half on top of the unconscious man she’d hit and half on top of her.
For a moment he got a good look at her face. Mid to late twenties, brilliant blue eyes, deep red hair, fine bone structure and porcelain skin.
He got moving again quickly, staggering to the front, pulling the Glock out of its holster as he went, then pressing the muzzle against the driver’s head.
“Pull over. Now.”
“Ah, hell,” the driver muttered. He added a few colorful expletives, but, as ordered, he pulled over to the side. Craig cuffed him and then went back to cuff the other two, easing their guns out of reach as he did so, swearing inwardly. A takedown wasn’t easy when he was stooping over the whole time to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling of the van.
The young woman was getting to her feet at that point, and he realized she was tall enough that she needed to stoop, as well. He met her eyes. They were a stunning crystal blue, almost impossible to look away from.
“Thanks,” he told her. “You saved my life.”
“I think you saved mine,” she said.
“Oh, fuck you both,” the driver said. “No one saved anyone. We don’t kill people. We’re thieves. We don’t even use real guns!”
Craig spun around toward him and then bent down to pick up the thieves’ guns.
It was an incredibly real copy of a Smith & Wesson. And it was made out of plastic.
He grabbed the other weapon off the floor of the van; it, too, was an excellent copy and, like the first, made of plastic.
“Where the hell did you get these?” Craig demanded.
The driver laughed. “Toy store,” he said. “Check that one out. It’s a water pistol.”
“You idiot. Don’t you know that the police would shoot you, whether these were real or not?”
“Police never should have caught us,” the driver said.
“Am I hearing this right?” Mike demanded over the earpiece.
Craig wasn’t sure how Mike could hear anything, frankly. By now sirens were ripping through the air and police cars were surging around them.
He slid open the panel door, holding out a hand with his badge showing. “Lower your weapons. FBI. The situation is under control.”
He looked back at the driver.
The guy wasn’t wearing a ski mask or a hoodie. He looked like any other blue-collar worker in a Yankees’ beanie and a plaid flannel shirt. He was about thirty-five, Craig estimated. Brown hair, neatly trimmed beard and mustache.
Someone’s all-around good old boy uncle, perhaps, come to the big city.
Craig realized that he and the woman were no longer in danger—not as far as this crew went. He regretted the fact that he was now certain he had been right.
There was a copycat group working the streets. With real guns—guns that killed.
He’d won the bet with Mike.
He wished that he’d lost.
Two groups...
And the one that killed was still out there.
ALL KIERAN WANTED to do was escape, but getting away wasn’t going to be that easy.
The police and the FBI and everyone else who had shown up where the van had stopped needed to speak with her.
At least half of them were convinced that she needed medical attention.
She was somewhat banged up. There weren’t seats in the van—the back had been empty except for some tools, including the tire iron she’d used on the thief when he’d had a gun trained on the FBI agent.
Except that it hadn’t been a gun at all; it had been a water pistol. However, she didn’t feel quite so foolish, because Mr. FBI hadn’t known it was a water pistol, either.
Why the hell did companies make such accurate children’s toys? Were they trying to help raise the next generation of crooks?
She needed to leave. She needed to get back to the pub before Declan started worrying about her.
But instead she was stuck sitting in the back of an ambulance, wrapped in a blanket and drinking coffee while desperately trying to convince the police and EMTs and whoever else was there that she was fine and just needed to leave.
Finally one cop told her, “Sorry, miss, you’re not going anywhere. You’re the best witness we’ve got against these guys.”
“But I really need to go to work.”
She hadn’t seen the agent who had leaped into the van like a fullback since the cops had sounded and he had jumped out again. An officer had helped her out, and then others had entered the van to gather up the thieves, who were now on their way to a police station somewhere to be held for arraignment. She’d overheard the driver, a good old boy with a beard and flannel shirt, inform them that he wasn’t talking to anyone until he had a lawyer.
She had turned over all the diamonds to the police—including the one her brother had pinched.
She realized that she was now actively afraid of explaining to Declan what she had been doing. She had promised to work that night, and while Daniel might manage for a few hours, he wasn’t up to handling the night crowds.
One of the EMTs came over to her. “You should really go to the hospital for a checkup, just to make sure you’re all right. Sounds like you got pretty shaken up in that van.”
“I swear, I’m fine,” Kieran said, putting a little more pressure on the ice pack pressed to her cheek.
“Everyone who was in there looks as if they’ve been in the ring with Ali,” the EMT said. He kept talking, but Kieran didn’t hear him. She was too busy being horrified by the reporters—with cameras—who had arrived on the scene.
She had to get out of there.
She slid off her perch. She’d told her story at least three times: once to a nice-looking man in his late thirties wearing a pin-striped suit, once to an officer in uniform and once to an older man with gray hair and a grim face. They’d said something about statements and the DA’s office getting hold of her. Fine. They had her information and they could call her later.
She did not want to appear on the news.
As she slipped around the ambulance, hoping that she could just blend into the crowd, she stopped short. The FBI agent who had literally jumped to her rescue was talking with the man in the pin-striped suit she had spoken with earlier.
“The bosses want you to make a statement, Craig,” the man in the suit was saying.
