he'd been glancing over his shoulder on his way to the bar. He was old and he was overweight, and he'd had a helluva scare eighteen years ago. Now he had a guy he could call when he went to meet a new client, a bodyguard who'd keep his distance so he didn't call attention to Roland.
Shit.
Which was exactly what Roland said once his thug had my hands bound and he flipped me onto my back.
"Shit. That's . . ."
He shone a penlight on my face and leaned over, his broad face dripping sweat from his three-story climb. He took his phone from his pocket and checked something on it. I knew what he was looking at. Photos. One of the woman his client wanted dead. One of Nadia Stafford.
"Who is it?" the bodyguard asked.