I shifted my weight, trying to inch away while I enhanced the lie. “Actually, it’s a business luncheon with Sergeant Gazarra.”
“I don’t believe you,” Ramirez said. His smile had turned tight, and the civility had slipped from his voice. “I think you’re lying about lunch.”
I felt tendrils of panic curl into my stomach, and I cautioned myself not to overreact. Ramirez was playing with me. Showing off in front of his friends. Probably stung because I hadn’t succumbed to his charms. Now he had to save face.
I made a display of looking at my watch. “Sorry you feel that way, but I’m supposed to meet Gazarra in ten minutes. He’s not going to be pleased if I’m late.”
I took a step backward, and Ramirez grabbed me by the scruff of my neck, his fingers digging in with enough force to make me hunch involuntarily.
“You’re not going anywhere, Stephanie Plum,” he whispered. “The champ isn’t done with you yet.”
The silence in the gym was oppressive. No one moved. No one voiced an objection. I looked at each of the men and received only blank stares back. No one’s going to help me, I thought, feeling the first licks of real fear.
I lowered my voice to match Ramirez’s soft pitch. “I came here as a member of the law enforcement community. I came looking for information to help me with the recovery of Joe Morelli, and I gave you no reason to misinterpret my intentions. I’m conducting myself as a professional, and I expect you to respect that.”
Ramirez dragged me closer. “Something you got to understand about the champ,” he said. “First off, you don’t tell the champ about respect. And second, you got to know the champ always gets what he wants.” He gave me a shake. “You know what the champ wants right now? The champ wants you to be nice to him, baby. Real nice. Gotta make up for refusing him. Show him some respect.” His gaze shifted to my breasts. “Maybe show him some fear. You afraid of me, bitch?”
Any woman with an IQ over twelve would be afraid of Benito Ramirez.
He giggled and all the little hairs on my arm stood straight out.
“You’re scared now,” he said in his whispery voice. “I can smell it. Pussy fear. Bet it making your pants wet. Maybe I should put my hand in your pants and find out.”
I had a gun in my bag, and I’d use it if I had to, but not until all else had failed. Ten minutes of instruction hadn’t made me a crack shot. That’s okay, I told myself. I didn’t want to kill anyone. I just wanted to back everyone up enough to get the hell out. I slid my hand over the leather bag until I felt the gun, hard and unyielding under my palm.
Reach in, get the gun, I thought. Take aim at Ramirez and look serious. Could I pull the trigger? I honestly didn’t know. I had my doubts. I hoped I wouldn’t have to take it that far.
“Let go of my neck,” I said. “This is the last time I’m telling you.”
“Nobody tell the champ what to do,” he roared, his composure gone, his face twisted and ugly. For a split second the door swung open, and I caught a glimpse of the inner man—a glimpse of insanity, and of hellfires burning and hatred so strong it whipped my breath away.
He grabbed the front of my shirt, and over my scream, I heard the fabric tear.
In times of crisis, when a person reacts on instinct, that person does whatever is most comfortable. I did what any other American woman would do in a similar circumstance. I roundhoused Ramirez square on the side of his head with my purse. Between the gun and the beeper and the other assorted paraphernalia, the bag must have weighed at least ten pounds.
Ramirez staggered sideways, and I bolted for the stairs. I didn’t get five feet before he jerked me back by my hair and flung me across the room like a rag doll. I lost footing and went facedown to the floor, my hands hitting first, skidding over unvarnished wood, my body following, the impact knocking the air from my lungs.
Ramirez straddled me, his butt on my back, his hand fisting in my hair, pulling savagely. I grabbed at my bag, but I was unable to get to the gun.
I heard the crack of a high-powered weapon, and the front windows shattered. More shots. Someone was emptying a clip into the gym. Men were running and shouting, looking for cover. Ramirez was among them. I was moving, too, crab style across the floor, my legs not able to support me. I reached the stairs, stood, and lunged for the railing. I missed the second step, too panicked to coordinate my movements, and half slid the rest of the way down to the cracked linoleum landing at street level. I dragged myself to my feet and staggered outside into the heat and blinding sunlight. My stockings were torn and my knees were bleeding. I was hanging onto the door handle, laboring to breathe when a hand clamped onto my upper arm. I jumped and yelped. It was Joe Morelli.
“For crissake,” he said, yanking me forward. “Don’t just stand here. Haul ass!”
I wasn’t sure Ramirez cared enough about me to come charging down the stairs, but it seemed prudent not to hang around and find out, so I clattered after Morelli with my chest burning from oxygen deprivation and my skirt hiked up to my crotch. Kathleen Turner would have made it look good on the big screen. I was something less than glamorous. My nose was running, and I think I was drooling. I was grunting in pain and sniveling from fear, making ugly animal sounds and inventive promises to God.
We turned at the corner, cut through an alley on the next block, and ran down a narrow one-lane road carved out between backyards. The road was lined with broken-down single-car wooden garages and overflowing bashed- in garbage cans.
Sirens sounded two blocks away. No doubt a couple of cruisers and an ambulance responding to the shooting. Hindsight told me I should have stayed close to the gym and conned the cops into helping me track down Morelli. Something to remember next time I’m almost raped and brutalized.
Morelli stopped abruptly and jerked me into an empty garage. The double doors were cocked open enough to slide through, not enough for a passerby to see inside. The floor was packed dirt, and the air was close, smelling metallic. I was struck by the irony of it. Here I was, after all these years, once again in a garage with Morelli. I could see the anger in his face, hardening his eyes, pinching at the corners of his mouth. He grabbed me by the front of my suit jacket and pinned me against the crude wooden wall. The impact knocked dust from the rafters and made my teeth clack together.
His voice was tight with barely controlled fury. “What the hell did you think you were doing walking into the
