Exit Strategy

ground. Even if I could find it, would it work after the fall? Then there was my wrist. I could brace my hand or shoot with my left, but both would throw off my reflexes and accuracy. Too many ifs. I couldn’t waste time-and focus-searching for the gun.

One thing I knew for certain: from now on, I was wearing a backup weapon.

I dove and weaved through the perimeter shrubs, missing some shots, getting gazed or hit in the chest armor by others. With every few steps, I stumbled. Any minute now, my ankle would give out for good.

How many shots had he taken? My brain blurted an answer. Seven-Another pffttt just above my head. Eight. He had ten rounds. Eleven if he’d chambered a round and topped up. Plus he’d be able to reload quickly, and probably even carried a backup weapon. Making him run out of ammo sounds good in the movies, but it wasn’t going to work here.

So now what? Jack’s voice echoed in my head, and I knew what he’d say. Run.

I was injured, with no working weapon, and no backup. As much as I hated to run-oh, God, how I hated to run!-if I didn’t, he’d kill me, then escape. My best chance was to make a break for it. Not escape him, lure him. Play fleeing prey and he’d follow. Why? Because if it were me doing the chasing, I’d follow. To run was to surrender. He had to fight, kill, win.

To keep this chase going, I needed to get out of this yard. Problem was, the only way out was over the fence. Jack had chosen this setup for my safety. No one had ever considered the possibility that I could get trapped here.

Wilkes fired, the shot zinging so close to my head I swore I felt it pass.

Over the fence it was.

I didn’t have time to worry whether my ankle could handle it-I had to make it work. One quick look and I found the biggest bush-one I’d just squeezed past. I steeled myself, turned sharp and raced back, ignoring the pain. The second I was behind that bush and hidden in its shadow, I grabbed the top of the fence, swinging myself up, grimacing as my wrist screamed in protest. For that split second, as I crested the fence, I was exposed. All I could do was keep my head down.

He fired. The shot hit my shoulder, stopped by the body armor, but the impact was almost enough to make me lose my grip. As I flipped over the fence, something snagged my foot. I kicked. Fresh pain as my injured foot made contact. An oomph. Wilkes released his hold, and I toppled, face-first, over the fence.

I hit the ground and clambered up. I could hear Wilkes scrabbling over the fence. A split-second survey of the yard. Also fenced. No way out until I reached the end of the row…vaulting over a half-dozen more fences. Couldn’t do it. There was no “if” or “maybe.” Couldn’t. I had to take cover.

Unlike the other yard, here there was no long hedge to hide behind. There had been at one time, until student tenants moved in. Abuse, neglect, whatever the cause, there was nothing more than a few clusters of bushes left, none big enough to do more than cower behind. The house was dark, meaning unless I was somehow lucky enough to find the patio door unlocked, I wasn’t getting out that way.

A siren wailed.

I should surrender this fight now. Step aside. Let the cops come in and roust Wilkes, take him down. I should scream loud enough that I’d raise the alarm.

But what if my screams brought someone back here? An innocent bystander rushing in to help? I could not risk anyone else’s life. This had to end here. Now.

I hobbled for the largest clump of bushes, right up against the house. Whatever I did, I couldn’t still be out here when Wilkes hauled his ass over that fence. I dove behind the bush.

Through the leaves, I saw him swing to the ground. He turned, took in the yard in one sweep and headed right for my cover.

Could he see me here?

You idiot, there’s only one place in this yard big enough to hide you. Where else would you be?

A rock. I needed a-

As I felt around the ground, my fingernails clinked against something cold and smooth. A bottle. An empty glass bottle. I could have laughed. Thank God for student tenants.

Gaze still riveted to Wilkes, I gripped the neck of the bottle with my uninjured left hand and swung the base against the concrete foundation. As it smashed, Wilkes jumped, startled.

I wheeled from behind the bush and charged. Made it three strides before my ankle gave way, but as I sprawled forward, I smacked full-weight into Wilkes.

His gun fired. I felt pain. Didn’t know where. Didn’t care. We both went down. I saw his face below mine. Saw his neck, a pale strip in the moonlight, took aim, gripped the bottle neck, and slashed down with everything I could.

Blood spurted. He fell back. I twisted and grabbed his gun. He wrenched it, finger squeezing on the trigger, but I pulled it away easily as his grip slackened. I put the barrel to his temple. He looked at me. I pulled the trigger.

FIFTY-TWO

With Wilkes’s exit strategy permanently aborted, it was time to worry about ours.

Dubois was dead. Jack had found his body when he and Quinn had gone into the house, searching for me. I felt bad about Dubois. Yes, I’d tried to warn him. Yes, he’d accepted the risk when he came into the house. But I still regretted the outcome.

We didn’t hide Wilkes’s body. Evelyn sent a letter to the Feds, just in case they mistook Wilkes for some poor senior citizen who got caught in the cross fire. I’m sure they would have figured it out eventually, but the nudge- and his real name-would help. As they unraveled Wilkes’s story, they’d probably find out about his former occupation, so all the work we’d done to avoid that was for naught. But Wilkes was dead, and we weren’t. Good enough.

Felix and Evelyn stayed behind to clean up any loose ends and watch for unexpected fallout. Quinn and I wanted to help, but Jack refused. We were the most vulnerable-the youngest, and least experienced, plus we both had “normal” lives and “normal” jobs, and he wanted us to go back to those right away.

Before I left, Evelyn took me aside. She wanted a method of contact. I wasn’t comfortable giving it, but it was a case where refusing was more dangerous. She offered her training services, but seemed content to leave it at that, not pushing the point…yet.

Jack drove Quinn and me into Pennsylvania the next morning. Our first stop was the hospital. A half-day later, I walked-okay, hobbled-out with a reset ankle and wrist. I’d broken both.

I also had a nice collection of bruises plus a couple of bullet grazes. Jack had taken care of the grazes right away. He cleaned and bandaged them, and we came up with a cover story, in case someone at the hospital noticed the bandages and asked. They didn’t.

Once out of the hospital, I hid my wrist cast under my coat sleeve as best I could. The bandaged foot was bad enough; I didn’t need to call extra attention to myself.

When we got to the airport, Jack went to buy our tickets. Quinn helped me to a seat in a quiet corner, and bought me a coffee and muffin. He started to pass me the coffee cup, then stopped and opened the lid first. When he began peeling the wrapper off the muffin, I laughed and took it from him.

“Hey, don’t-” he began.

“It’s my wrist, not my hand.”

“Still, I don’t think-”

“I’m okay.”

He hovered on the edge of his seat, as if expecting me to fumble and dump coffee into my lap at any moment.

“I’m okay.”

“I know, I just feel-”