headed into the parking garage. During normal business hours there was an attendant at the entrance, but the enclosure was now deserted.
As she stepped around the barrier bar, a red Beemer came down the ramp, headed for the exit. Out of habit, she reached inside her jacket to check her weapon, but then remembered she’d locked it in her trunk.
Seeing the woman behind the wheel, Beth relaxed. For the past few months, she’d done a lot of looking over her shoulder, waiting to see if Rheaume would try to stack the deck in his favor. It was just another reason that she was constantly on edge, and why she refused to take the antianxiety medication. And the reason she’d be armed at her next appointment despite Carmichael’s office policy. There was a difference between paranoia and vigilance.
As she passed the elevator doors, she glanced at them but didn’t slow. She’d managed to ride up in the one at the office two days ago, but at the moment she didn’t feel like trying it again.
If the outside temperature had seemed frigid, inside the garage was even worse. She slid her gloved hands into her pockets. A few cars—a green Taurus, a blue Explorer and a white Escalade were clustered near the entrance—but the rest of the lower level had cleared out. Unfortunately, it had been full when she’d arrived, so she’d been forced to leave her car on the second level. She hiked up the ramp.
Several of the fluorescent lights overhead were out. As quickly as she looked up, she diverted her gaze from the reinforced-concrete ceiling. For some reason even in this reasonably wide-open space, she felt as if all that weight was pressing down on her, as if she’d be buried beneath it. Inhaling sharply, she forced her hands a little deeper into her pockets.
She was fine. Absolutely fine. The claustrophobia was getting better. Maybe it was resolving more slowly than she wanted, but she just needed to keep pushing herself.
Reaching the top of the incline, she spotted her red Taurus off to the right, but instead of walking toward it, she stopped in her tracks. A white Chevy van with heavily tinted windows had been backed in next to the Taurus. Her fingers closed around the car keys in her pocket. There had been a maroon Honda in the slot earlier and quite a few empty spaces near the elevator.
She scanned the rest of the second level and, finding it deserted, studied the van again. Something just didn’t feel right. With this level pretty much empty, why would the driver choose to park there? And more important, why go to the trouble of backing in?
The front seats were empty, but that didn’t eliminate the possibility that someone was in the backend, waiting to roll open the side door, waiting to pull her inside when she tried to reach the driver’s door of her car.
Should she bail?
And do what, though? Use her cell phone to call a cop? What if she was wrong about the van? What if in this one instance she actually had taken that downhill slide from cautious to paranoid?
If so, calling Baltimore PD would have been a bad idea. Once the cops realized she was a fed, there was very little chance it wouldn’t get back to Monroe. Or that he wouldn’t use it against her, claiming that the incident further demonstrated her inability to do her job.
She took a deep breath and 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
