She saw Stephanie, her reddish hair glowing in the afternoon sun as she walked through the park. They waved at each other. It seemed ridiculously innocent, Rune thought, as if they were girlfriends meeting for drinks after work to complain about bosses and men and mothers.
Rune looked around, saw no one suspicious--well, no one more suspicious than you'd normally see in Union Square Park--then joined Stephanie.
"You're hurt." The woman glanced at her forehead, where Rune had been cut by a piece of glass or plaster.
"It's okay."
"What happened?"
Rune told her.
"God! You have to go to the police. You can talk to them. Tell them what happened."
"Yeah, right. They can place me at two different crime scenes. I'm the number one suspect."
"But won't the cops find you in Ohio?"
She gave a faint smile. "They might--if they knew my real name. Which they don't."
Stephanie smiled back. "True. Oh, here." She handed Rune a wad of bills. "It's about three hundred. That enough?"
Rune hugged her. "I don't know what to say." She gave Stephanie the check.
"No, no, this is too much."
"Little Red Hen, remember? I just need enough to get home on. You keep the rest. Tony'll probably fire you too. Just for helping me."
"Come on," Stephanie told her. "I'll help you pack and take you to the airport." They started down into the subway. "You think it's safe to go back to your loft?"
"Emily and Pretty Boy don't know about it. Manelli and that U.S. marshal do, but we can sneak in through the construction site. Nobody'll see us. We can--"
A chill like ice down her back. She gasped.
Ten feet away Pretty Boy stepped out from behind a pillar, holding a black pistol. "Don't fucking move," he muttered to Rune.
Anger on his face, he moved forward toward Rune, not paying any attention to Stephanie. Apparently he didn't even think they were together.
Rune froze. But Stephanie didn't.
She stepped past him fast, which caught him completely off guard. Screaming "Rape, rape!" she shoved her palm, fingers stiff and splayed, into his face. His head snapped back and he staggered against the wall, blood pouring from his nose.
"Fuck," he cried.
Her self-defense class ...
Stephanie stepped toward him again. It looked like she was going to kick him this time.
But Pretty Boy was good too; he knew what he was doing. He didn't try to fight back. He leapt to the side about three steps, out of range, wiped the blood from his mouth and started to raise the pistol toward her.
Then the arm closed around his neck.
A passenger--a huge black man--had heard Stephanie's cry and had come up behind their attacker and locked his muscular arm around Pretty Boy's throat. Choking, he dropped the gun and grabbed the man's forearm, trying futilely to break the grip.
The big man behind him seemed to be enjoying the whole thing. He said cheerfully to Pretty Boy, "H'okay, asshole, leave th'ladies 'lone. You hear me?"
They ran.
Stephanie in the lead.