Eleventh Hour
Page 70
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There was complete silence, at least twenty special agents frozen in place, all ears.
Sherlock blinked, eased her hold on Nick, who ran at Dane, her fists up, ready to kill him. He was fast, grabbed her, pulled her back up tightly against his chest, and held her arms against her sides. “This is familiar,” he said, remembering how he’d saved himself in the police station in San Francisco by holding her immobile just this way.
She was still breathing too fast, but at last her muscles were beginning to relax. “I’m not going to let you go just yet. I really would like my body parts intact.”
One of the special agents guffawed. “Hey, Agent Carver, speaking of body parts, let’s see the bite on your shoulder.”
“Ah,” said another agent, “the perils of being an FBI agent. I think Dane should get combat pay.”
Nick growled. At least her breathing was slowing down.
TWENTY-THREE
SAC Gil Rainy assigned two agents to protect Dane and Nick. Old geezers, Gil said, who needed to do something different because they’d just about burned out on bank robbers.
“Old geezers, hell,” Delion said when he met Bo and Lou, neither of them over forty-five. “I’m gonna belt Rainy in the chops.”
It was just after lunch, eaten at a KFC, Nick and Dane each eating only one piece of deep-fried chicken breast, when they headed back to Premier Studios to speak to Frank Pauley. The two special agents, Bo and Lou, were hanging a good ways back.
They were at the corner of Brainard and Loomis when out of nowhere a motorcycle came roaring up to the driver’s side of the car. The rider was dressed in black leather, a helmet covering his head and face. He pulled a gun out of his leather jacket and began shooting. He was fast and smooth. The window exploded. Dane felt glass shower over his head and face, felt the sting of a bullet that came too close to his ear.
“Nick, get down on the floor! Now!”
She was down instantly. The bullet missed her by no more than an inch, and shattered the passenger-side window, spewing glass shards all over her.
“Jesus, keep down!”
Dane jerked the steering wheel to the left, trying to smash the Grand Am into the motorcycle. He nearly managed it, but the bike swerved hard left, then pulled back. Dane jerked out his SIG Sauer and held it in his left hand, waiting, while he tried to control the car and not kill anyone. Suddenly, the bike came back up again, the guy firing rapidly, at least six shots, emptying his clip. He stuffed it inside his black leather jacket, pulled out another, and fired again. Dane fired back, still wrestling with the car. He felt a smack of cold against his left arm, ignored it, and fired again. In the next instant, they were at a side street. Dane jerked the steering wheel sharply right. They screeched on two tires as the Grand Am barreled onto the street, barely missing three cars whose drivers were sitting on their horns and yelling curses.
Dane managed to bring the Grand Am to a stop next to a curb in front of a small 1940s bungalow. He was breathing hard, adrenaline flowing so fast his heart was nearly pumping out of his chest.
The motorcycle flew past, revving hard and loud. The guy fired two more shots, both high and wild. Then Dane just couldn’t believe it—the guy turned a bit and waved to them. In the black leather gloved hand he waved, he held a gun.
Nick was stuffed on the floor, her head covered with her hands. Blood trickled over her hands from the glass shards that had struck her. He reached out his right hand and lightly touched her head. “Nick, are you okay?”
“Yes, just some glass in my hair. Oh dear, my hands are cut a bit, but nothing bad. Are you okay?”
“Sure.”
“Where are Bo and Lou?”
“They’re coming up behind us right now.” Dane opened the door and got out. Then he looked down at his shirt. “Well, shit.”
She yelled from behind him, “You’re shot, dammit, Dane Carver. How could you?”
He heard her voice shaking, felt the shock building in it, and said calmly, “I’m all right. A through-and-through shot, a flesh wound, nothing broken, everything works. I’ve cut myself worse shaving. It’s hardly worse than what Milton’s bullet did to your head. Take it easy, Nick. We’re okay, both of us, and that’s what’s important.”
“The guy waved to us. Did you see that? He actually waved to us as he was holding the gun!”
“Yeah, I know. Some balls, huh? How did you see that? I told you to keep way down.”
“I just looked up there at the end. The bastard.” She was starting to tremble, then shudder. He took off his bloody jacket and wrapped it around her, pulled her against his side. “It’s okay. Just hang on, breathe deeply. That’s right, nice and deep. Bo and Lou will be here in a minute.”
Sherlock blinked, eased her hold on Nick, who ran at Dane, her fists up, ready to kill him. He was fast, grabbed her, pulled her back up tightly against his chest, and held her arms against her sides. “This is familiar,” he said, remembering how he’d saved himself in the police station in San Francisco by holding her immobile just this way.
She was still breathing too fast, but at last her muscles were beginning to relax. “I’m not going to let you go just yet. I really would like my body parts intact.”
One of the special agents guffawed. “Hey, Agent Carver, speaking of body parts, let’s see the bite on your shoulder.”
“Ah,” said another agent, “the perils of being an FBI agent. I think Dane should get combat pay.”
Nick growled. At least her breathing was slowing down.
TWENTY-THREE
SAC Gil Rainy assigned two agents to protect Dane and Nick. Old geezers, Gil said, who needed to do something different because they’d just about burned out on bank robbers.
“Old geezers, hell,” Delion said when he met Bo and Lou, neither of them over forty-five. “I’m gonna belt Rainy in the chops.”
It was just after lunch, eaten at a KFC, Nick and Dane each eating only one piece of deep-fried chicken breast, when they headed back to Premier Studios to speak to Frank Pauley. The two special agents, Bo and Lou, were hanging a good ways back.
They were at the corner of Brainard and Loomis when out of nowhere a motorcycle came roaring up to the driver’s side of the car. The rider was dressed in black leather, a helmet covering his head and face. He pulled a gun out of his leather jacket and began shooting. He was fast and smooth. The window exploded. Dane felt glass shower over his head and face, felt the sting of a bullet that came too close to his ear.
“Nick, get down on the floor! Now!”
She was down instantly. The bullet missed her by no more than an inch, and shattered the passenger-side window, spewing glass shards all over her.
“Jesus, keep down!”
Dane jerked the steering wheel to the left, trying to smash the Grand Am into the motorcycle. He nearly managed it, but the bike swerved hard left, then pulled back. Dane jerked out his SIG Sauer and held it in his left hand, waiting, while he tried to control the car and not kill anyone. Suddenly, the bike came back up again, the guy firing rapidly, at least six shots, emptying his clip. He stuffed it inside his black leather jacket, pulled out another, and fired again. Dane fired back, still wrestling with the car. He felt a smack of cold against his left arm, ignored it, and fired again. In the next instant, they were at a side street. Dane jerked the steering wheel sharply right. They screeched on two tires as the Grand Am barreled onto the street, barely missing three cars whose drivers were sitting on their horns and yelling curses.
Dane managed to bring the Grand Am to a stop next to a curb in front of a small 1940s bungalow. He was breathing hard, adrenaline flowing so fast his heart was nearly pumping out of his chest.
The motorcycle flew past, revving hard and loud. The guy fired two more shots, both high and wild. Then Dane just couldn’t believe it—the guy turned a bit and waved to them. In the black leather gloved hand he waved, he held a gun.
Nick was stuffed on the floor, her head covered with her hands. Blood trickled over her hands from the glass shards that had struck her. He reached out his right hand and lightly touched her head. “Nick, are you okay?”
“Yes, just some glass in my hair. Oh dear, my hands are cut a bit, but nothing bad. Are you okay?”
“Sure.”
“Where are Bo and Lou?”
“They’re coming up behind us right now.” Dane opened the door and got out. Then he looked down at his shirt. “Well, shit.”
She yelled from behind him, “You’re shot, dammit, Dane Carver. How could you?”
He heard her voice shaking, felt the shock building in it, and said calmly, “I’m all right. A through-and-through shot, a flesh wound, nothing broken, everything works. I’ve cut myself worse shaving. It’s hardly worse than what Milton’s bullet did to your head. Take it easy, Nick. We’re okay, both of us, and that’s what’s important.”
“The guy waved to us. Did you see that? He actually waved to us as he was holding the gun!”
“Yeah, I know. Some balls, huh? How did you see that? I told you to keep way down.”
“I just looked up there at the end. The bastard.” She was starting to tremble, then shudder. He took off his bloody jacket and wrapped it around her, pulled her against his side. “It’s okay. Just hang on, breathe deeply. That’s right, nice and deep. Bo and Lou will be here in a minute.”
