the room a few times, then ended at the window.
As I bent to examine the window, Jack tapped my shoulder and shook his head. I arched my brows. He gestured at one of the footprints. Misshapen, as a few of them were, with an extra bump-out near the heel, as if the walker had slipped in the dust.
“Retraced his steps,” Jack whispered.
He motioned for me to get the window open.
“Make noise,” he said. “Be obvious.”
I nodded. Jack slid soundlessly back to the door, and I started working on the window. I was careful not to be
I got the window open, then stage-whispered, “Here, let me go first.”
I grunted, playing Jack hoisting me into the window.
“Shit,” I whispered. “It’s a helluva drop. Give me your hand and lower me down.”
Another grunt. Then the crack of a gunshot. I wheeled away from the window, realizing as I moved that the shot came from the hall, not outside. A second shot-returned fire. As I sprinted across the room, two more shots came in quick succession from the second, farther gun.
As I neared the door, gun drawn, I could see Jack inside the bathroom doorway, diagonally across the hall. He had his gun up, listening. Seeing me, he jerked his chin, telling me our assailant was down the hall. I motioned, asking Jack if the gunman was far enough away for me to cross my open doorway safely. He nodded, and I flipped to that side. Then we waited.
I heard it first, the slap of a foot brought down too quickly. I gestured to Jack, telling him the gunman was on the move. Then I motioned a plan. He hesitated, then nodded.
I counted to five, leaned into the hall, making myself a target, then jerked back. The gunman fired. Jack fired. A hiss of pain. Return fire, receding, covering the sounds of retreat. Only when I heard the distant sound of feet racing down the stairs did I peek to check on Jack. He was already in pursuit. I hurried after him.
Wilkes
Wilkes huddled under the tarp, back against a lumber pile, gun drawn to blast the first shape that came near him. Gone to ground. Holed up like a rabbit.
God, wouldn’t Evelyn love to see him now?
No. She wouldn’t. Wouldn’t care one way or the other. She’d just sniff, as if to say “What do you expect?”
His hands trembled, but he told himself it was rage, not fear. The fury of a wounded lion cornered by a sniveling jackal. He’d set the trap at the window, assuming they’d draw the obvious conclusion and climb out. Jack would let the girl go first to help her down. Such a gentleman. Then Wilkes would have swung around the corner, opened fire and rid himself of an annoying little scavenger.
That’s all Jack was-a scavenger. A jackal. Fed scraps by Evelyn, petted and pampered until he thought he was good enough to compete with the lions. One swing of Wilkes’s paw and he could have brought Jack down twenty- five years ago. Should have.
Wilkes shifted, inhaling sharply as pain knifed through him. Two shots. How the hell had Jack managed to hit him twice? He knew the answer in a heartbeat. Because he’d screwed up.
These past two weeks he’d prided himself on the care he took, on the control he exercised. Easy enough when it was a stranger at the other end of his gun barrel. But when given the chance to take down Jack, that cold layer of detachment had evaporated, and he’d been running on hate and adrenaline. He’d moved quickly, carelessly. Unforgivable.
He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. At least he’d had the sense to back down after he was wounded. Neither shot was serious, and that was all that counted…even if it meant he was forced to crouch here, bleeding like a stuck pig, when he should be hunting Jack.
A fresh burst of rage, and he inhaled again, sharper, clearing his head, then peeked out. Where were they? Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe they weren’t searching for him. He must have hit Jack at least once. Must have. Maybe he was lying in a pool of blood right now, the girl bent over him, desperately trying to staunch the flow.
The thought cheered Wilkes enough to push to his feet. He staggered forward and tugged back the tarp for a better look.
“Blood here.” Jack’s distant whisper carried through the silence. “Got a trail.”
Didn’t
Wilkes clenched his jaw hard enough to feel a jolt. As he took another step, the pain from his side and shoulder flared. He gritted his teeth and pushed past it. No time for weakness. He had to get out there and-
The pain was so intense he stumbled, hands smacking the tarp as he broke his fall.
“-hear that?” the woman’s voice whispered.
Wilkes pushed up straight, both hands on his gun to steady it, waiting for one of them to appear. But all went silent, even the sound of the flapping tarps from earlier gone as the wind had died. He surveyed the construction yard. It was dotted with piles of lumber, covered drywall, bricks…a dozen places to hide.
Did he expect them to waltz over here, letting him get a clean shot? Did he really think Jack was that stupid? He wanted to. God, how he wanted to. But he knew better.
He checked his watch: 11:48. No more time to waste. As much as he’d love to stick around and see this through, he had a train to catch.
He hadn’t made it to his car. He’d got about a quarter of the way when he’d picked up the sounds of pursuit. Knowing he was in no condition to outrun them, he’d taken the first port of refuge: the security guard’s van. He’d known it was open-he’d left it that way after he’d killed the guard.
The perfect hiding place. He’d positioned the guard so, from a distance, he appeared to be dozing. Jack wouldn’t dare come close enough to see otherwise. He’d spot a sleeping guard and avoid the van, assuming his quarry would do the same. So now, hunkered down in the back, tying makeshift bandages on his wounds, Wilkes only needed to wait Jack out.
He checked his watch. Could he still make the train? He had over an hour’s drive just to reach the station. He fought the first prick of panic. He’d still have time. Jack wouldn’t search for long, not with the girl in tow.
They’d left. They’d finally left. Wilkes checked his watch for the hundredth time in the past hour, his rage so white-hot that sweat streamed down his face.
No, it wasn’t too late. He could drive to the next station. He could-
Impossible. He’d calculated it, recalculated it with every possible variable in his favor and knew he’d never make it on time.
Take another train. Kill another victim.
And, while he was at it, he’d send the Feds a congratulations card, for scaring him off his promise, making things too hot for him to pull the promised hit. That’s what they’d assume.
He’d failed.
No, not failed. Changed his plan. He was toying with them. He never even got on the train. Couldn’t have, because he’d been in Vegas, killing a security guard.
He smiled, took out his wallet and removed a dollar bill, rubbing it between his gloved fingers to make sure he only had one. Then he reached into the front seat, laid it on the guard’s lap and-
And looked down at the bloodied shirt he’d stripped off.
His gut went cold.
He fought the panic back. He’d been careful. Even the shirt was folded, unbloodied side down. But if he made
