Working Stiff

accidents with guys clowning around in the army.

“We roll up and stay in the car.” He pulled off to the side of the road and killed the lights. “Switch. You’re driving.”

“Me? Why?” Too late to ask; he was already out of the car and walking around. She scrambled over the seat and buckled in as he took her spot. “Okay, fine, I’m driving. Now what?”

“Follow the directions.” Fideli took out his gun and checked it with professional calm. “You park somewhere with the passenger side up against the building, preferably out of direct lighting. I’ll get out and into the shadows, and wait for him to pull up next to you on the driver’s side. Then I go around to his passenger door, game over. If things get hairy, hit the gas and get out of the way.”

“I thought I couldn’t die from a bullet wound.”

“You can’t, but it’d hurt, and as the one who would die, I’d rather avoid the whole gun battle. You understand the plan?”

“Yes.” She glanced down at the map. They were at the entrance to the warehouse complex. A turn took her down a deserted, well-maintained road. Four gigantic buildings on the left. Two were occupied, with semi trucks being loaded and forklifts whizzing around. The last two were completely dark, except for security lighting in the parking lots and over the shuttered entrances.

She turned in at the last entrance, made a big circle, and parked as directed with the passenger side close against the building, near the corner. “Joe,” she said, as he turned off the overhead light before opening the door. “Be careful, okay?”

“It warms my heart that you care.”

She tried for a smile. “Well, you’re better than McCallister.”

Fideli leaned in and gave her that odd look again. “Like I said, you don’t know him very well. Lock it.”

He shut the door, and she hit the lock button. He was out of sight in seconds. Damn, the man was stealthy. She supposed she should be happy about that, in these circumstances.

The minutes ticked by, and she watched the clock. Eight thirty crawled by, and then eight forty-five. She fidgeted and wished she dared to play the radio, but she didn’t want to miss anything, even the slightest noise. If Joe Fideli could creep up on her, so could the enemy, and Bryn kept a constant watch on the mirrors around the car.

At eight fifty-eight, she saw headlights on the road. A car turned into the parking lot and glided almost silently across the empty space. It was black, with heavily darkened windows, and it looked fast.

It pulled to an idling stop with the hood facing her, lights boring into the vehicle. Bryn wasn’t sure, but she thought the driver could probably see her through the tinting—at least her silhouette, which looked nothing like Lincoln Fairview‘s. The headlights were blinding, and she couldn’t see a thing.

She heard Fideli suddenly shout, “Bryn, down!” and flung herself sideways, clicking out of the seat belt, just as a hammering chatter of gunfire filled the air. Full auto, she thought, ears rattling and burning from the onslaught of sound, even as she scrambled for the handle of the passenger door. Damn it—locked! She didn’t know where the buttons were, but she flailed at them as bullets shattered the driver’s-side window into bright, flying shards. One sliced a bright red line across her hand, but she didn’t feel any pain through the rush of adrenaline. When she glanced back she saw light shining through holes punched through the metal of the door. The air was full of drifting particles of dust and fluff from the upholstery, and the firing was still going on.

Bryn found the lock release, opened the door, and slithered out to the ground. She scrambled over and put herself behind the engine block, the safest place, as the Lincoln shuddered under the impact of more bullets.

She heard more shots, measured and of a different pitch, coming from the rear of the car, and looked over to see Joe Fideli crouched there as he returned fire. There was a screech of tires, and their attacker pulled out after one last burst of bullets that rang and echoed against the concrete.

Then the car was gone, speeding for the exit.

“Bryn?”

“I’m okay,” she said. “Are you?”

“Fine.” Fideli sounded frustrated as he changed clips on his gun, chambered a round, and holstered the gun. He took out his phone and dialed. “Pat? You got him?” Pat? McCallister? Bryn waited tensely, and Fideli turned away and talked in too low of a voice to be overheard. She stood up on shaky legs. It finally occurred to her that she hadn’t even drawn her gun. Hadn’t fired a single round at the fleeing car. Stupid.

It seemed to take forever, but Fideli hung up and came back to her. He didn’t look happy.

“What happened?” Bryn asked.

“We had the exits from the industrial park covered, but he dumped the car at the next lot over. He may have had another car stashed, or gone on foot. We don’t know where he went from there. There are a lot of trucks coming and going from the other warehouses; he could be hitchhiking on any one of them, and we can’t stop and search them without triggering a lot of questions. He could also have gone on foot; it’s an easy run across the park area over there, and there’s a mall on the other side.”

“What about the car? Can you trace it?”

“Stolen less than two hours ago from a bar,” he said. “Our friend isn’t taking any chances, even at a supposedly friendly meeting. I think he’s a little paranoid.”

“You’re not paranoid if they’re out to get you.”

“True,” Fideli said, as a dark sedan pulled into the lot, and two Pharmadene security men, in the traditional blazers, got out and walked toward them. “Nothing we can do tonight. Let’s get you home. I’ll see you at work tomorrow. Oh, and Bryn?”

“What?”

He smiled and winked at her. “Good effort. But next time, tell me about your stealthy plans first. Not that I wouldn’t be onto them, but it’s nice if we can talk about it.”

The next day, Bryn dressed in a practical gray pantsuit with a shell-pink blouse, minimal makeup and jewelry, and sensible flat shoes to go out to see the progress at Fairview. She took Mr. French with her, because hey, as the boss, she could. Besides, he loved the car, and sticking his head out the window. His doggy joy lightened her mood considerably.

Joe Fideli was already in the parking lot when she arrived, leaning against the hood of his big truck. He nodded to her, and smiled when he saw Mr. French padding along at her heels. “Is it bring-a-friend-to-work day?” he asked.

“He’s not my friend. I never saw him before,” she said, as the dog sat down next to her, regarding Joe with suspicious dark eyes. He growled a little. Joe growled back, which seemed to settle the matter to Mr. French’s satisfaction. “Did you get any sleep at all?”

“Enough. Besides, I didn’t want to be late for work,” he said.

“Any progress on our gun-happy friend from last night?”

“Nothing. We’re pulling security footage all over the place, but right now it looks like he’s a ghost. And I’m guessing he won’t be back in touch for a while.”

That sounded ominous. “What … what does that mean for me?”

“I don’t know.” At least he was honest about it. “For now, we just continue with the plan. You’ve still got a lead on one of the revived. We can work that. Pat’s keeping last night’s little fiasco under wraps for now from the higher ups; his guys won’t talk. There’s got to be another angle we can work.”

She hoped so, because suddenly it felt like her time— already short—was rapidly running out.

Fideli tried to sound positive. “Never mind all that. I’ve got your shot for the day; probably ought to take care of that about noon. My team has cleared the office area for entry, and they tell me they should be finished with the repairs on the prep room and that end of the building soon. You can plan for the grand reopening.”

“Maybe we should rent one of those giant inflatable advertising things,” she said.

“Gorilla?”

“Dracula,” she said. “With the coffin.”

“You might want to go with something a little more subtle.”

“You’re no fun.”