Never Say Spy (2 page)

I let out a strangled shriek and dodged sideways, trying to swerve around the front of the truck.

I wasn’t going to make it.  I was too close, going too fast.

A bullet thudded into the Suburban.  I jumped and rolled at the front fender, caroming over the hood.  As I tumbled past the windshield, I glimpsed the passenger’s young face, his mouth stretched open in a ‘O’.

Something plucked at my pant leg as I went over.  Then I was on my feet on the other side, sprinting across two lanes of traffic while vehicles screeched to a halt with a chorus of honking horns.

Sobbing for breath, I did a broken-field run between the stopped cars.  I couldn’t hear any more gunfire behind me, but the hammering of my heart would have drowned it out anyway.

All eyes jerked toward me when I cannoned through the door of the nearest coffee shop.  I doubled over, gasping, “911!  Call 911!”

After a moment of shocked paralysis, the patrons surged to their feet in a babble of voices.  Struggling for air, I braced my elbows on my shaking knees, brainlessly repeating “911” with every breath.  A knot of people converged on me, offering a chair and jabbering questions and advice.

A woman’s voice rose in a squeaky tremolo.  “Oh my God, she’s bleeding!”

I collapsed into the proffered chair and followed her wide-eyed gaze to the blood-soaked rip in my jeans just above my ankle.  When I pulled up my pant leg, I discovered a short, shallow gash just above my sock.  It began to throb as I eyed it with the detachment gained from occasional renovation-related injuries.

Minor.

It looked impressive, though.  My exertion had encouraged the bleeding.  My sock was soaked down one side, and my shoe was squishy.  A few drops leaked out onto the floor while I watched.  I dropped the pant leg back into place, unable to summon enough energy to care at the moment.

One of the baristas, an older woman, pushed through the crowd to pat me on the shoulder with a motherly hand.  “Police and ambulance are on the way.  Would you like a hot drink?  Or some juice?”

“Orange juice, please,” I quavered gratefully.  When it arrived, I needed both trembling hands to raise it to my mouth.  The bottle clattered a calypso rhythm against my teeth.

A few minutes later, the juice started to work its magic on my blood sugar.  I drew a long, shaky breath, stretching out my hand to gauge the diminishing tremor.  I wouldn’t want to run a marathon or anything, but I could probably stand up without collapsing.

Most of the customers were still crowded around the windows, riveted on the scene in the street.  The remainder drifted back to their tables, leaving me some welcome space.  When the barista offered to bring a first aid kit for my leg I accepted with thanks, and she disappeared through a door behind the coffee counter.

I swallowed the last of the juice, staring anxiously toward the street and straining my ears for sirens.  At last, I heard the welcome wail, and I slumped back in the chair with a sigh, letting my shoulders ease down from around my ears.  Thank God.

A few moments later, a disturbance in the bystanders outside the coffee shop made me sit up again to crane my neck.  The police must be arriving.

Adrenaline slammed into my bloodstream.  Shit, no!

The big gunman from the Suburban moved purposefully toward the door of the coffee shop, head and shoulders taller than the still-gawking crowd.

Goddammit, where the hell were the police?

I hauled myself to my feet to hurry in the direction of the bathroom, but my movement caught his attention through the glass.  He met my eyes as he began to shove his way through the onlookers into the shop.  His lips were moving, but I didn’t wait to find out what he was saying.

With a fresh surge of panic, I bolted into the open door behind the coffee bar, nearly colliding with the barista as she returned.  She held out the first aid kit as I passed, as if maybe I would stop and doctor my leg on the fly.  I rocketed past a small table and chairs, then past storage shelves, frantically scanning for a back exit.

Thank God, there it was, equipped with what architects call ‘panic hardware’.  How appropriate.

I crashed into the door lever with a grunt and burst through the doorway only to be confronted by a beanpole of a young man, his eyes wide in his white face.  He flung out trembling arms to stop me, but I recognized the telltale ‘afraid of the ball’ flinch as his face turned partly away, eyes squeezing.

I passed beyond fear.  My mind clicked into the magical state basketball players call ‘the zone’ and time slowed, my mind analyzing and my body reacting without conscious thought.

He was a good three inches taller than me, maybe more.  His reach was too long to avoid, but he was ridiculously skinny.  I was five-foot-ten and a hundred and sixty pounds.  I had a lot of momentum and a lot of motivation.

I could take him.

Disconnected, I saw the fear flood into his face at the sight of my maniacal grin.  I didn’t even try to dodge around him.  Instead, I dropped my shoulder, took two hard accelerating steps, and slammed into his gut.  At impact, I jerked upright, flinging my arms upward.  A tangle of bony limbs catapulted over my shoulder, accompanied by the explosive bark of air leaving his lungs.  I dimly heard the thud when he hit the pavement.

The orange juice was wearing off already.  I forced my rubbery legs to accelerate again, but I had only taken half a dozen strides when a voice boomed behind me.

“Stop, police!”

With a hiccup of relief, I skidded to a halt and swung back to face the coffee shop.

It wasn’t the police.

The big man stood beside his fallen accomplice, his gun trained on me.  The bore looked enormous, but it was probably only a 9mm.  I’d always liked guns.  Until now.

His gaze and gun stayed locked on me as he reached out one foot and nudged the kid on the ground none too gently.  “Breathe, Webb.”

The beanpole twitched and drew in a wailing breath, then another.  If I hadn’t been so terrified, I’d have felt sorry for him.  I’d had the wind knocked out of me once or twice.  Those first few breaths were no picnic.

The kid took a couple more breaths, and then retched and vomited.  That had to hurt.  He curled around his stomach and lay still, but I could see the rise and fall of his rib cage.  At least I hadn’t killed him outright.  That would probably upset the big guy.

“oh-shit-oh-shit-oh-shit,” a small voice chanted in my mind.  I wondered how many people’s last words were ‘Oh, shit’.  It made me think of that joke, how did it go?  80% of people’s last words were ‘Oh, shit’, except in Saskatchewan, where the usual last words were ‘Here, hold my beer’.

Too much adrenaline.  Focus.

I shook my head, rattling my brain back into action.  Stay alert, stay smart.  Get him talking.

“What do you want?” I quavered.  Not very inspired, but at least it was a start.

“I want to talk to you,” he responded evenly.  “Don’t run away.  Calm down and talk to me.”

“Nine millimetres of hot lead is a hell of a conversation-starter.  Why are you trying to shoot me?” I asked, attempting a calm and conversational tone while my heart tried to punch through my ribs.

“If I’d tried to shoot you, you’d be dead,” he said.  “And it’s a .40 cal.”

I digested that.  There was some logic there.  Not the part about the .40 calibre; the other part.  Earlier, he’d fired from such close range he’d have to have been completely ham-fisted to miss me.  And the way he handled that gun, I was pretty sure he wasn’t ham-fisted.  I belatedly realized he was still talking, his voice steady and soothing.

“Let’s start again.  My name is John Kane.  I’m with the RCMP.”  He jerked his chin toward his companion on the ground, his eyes never leaving me.  “This is Clyde Webb.  The man who was in your car was of interest to us.  We want to ask you some questions.  Don’t run away.”

I sucked in a trembling breath and studied him more closely, trying to ignore the firearm still pointing at me.  My first impression of ‘really big guy’ hadn’t just been frightened exaggeration.  He nearly filled the back doorway of the coffee shop.

Short dark hair with a shading of grey at the temples, in a military-looking cut.  Well-fitting dark jeans, black T-shirt stretched over wide shoulders and a muscular chest, loose-fitting black jacket open over top.  Steady grey eyes never left mine.  He stood completely still, no sign of tension in his posture.

“Why should I believe you?  Your buddy doesn’t look like he could have passed a police physical, and you don’t have a uniform or a badge.”

He one-handed the gun and reached into his jeans pocket to withdraw a wallet, which he flipped open and held up.  “Here’s my identification.”

“Yeah, right.  I can’t read it from here, and even if I could, I wouldn’t know whether it was real or out of a Crackerjack box.”

His expression stayed calm, his deep voice unhurried.  “What proof would you like to see?  What would make you feel more comfortable?”

My legs quivered uncontrollably.  I wasn’t going to last much longer.  But the more I thought about it, the more I was inclined to believe him.  If he’d actually intended to shoot me, he could have done it many times over.  And if he was a criminal, he wouldn’t be patiently negotiating with me.

But I couldn’t afford to be wrong.

“I’d feel a whole lot better if I saw some uniforms.  I heard the police cars on the street earlier, so where are they?”

Without turning, he took two steps backward and thumped a couple of times on the door with his fist.  “Come on out!”

The door opened and two men in body armour emerged, followed by two uniformed city police officers, their hands hovering near their weapons.

Officer Kane nodded toward his partner, who was still slumped on the ground.  “Check on Webb.”

One of the uniforms bent over him while the others ranged themselves beside Kane to watch me.

My mind reeled.  They called in a SWAT team to chase me?

Shit, I’ve just assaulted a police officer.

Oh thank God, I’m safe!

My knees gave up and I sat abruptly and heavily on the pavement.  Long tremors rolled through my body.  I’d left my jacket inside the coffee shop when I fled, and although the temperature was above zero, it was hardly shirtsleeve weather.  I wrapped my arms around myself, shaking.

In seconds, Officer Kane was standing over me, patting me, which seemed odd until I realized he was searching me for concealed weapons.  The only place I could have hidden one was at my ankles where the legs of my jeans flared, and he briefly examined the gash in my leg before waving one of the uniforms over.

“Bring an ambulance around,” he told the man.  “Have them look at Webb, too.”

A few minutes later, I was sitting in the back of the ambulance, enveloped in a warm blanket while a paramedic treated my ankle.  He finished cleaning the wound, which was still sluggishly oozing blood.

“This could use a few stitches,” he said.  “We can take you in to Emergency now if you want.”

“It hardly seems worth it,” I responded.  “It’s just a scratch.  I think I must have snagged it on a piece of sharp metal or something.”

“You got snagged all right, but this is a gunshot wound.  We have to report these, and you were very lucky to get away with such a minor injury.”

“Please tell me I don’t have to go to Emergency,” I begged.  “It’s a total waste of my time and the hospital’s resources.  Can’t you just patch me up?  I’ll be making a police report anyway, so that should cover your reporting requirements.”

While we talked, the bony Webb had crept to his feet.  He insisted on walking to the ambulance under his own power, rejecting the stretcher that had been wheeled over for him.  Surrounded by all the machismo in SWAT gear and uniforms, he seemed to feel as though he had something to prove.  He stood obstinately outside the vehicle while the paramedic examined him.

A couple of other men in body armour came around the side of the coffee shop, greeting Officer Kane with rough humour.  One of them slapped him on the back and said, “Nice to see you’ve still got your edge after retiring to your cushy INSET job!”

“What part of this looks cushy to you, Archer?  I’m out there getting my ass shot up, and you ERT ladies come prancing in with your body armour once all the shooting’s over,” Kane groused back without rancour.

I caught Webb’s eye.  “I’m really sorry,” I began.  “I was so scared, and I didn’t know who you were...”

“It’s okay,” he interrupted.  “I should have identified myself.  It was my fault.”

Kane had arrived in time to hear the last of the exchange.  He closed his eyes briefly and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Webb, I only wanted you to identify yourself.  Just say who you were and get her to calm down...”

Webb shuffled his feet, blushing.  “I’m sorry.  I got so scared I forgot.  She was running right at me and I’m no good at physical stuff.  I was afraid she was going to kill me.”

Kane went still.  “No, I’m sorry,” he said quietly.  “I should never have put you in that position.”  One of the uniformed officers signalled for his attention and he turned away.