a black Cadillac Escalade. A fourth already stood by the driver’s-side door, scanning his surroundings. A matching SUV had parked a few spots back and three more men were disgorging. Blood thundered in Fox’s ears and sweat immediately broke out on his forehead. How the hell? When the realization struck, his stomach plummeted. The credit card. He’d used a credit card to pay for the Internet access, and apparently someone had been waiting for him to do just that.
He rocketed to his feet, grabbing his satchel. Turning on a heel to bolt, he nearly collided with the waitress. Her eyes wide, she crossed her arms over her chest protectively and inhaled sharply as she came to a halt. Reaching into his pocket, Gabe grabbed a crumpled ten-dollar bill and held it out to her.
She took it. “It’s going to be a minute on the change.”
“Keep it,” he said, his voice sharp and loud. “A back door. You got one?”
The volume of his voice, his size and his erratic behavior seemed to take her aback. Eyes wide, her lips parted but no sound came out.
“A door!” Without taking her eyes from him, she turned and gestured toward a pair of swing doors at the other end of the counter.
“There. Through there.”
“Thanks,” he said, his voice dropping in volume. He darted for the back of the restaurant. Pushing through the swing doors, he wound his way between a series of tables covered with chopped food and kitchen appliances. A twenty-something man, his hair dyed green and three earrings on his left ear, his skinny torso covered in a stained apron, stepped into Fox’s path, a butcher’s knife clutched in his right hand, but not upraised to strike.
“What’s the—” he said.
Fox’s stiff-armed the cook, planting the open palm of his left hand into the man’s sternum, sending him spinning backward into a wall. The cook yelled, but it only vaguely registered with Fox. He pushed through a wood-framed screen door, which emptied into an alley that ran the length of a row of commercial buildings, most of them stout and more than a century old. Cutting right, he began to move along the alley, his lungs already feeling the exertion from years of smoking combined with the thin mountain air.
Even as he moved, he heard the screen door slam behind him, prompting him to glance over his shoulder. He spotted the cook from the restaurant, knife still in his hand, yelling and cursing at him.
A corridor, little more than the space between two buildings, opened up to his right and Fox darted into it. Footsteps pounded the pavement and he heard a faint thumping in the distance. Flattening himself against the wall, he reached inside the satchel and fisted the Uzi, but kept the bag over it for the moment. Chances were the irate cook or the waitress was already calling 911, summoning the local police. If they showed up, he’d lose the weapon, give himself up and hope to stay alive in custody until Kurtzman arrived. Fox wasn’t in love with the police, and the memory of his betrayal by the CIA was fresh in his mind, but he wasn’t about to draw down on some local cop trying to do his or her job. He’d die before doing that.
The whupping of chopper blades rent the air and the craft passed overhead, the whine of the engine reverberating from the alley walls. Biting off a curse, Fox headed for the mouth of the alley, which led back onto the main street. Chancing a look around the corner, he spotted two of the guys from the SUV moving up the street toward him. Jerking back, he spun on a heel, retraced his steps toward the other end of the alley. The helicopter’s engine grew louder as it returned for another pass. Had they spotted him during their previous pass? He had no reason to think otherwise.
A stout man clad in a black leather bomber jacket and jeans stepped into view, bringing a gun to bear on Fox. With less than ten yards separating them, Fox started to raise his own weapon when he suddenly heard tires screech in the alley, snagging the guy’s attention and causing him to snap his head toward the source of the noise.
Already committed, Fox continued running until he came right up on the man and threw himself into the guy, tackling him, both men crashing to the ground in a pile. Breath whooshed from between the man’s lips as he struck the ground. Fox pressed his advantage, lifting the Uzi, ready to crack the other man in the jaw with the submachine gun.
“Freeze!”
Fox complied, holding both hands aloft. He glanced briefly to his right and saw a police cruiser, a female officer crouched behind it. She gripped her weapon in both hands and laid her arms over the car’s hood, using it to steady her hands.
“Drop the guns!” she yelled. “Now! Both of you.”
Fox set the Uzi on the asphalt and, with a hard shove, sent it sliding toward the cruiser. The other man tossed aside his pistol. She ordered both men to their feet and Fox did as he was told. He hated taking orders, especially from a cop, but he didn’t mind grabbing some distance from the stocky bastard who a few moments earlier had been gunning for him. The woman rose, the weapon still held in front of her, and gestured toward a wall.
“Up against it,” she said.
“Look, Officer—” Fox began.
Her face reddened and her voice gained volume. “The wall. Now!”
He started for the wall, still keeping his distance from the other man. As he moved, he noticed the guy fumbling in his pocket for something while he used Fox’s body to shield his movements from the cop. Before Fox could say anything, the man’s hand came free and Fox caught the glint of something metallic, followed by a gunshot.
EMILIO CORTEZ WATCHED as his men fanned out over the small mountain town’s main drag, looking for Gabriel Fox. Two men disappeared inside the coffee shop across the street, while another slipped into a nearby bookstore. Three more began moving down his side of the street, peering through store windows. With a gesture, he sent the two SUVs inching down the street, the drivers ready to return should he summon them with a call through the throat microphone.
Despite the chill, he opened his knee-length black leather coat, putting his Ithaca 37 stakeout model shotgun within reach. The shotgun hung from his rangy frame in a custom-made rig, and he carried extra shells in his right coat pocket. A Browning Hi-Power handgun, a custom sound suppressor affixed to its barrel, rode in snap-out leather on his hip, opposite the shotgun. Laminated FBI credentials hung from his neck, and he carried a snap-out wallet containing a forged Bureau ID and badge in his coat pocket, in case he encountered the police.
Cortez scanned the street, listening to the radio traffic buzzing in his ear.
The helicopter zoomed by, the rotor wash tousling his black hair. His black eyes squinted even as he followed the craft as it passed him by.
A moment later one of the van drivers spoke. “Picking up a 911 dispatch. A guy matching our rabbit just bolted from inside the coffee shop using the back door. Apparently he got a visual on us.”
“We’ve got two in the coffee shop,” Cortez said.
A moment later the helicopter copilot spoke. “Clear. I’ve got a visual on our guy. He’s running down the alley behind the coffee shop. Ben, you and Alex got that?”
“Right,” said Ben Waters, one of the men searching the coffee shop, “we’re coming out the back now.”
“Clear,” the pilot responded.
Cortez adopted a grim smile as he listened to the chase unfold. He was ready to put this guy under wraps, forever and for good. They’d spent
