Hot Pursuit (6 page)

“N-no thanks. I'll be okay.”

Jack stood up slowly. He seemed oblivious to the stares as he walked silently down the middle of the store. He swung open the big cooler door and studied the array of foreign and domestic beers.

In the glass, Taylor saw the whole room reflected in eerie detail. She wanted to scream a warning, but she didn't dare, because the man in the sweatshirt was right behind her now.

“Take your beer and then go,” Sweatshirt ordered. “Hurry up.”

Broussard nodded calmly, then pulled out a single can of beer. He tucked it under his arm with the bean dip. “No problem. Almost done.”

Taylor tried to step away from her captor, but hard fingers gripped her arm, tightening painfully as sirens whined in the distance.

Jack turned, scratching his neck. “Anybody hear a siren?”

Outside the singsong drone grew louder. Taylor stumbled as Sweatshirt jerked her back along the checkout counter, and something metal jabbed her side.

“Start walking backward” came the low hiss. “Any noise and I kill you, understand?”

Taylor understood perfectly when the gun muzzle dug in harder.

As she walked, she cradled her cell phone, keeping the line open and praying that someone was listening.

Harris Rains was still crouched behind the garbage can as Jack strolled back up the center of the store with his purchases under one arm. His hands hung loosely at his sides, and some part of Taylor's mind noted that he seemed unnaturally calm.

Center of gravity low. Weight perfectly balanced.

A martial arts stance, Taylor realized. But even if she was right, what could one man do against three armed thugs?

At that moment Jack turned. His cool gray eyes raked her face. “Going somewhere?”

“To the ladies' room,” Sweatshirt cut in. “This is not your concern.”

Her neighbor shrugged, tossing the beer can casually between his hands. “Anything wrong, ma'am?”

Taylor swallowed as the gun muzzle dug into her ribs. “No, I'm fine. Just looking for the ladies' room, the way my friend said.”

The beer can snapped back and forth in a lazy rhythm. “Sure. No problem.”

Sweatshirt twitched angrily. “One more word and she will get a bullet.” He pulled Taylor down the small corridor leading to the rest rooms. As she rounded the corner, Taylor heard the sound of voices somewhere out on the sales floor, followed by cans crashing noisily.

“Aleksandr?” Sweatshirt yelled. “What is happening?”

There was no answer.

Cursing, Taylor's captor shoved her through the open door to the manager's office, just as Jack moved to the edge of the corridor with weapon leveled. He looked entirely cold, entirely professional.

Sweatshirt jerked Taylor in front of him, holding her as a shield while he slammed the office door and threw the lock with his free hand. “If he comes looking for you, he will soon be dead.” He gave her an angry shove. “Up there. Now.”

High on the wall a single window overlooked what Taylor guessed was the back parking lot. “But that's too high. I can't possibly—”

Her captor hooked a chair with one foot, dragging it closer. “Shut up.”

Stall.
“What if it's locked?”

His gun spat, and the window disappeared in a rain of gray glass. “So much for locked. Start climbing.”

Taylor felt fury battle with fear. She wanted to kick him, but what would that accomplish, except getting herself shot by the gun pointed at her head?

She climbed onto the chair, trying to avoid scattered glass fragments, then stood up. Tugging off her leather jacket, she wedged it over the jagged shards in the window frame. If this misfit made her ruin her
favorite
Michael Kors jacket, she was going to rip his eyes out.

Assuming she was still alive.

One leg went up. She winced as glass cut through her pants. Ignoring a trickle of blood, she worked her way up until she was poised in the window frame with a view of the parking lot below her.

A police cruiser was parked twenty feet away. An officer in black tactical gear crouched near the back tire, his rifle leveled on her chest.

Thinking desperately, Taylor signed
help
, using sign language she'd researched for her seventh book.

“What are you doing?” Sweatshirt was climbing up behind her.

“I—I cut my hand. It hurts.”

He gripped her arm, balanced on the chair, where he was still too low to see through the window. “Is someone there?”

Taylor stared down at the rifle fixed on her chest. “Just a woman walking a dog.”

“No police?”

“None that I can see.” She shifted, blocking his view.

“Lie to me and you too will be dead. How far to the ground?”

Taylor leaned forward and winced. “At least eight feet. And I'm bleeding here.” That was no lie either. She continued to sign
help
, then added
behind me
.

Sweatshirt's gun jabbed hard in the small of her back. “You will jump when I tell you. We go out together, you understand me?” He was on the chair now, trying to force her to one side. Any second he'd see the police car and the SWAT officer.

“But there's only cement and blacktop down there. I can't—”

“You will
jump
when I tell you.” The gun jabbed her again, and her captor squeezed in closer. Taylor took a breath, preparing to jackknife her body forward before he could stop her.

Better to break both legs than take a bullet in the head.

Chapter Six

Jack listened tensely to the wail of approaching sirens.

Izzy should have passed on his description to the locals by now. Getting his head split open by one of Frisco's hotshot SWAT snipers would make a perfect lead-in on the evening news.

He secured his Beretta, making certain it rode snug at the small of his back, and blocked out the room mentally. One assailant out of sight in the manager's office, with female hostage in custody. Second assailant down, thanks to a swift blow to the back of the head. Third assailant struggling with Rains.

Jack circled silently until he was directly behind Rains and his captor. When he was in position, he threw the can of beer hard in the opposite direction, drawing instant fire. During the momentary distraction, Jack shot the weapon from the man's hand, then drove him to the floor, cutting off his curses with a blow to the neck.

Now for Taylor.

He closed in on the frightened clerk. “What's back there?”

“An office. The freight dock, too.”

“Any windows in the office?”

The old man nodded. “One. Very high.”

“Could a man fit through?”

The clerk frowned. “If the man is not so big, yes.”

“What about two people?”

“Very difficult, I think. You will save the lady?”

“I'm going to save the lady,” Jack said tensely.

He headed for the back corridor, running through shooting scenarios. Hostage situations were a SEAL specialty, and Jack had trained for every version. Usually he wasn't handling the situation from inside the perimeter, however.

The pregnant woman began to cry quietly as glass shattered somewhere at the back of the building. Something struck the back door.

Jack brushed a small pin on the collar of his worn gray shirt. “Izzy?”

“Copy.”

“Two assailants unconscious on the sales floor. Harris Rains, the clerk, and a pregnant customer are frightened but unharmed. Taylor O'Toole is being held in the manager's office by one remaining assailant. Store is otherwise clear.”

“Copy” came the low voice at his earphone. “Police are on the scene.” Izzy's voice was clipped. “Stick with Rains.”

“What about Taylor?”

Izzy took a sharp breath. “The Feds are tied up tracking Rains' South American pals. Your orders are to stick with Rains until they take over.”

Beyond the window Jack heard the bark of a bullhorn, and then the front door burst open. A SWAT officer emerged with rifle leveled.

There was loud cursing from the back room, then the sound of a chair falling over. Crouched out of sight behind the coffee unit, Jack watched Rains throwing up into a big garbage bin.

Someone's purse was on the floor about four feet away from Rains' quaking body.

The nearest SWAT officer scowled and motioned to the medic who had followed him in. “Everyone flat on the floor,” he ordered. “Do it now.”

“S.F.P.D. is here, Izzy. I'm going after Taylor,” Jack said quietly. “Tell the locals.”

“They won't like it.”

“To hell with liking it. Just tell them. And give them our descriptions so they don't decide to take us out as perps.”

“Copy.”

Two more SWAT officers pounded through the front door, followed by a second medic. All were wearing masks.

Hell.
Masks meant tear gas, and that meant his time was running out.

Jack crouch-walked silently toward the rear corridor. His weapon was level when he kicked open the door with his foot.

The man in the torn sweatshirt was balanced on a chair against the far wall. In a blur of movement Jack swept the room and sighted on the base of the man's neck for a clear takedown. High up in the window, Taylor took advantage of the distraction and kicked free, dropping forward out of sight, and as she did her captor spun around, shooting wildly.

At the same moment the door to the rear loading area banged open, tear gas smoking through the corridor.

Only seconds left, Jack thought. Taylor's assailant scrambled toward the window, cursing and fighting his way up to the ledge, and Jack fired, putting three fast shots into the back of his head, ending the curses abruptly as the first cloud of tear gas billowed into the room.

 

“There is the man I tell you about. He is
big
hero. He save my life, destroy that piece of dog meat before he can kill all of us.”

The old Asian man came tottering in pursuit of Jack. He had some bruises from his ordeal but was otherwise unharmed, smiling broadly as he pumped Jack's hand. “You Number-One Hero, mister. Should have medal for you.”

“No medal needed. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time,” Jack muttered.

The wrong place at the wrong time.
The last thing he needed was publicity during a mission.

But the old man was having none of his modesty. “A hero,” he insisted. “Why they treat you like criminal and ask so many questions?”

Jack shrugged. “The police have to do their job.”

The clerk frowned at an officer in black body armor. “Is bad job. Stupid job.” He looked around the crowded parking lot. “Where is lady in leather jacket? Is she okay?”

Luckily Jack hadn't received a major dose of tear gas, and he'd made it his business to find out Taylor's condition as soon as Izzy had checked in with the police. “A few cuts, but she'll be fine.”

The old clerk picked up Taylor's purse and centered it on the counter. “Thanks to you.”

Outside, the pregnant woman was being treated in an ambulance for stress. Rains was currently in the men's room vomiting his guts out while two Federal agents waited outside, looking grim. Whatever happened, Rains was no longer Jack's business but theirs.

A SWAT officer motioned to Jack, his face expressionless. “We'll need your weapon, sir.”

“In my waistband. Center of the back. Beretta.” Jack knew better than to go for the weapon himself. After guns were fired, police tended to get touchy.

The officer moved carefully behind Jack and removed the Beretta. “You came on the scene while the robbery was in progress?”

Jack nodded.

“I suppose you have a permit to carry this.” The officer looked like he was trying to read something in Jack's face.

But Jack made sure there was nothing to read. “In my wallet. Back pocket.”

The elderly clerk was listening to every word. “What you question
him
for? I have three guns—ask for
my
papers. Go on, arrest me first.”

The SWAT officer paid no attention, calmly flipping open Jack's wallet and scanning the ID. “Jack Broussard. Civilian consultant, stationed at Monterey.”

Jack nodded. The ID was fiction, but damned good fiction. “You can contact my superior for confirmation, sir.” Jack rattled off the nonsecure mission HQ number and a contact name.

“You took down three men in less than three minutes, Mr. Broussard. You got off three head shots in a tear-gas situation, with limited control and visibility.” The officer's eyes held curiosity and just a hint of respect.

“I do some target shooting on occasion.” Jack didn't mention that he'd gone hunting in far worse conditions. He knew his window of exposure for the tear gas, and there had been time to spare before he was incapacitated.

“We'll need to take a statement, Mr. Broussard. If you'll follow me, we can handle that right now.”

Jack nodded, noticing that the officer hadn't given him back his wallet. Probably a deeper background check was already in the works. No doubt about it, he was going to have his ass chewed royally for drawing all this attention.

But what choice had there been? Both Rains and Taylor had been threatened, and he had been the only man on the scene.

The clerk followed the officer outside, waving angrily. “Why you treat him like criminal?” His face was turning red. “This man save all our lives, then try to save life of lady hostage. You give him medal, that's what.” He glared at the other SWAT officers near their squad car. “He like John Wayne. Like Bruce Wayne. Wayne Gretzky, too. You not treat
them
this way.”

“Look, it's no problem,” Jack said gruffly. “This is probably routine procedure.” Jack thought of the man he'd killed. The death didn't register now, but it would soon. And sooner or later he would face the cold, painful examination of whether he could have done anything faster or smarter to avoid that death. The questions would start in his head and in his gut, then continue at a mission-review session.

Hindsight could be a stern teacher.

The manager shook his head. “Forget routine. You deserve medal. Big medal for big American hero.”

Jack flushed as the old man pumped his hand.

Through it all, the police officer waited calmly. “Let's step away for a moment, shall we, Mr. Broussard?”

Crossing the parking lot, they passed a man in coveralls lying on the ground, writhing in pain. “Who's that?”

The officer's mouth twitched. “That's the genius who was supposed to drive the getaway car.”

“What happened to him?”

“Lady in the leather jacket happened. She was signing for help when she came through the window and she saw him waiting behind the Dumpsters, where the officer on the scene couldn't see him. She hit the ground, rolled, and sucker-punched him from behind with a brick, then we took him down without a single shot fired.” The officer smiled faintly. “Must hurt like hell,” he added. “She called 911 on the cell phone in her pocket, too. Damned interesting lady.”

Jack found himself smiling for the first time that afternoon. “I'd say
she
deserves the medal.”

When he looked up, Taylor was standing by a squad car, laughing with four officers. Even though her knee was cut, her pants were torn, and her face was bruised, she was still a knockout.

Jack took his time enjoying those killer legs in tight black pants. Just watching her made the air feel supercharged and full of life. How could the woman look like a million dollars after falling through a window? And when had she gotten so comfortable with the S.F.P.D. SWAT team?

Jack had the sudden, uncomfortable suspicion that there was more to Taylor O'Toole then he'd first thought. “What happened to her jacket?” he asked the officer beside him.

“Tore it on all that glass in the window.”

Not that it mattered. With Taylor O'Toole's legs, she'd look damned good in anything.

Or in nothing.

Whooah, sailor.

She looked up and waved when he neared the squad car. “Hey, Jack. I—” She took a sharp breath. “Just—thank you.”

“No problem.”

She shoved a mass of bright hair off her face. “Wait. I need to talk to you.”

“I'm kind of rushed right now.” Jack gestured to the officer beside him. “I need to answer some questions.” Not to mention that any minute the reporters would arrive, and he definitely didn't want to be around for the media circus that followed.

“But how can I thank you? You took on that creep alone. If not for you—”

He tried to ignore the emotion in her voice. “You did your own hostage recovery, Ms. O'Toole. There's no need to thank me.” He glanced at the officer, who was clearly impatient. “I think I need to go now.”

Taylor frowned at the officer beside Jack. “Are you arresting this man?”

“No, ma'am. Just completing our report, the way he said.”

“You'd better
not
arrest him. Mr. Broussard saved my life, and I want that on the record. No matter what he says, he saved my life.” Her voice broke. “Whatever force he used in there was absolutely necessary.”

Jack felt something work at his chest as he listened to her angry, impassioned speech to the police officer. Taylor didn't realize that he was only doing the hard, dirty job he was trained to do, and Jack couldn't enlighten her.

She strode closer, blocking their way. “I'm prepared to offer a statement if necessary.”

“I'll be sure to note your observations.” The officer nodded at Jack, and they resumed walking.

“You'd better,” Taylor called. “Otherwise, I'll be calling the mayor tonight. The newspapers, too.” Jack could feel her eyes burning on his back as they passed Harris Rains, who was giving a wild and entirely fictional account of his “ordeal” to a female officer.

“Hey, Broussard. I'm going to thank you somehow,” Taylor called loudly.

Jack raised a hand and gave a two-finger wave, while the officer beside him smiled. “Now that might be seriously worth seeing.”

Jack was pretty sure it might be worth seeing, too.

 

Ten minutes later Taylor was sitting in the back of a cruiser with an attractive female police lieutenant, repeating that she was fine and didn't need to go to the hospital.

But her hands were trembling, and both of them knew she wasn't as cool as she seemed, which only made Taylor more tense.