He still clung to the sleeve of her windbreaker. She escaped by slipping out of her jacket.
Before they could brace themselves for another assault, she unleashed a series of kicks and straight-hand chops. Not a pretty, precise display. She wouldn’t win any tournament points for style, but she got the job done with several swift blows to vulnerable parts of their anatomy. Throat. Gut. Groin.
Both were on their knees.
Another man rushed out the door. And another.
Behind her back, she heard Harry fire his automatic. Five shots.
She ran for the car.
Harry collapsed into the passenger side as she dived behind the wheel and cranked the ignition. Without turning on the headlights, she burned rubber and tore down the street.
Gunfire exploded behind them.
Liz didn’t cut her speed until they reached a major intersection, where she turned on the headlights and merged into traffic. Her heart hammered inside her rib cage. They could have been killed. The aftermath of intense danger exploded behind her eyelids like belated fireworks.
Thank God for Dragon Lou and his martial arts training.
Beside her in the passenger seat, Harry was breathing heavily. With the back of his hand, he wiped sweat from his forehead. “Did you get the pictures?”
She cringed. “The camera was in my windbreaker. The bearded guy pulled it off me.”
“It’s okay.”
“But you’re not.” She took note of his pasty complexion and heaving chest. “I’m taking you to the emergency room.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Kick the old man out of the way and take over his business.”
“Yeah, that’s my evil plan. Adding your debt to my student loans.” Sarcasm covered her concern for him. “That’s every girl’s dream.”
“Seriously, Liz. I don’t need a doc.” He exhaled in a long whoosh that dissolved into a hacking cough. “This was a little too much excitement for the old ticker.”
“Is this your way of telling me that you have heart problems?”
“Forget it. Just drive back to the office.”
Checking her rearview mirrors, she continued along Colfax Avenue. She didn’t see anyone following them; they’d made a clean getaway. Just in case, she turned south at the next intersection and drove toward the highway. “We need to call the police.”
“Nope.”
“Harry, those guys shot at us. They assaulted us.”
“But I returned fire.” He cleared his throat, breathing more easily. His clenched fist lifted from his chest. “And you kicked ass. You might look like a Pop-Tart, but you were a fire-breathing dragon.”
“My form wasn’t terrific.”
“You did good.” He reached over and patted her shoulder. Always stingy with his compliments, Harry followed up with a complaint. “Too bad you messed up and lost the camera.”
“Don’t even think about taking the cost out of my wages.” At a stoplight, she studied him again. He seemed to have recovered. “We need to fill out a police report. Those people are dealing drugs.”
“And I guarantee that the narcs are well aware. Leave the drug dealers to the cops, we’ve got problems of our own. Like how to get that juicy bonus from Victoria.”
Tomorrow, she’d put in a call to a friend at the Denver PD. At the very least, she wanted to see those children removed from a dangerous environment.
Harry sat up straighter. “Time to switch to Plan B.”
“I don’t like the sound of this.”
“My source is the housekeeper who works at the Crawford estate near Evergreen. She can—”
“Wait a sec. How did you get to know a housekeeper?” She glanced toward the backseat. “You’ve never tidied up anything in your whole life.”
“I served with her dad in Vietnam, and we stay in touch. Her name is Rachel Frakes. She’s actually the one who recommended me to Victoria.”
That connection explained a lot. The Schooner Detective Agency wasn’t usually the first choice of the rich and famous. “What’s Plan B?”
“Rachel gets you inside the estate. While you’re there, you dig up the dirt on Ben.”
“An undercover assignment.”
That didn’t sound too shabby. Maybe she’d impersonate a fancy-pants interior decorator. Or a horse wrangler. An upscale estate near Evergreen had to have several acres and a stable. Or she could be a guest—maybe an eccentric jet-setting heiress. A descendant of the Romanov czars. “Who am I supposed to be?”
He almost smiled. “You’ll see.”
Chapter Two
The next afternoon, Liz tromped down the back staircase from her brand-new undercover home—a third-floor garret at the Crawford mansion. Her starched gray uniform with the white apron reminded her of a Pilgrim costume she’d worn in fourth grade. The hem drooped below her knees, which was probably a good thing because she belatedly realized that she hadn’t shaved her legs since before she started studying for final exams. Entering the kitchen, she adjusted the starched white cap that clung with four bobby pins to her unruly blond hair.
A maid. She was supposed to be a maid. The thrills just kept coming.
At the bottom of the staircase, Rachel the housekeeper stood with fists planted on her hips. She was a tall, solidly built woman who would have fit right in with the Russian women’s weightlifting team. Her short blond hair was neatly slicked back away from her face. “Liz, may I remind you that a maid is supposed to be as unobtrusive as a piece of furniture.”
“Okay.” Call me Chippendale.
“While descending the staircase, you sounded like a herd of bison. We walk softly on the pads of our feet.”
“If I walk softly, can I carry a big stick?”
Rachel’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Surely, you don’t intend to hit anything.”
“I’m joking.” If this had been a real job, Liz would have already quit. “Any other advice?”
“The proper answer to a question is yes or no. Not ‘okay.’ And certainly not a joke. Is that clear?”
Liz poked at her silly white cap. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Do something with your hair. It’s all over the place.”
She bit the inside of her mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”
“No perfume. No nail polish.
