Lost Art Assignment (19 page)

Heart pounding, pulse racing, Felicity remembered what Davis said less than twenty-four hours ago. When you got J.J. Slash on your ass, he said, you truly have got somebody on your ass. The truth of those bitter words sank into her mind. These two, probably three hoods would never stop chasing until they had her. Maybe four pursuers, she reflected. And Slash would never let up until he had the truth about her.

She dropped again, rushing under banks of machines until she was three aisles over.

When Felicity ran, Hall and his two followers sprinted after her. Davis took three quick steps, but then stopped. He knew this girl. Whoever she really was, she was too smart, too quick, and too resourceful to get captured by this quality of help. It seemed dubious that four men could find her in the one hundred twenty thousand square feet of casino boasted about in Taj Mahal brochures. Plus, there were the elevators, the forty-four story hotel, the exhibit hall with five thousand plus seats, the private pier… just too much playhouse for their game of hide and seek. She could lose herself in the complex for years. If she wanted to. But did she? He reasoned that what she really wanted was out.

Felicity stopped to play a slot machine. She had grabbed someone's overcoat that she found stuck in the space between two machines. Seconds later, she had snatched a handful of coins from some winner's cup. That was four aisles away, about thirty yards back. She was hunched over, the coat high on her shoulders, trying to blend in while she did some figuring. Several doors led out of the casino, but she needed the one that would leave her the least time on the boardwalk. The beach would be slow going without much camouflage available. She needed to reach the street, where she could disappear in doorways, stores or parked cars.

Considering the sophistication of her followers, she just might make it. Men scanning dozens of bodies for long red hair atop a black and white woman's suit might look right past a hunchback in a beige overcoat. She just had to look like she belonged here.

Felicity didn't like being scared. She didn't like the sweating, the dry, cotton wool feeling in her mouth, and the slight shake in her fingers. Choking back her resentment she moved slowly from machine to machine, not noticing her results, hoping she would not hit an attention-drawing jackpot.

No one could explain the danger sense Felicity was born with, but over the years she had learned to work with it. Given time for analysis it acted as a proximity alarm, telling her how far away the threat was and in which direction. By concentrating, she could project the safest direction in which to move. She focused on steering her course, away from her determined pursuers and toward an exit.

How long had she been running? Felicity's perfect time
sense told her she had first escaped Hall and company twenty minutes ago, but it seemed much longer. Now she was facing an exit, the closest one to the end of the building. Steps just outside led down from the boardwalk to Atlantic City's streets and freedom. Her heart bursting from her chest, she abandoned the remaining stolen coins and at a moderate, steady pace toward the door.

One minute later she was out, out in the fresh sea air and sunshine, a few feet from freedom. Walking with care, dreading a splinter in her foot, she moved toward the steps leading down. Despite her senses telling her she wasn't followed, she looked behind as she walked.

“This is pointless, darling.”

Felicity gasped as she turned, stared into Ross Davis' face. He was leaning against the railing, next to the steps.

“How did you know?” Felicity asked, dropping the coat. Her mind raced.

“What?” Davis asked. “That you would escape the casino? I respect you. That you would turn up here? Common sense. You can't hide on the beach nearly as well as you can in town. But J.J. would eventually find you. I know you're not guilty of anything. Just come with us. Please.”

“Ross, I believe you mean that,” Felicity said, moving toward him. “But I don't know how much your friends care about the truth. And if you hold me here long enough, they'll figure out I'm not in there. Or they'll see me through that glass wall.”

“I'm sorry, love, but I can't let you walk,” Davis said, holding his arms out.

Then Felicity saw what she had missed. Just as it became too late to matter, she realized she was caught and cornered by Davis, but she got no alarm from her danger
sense. He would not hurt her.

“Ross, you may not believe this, but I'm sorry too,” Felicity barely got the words out before a pistol barrel smacked against Davis' temple and he melted onto the narrow planks like a frozen custard cone.

“Always in the right place, aren't you Paul?” Felicity asked, running down the stairs.

“I try to be,” he said, turning after her. Felicity slowed so Paul could pass her and take the lead. Half a block from the boardwalk Felicity heard a firecracker sound and something chipped the sidewalk not far from her.

“Three men follow,” Paul said. “All black. Two are quite large.”

“That's the opposition,” Felicity said, gasping for breath. “Where's the car?”

“Right here,” Paul said, opening the driver side door. Felicity broke into a broad smile when he pushed the switch unlocking her side. He had brought her BMW 650i. She slid into the low seat, the car started instantly, and they moved away from the curb.

Any thought of relaxing faded quickly. When Paul pulled into traffic, so did two cars across the street. Felicity could see two black faces behind the windshield of a white Dodge Spirit, and another in a candy apple Mercury Tracer. Her instincts confirmed her suspicions.

“Those two cars are with us,” she told Paul. “Davis must have called for backup. Can you lose them?”

“I'll try,” Paul said. The car leaped forward like a scalded cat, streaking through an intersection an instant after the light changed. Both followers ignored the red light and flew through. Paul slowed to avoid crashing into a parked car. The Mercury pulled to the right, off the BMW's tail, and a revolver grew out of its passenger side window.
A sharp crack was followed by a ping noise behind them.

“These guys are serious,” Felicity shouted. “Shooting at us in broad daylight. Pull over. I need to drive.”

“You think we can switch without getting killed?” Paul asked.

“Take this corner. Now!” Felicity told him. The words had barely left her mouth when her face slammed into the window. Paul's foot pressed the floorboards and anti-lock brakes engaged. Tires squealed and the car stopped by the curb.

Felicity dropped out of the passenger seat, rounding the back end of her car. Paul slid across the front bucket seats, powering his window down. Felicity's door stood open when the Dodge came flying around the corner, tilting on its McPherson struts. Paul pointed out his window and fired twice. The Dodge kept rolling past, turning slightly toward them, to slam its right rear into two parked cars.

The red Mercury followed seconds later. Bullets sprayed from it, but nowhere near on target. It was suppressive fire, to prevent Paul from hitting anyone. Felicity whipped into traffic, cutting off two cars, getting blaring horn sounds. She spun around, roaring off back the way they had come.

“We're good if we can find a sign to Philly,” Felicity shouted. Paul's open window made it a noisy ride. “If I can get to the Expressway, we'll just outrun them.”

“That red car looks like a sports car too,” Paul commented in his usual calm manner.

“The hottest Tracer made won't do much more than a hundred and twenty,” Felicity said. “I can wring one sixty out of this baby's twin-turbo V-8. But it's not too cool to be drag racing on city streets. On the other hand, the Turnpike will be…whoa.”

Felicity's eyes widened and Paul noticed the Mercury
coming up behind them.

“More bad guys,” Felicity said through clenched teeth. “In front, somewhere. I can feel it.”

“Just tell me where,” Paul said, climbing into the back seat.

Felicity's fingers tensed around the wheel. Watching traffic, walkers and lights made focusing on the threat difficult. They passed endless small shops, narrow streets and cars both parked and moving. An enemy could be anywhere, waiting to fire from cover. Suddenly she looked up. They were closing in on the threat. Or it was coming to them.

“There,” Felicity shouted. “Big. Blue. Gun.”

She prayed it was enough for Paul to get a focus. A big blue sedan was cruising toward them. A Ford Crown Victoria, she knew, or the Mercury Grand Marquis. They shared the same chassis. Hall had the wheel, driving with his right, holding a pistol out the window with his left. Two passengers sat in back.

“Down in front, Miss,” Paul said. Felicity felt his hand on her left shoulder, and her window dropped. Both cars had slowed to about thirty miles per hour, but they still appeared to be rushing toward each other. Loading her driving path into her memory, locking parked cars and other obstacles in her memory, Felicity bent right, lying on the seat, still driving forward.

Felicity was driving blind, trusting her memory, trusting Paul to alert her to anything moving into her path. She imagined two medieval knights, riding down their chutes in a joust, only with semi-automatic handguns instead of lances. There was only a second to consider how foolish this was.

When she knew they would be within two car lengths of
their pursuer, Felicity down shifted and floored her BMW. The car jumped like a spurred stallion. Gunshots pounded her ears, too many to count. Hot brass cases stung her as they bounced off her left arm and side. She heard breaking glass, skidding tires, a loud profanity from outside the car. Paul fell against the back seat, firing twice more.

Felicity popped up just in time to take a sharp right before the light changed. Pressed against her door, she felt her rear tires break loose, then grip the road again. Carefully going up through the gears, she was soon pushing seventy-five miles per hour, heading out of town.

She was driving like a lunatic on a busy road. Where the hell were the police? Being pulled over by a black and white would be one way to avoid trigger happy followers.

“We're being herded,” she said, almost to herself.

“What?” Paul asked from behind her. He sounded out of breath.

“Sorry. The big car's behind us, keeping up fairly well in town here. He's not too concerned with pedestrians. The ocean's on our left. The sports car, the red Merc, is hanging a block away on the right.”

“Can he get ahead of us?” Paul asked.

“Not bloody likely. He'd have to be one hell a driver to do this any faster than I am. Hey, you all right?”

A pause. “Not really.” Felicity looked for him in her rear view mirror. Paul's face was pale, ashen, his eyes a bit dull. His right hand, holding his gun, was pressed against his left arm, just below the shoulder. A bright red stream flowed through his fingers. Glancing down, she found herself rushing toward a bicycle from behind.

She down shifted, swerved left with a squeal of rubber, and barely ducked right in time to avoid an oncoming bus. Breathing was difficult, she thought, because her heart was
out of place, pressed up into her throat.

“Jesus, Paul,” she said, louder than she intended, “Why the hell didn't you say something?”

“You need to concentrate on driving,” he said. “I got the other driver, I think.” After a moment, he said “Sorry about the upholstery.”

Things were moving too quickly for Felicity's comfort. In the last seconds she had left the city limits and entered a rural area. Too quickly she was in the middle of farm country.

It looked like a truck farm to Felicity, low lying vegetables going on for what looked like miles. Being able to feel where a bullet might come from was little help in this case. Her pursuers knew this area a lot better than she did. They had let her slip four or five miles inland, but stayed between her and any on ramp to The Atlantic City Expressway or The Garden State Parkway.

A bullet whizzed behind them, and Felicity turned right. The rural street she was on gave way to a dirt road. A huge plume of sand flew up behind her, obscuring her followers while it made her impossible to lose. This could go on forever, she thought, only it couldn't, because she had a wounded man in her back seat. How badly, she would not know even if he told her. She was no doctor, but he needed one.

After twenty minutes of hard driving on ragged roads Felicity was beginning to think she had found the source of all the world's tomatoes, when a field of sweet corn rose up on her left. She turned down a road that led between rows. At what she hoped wasn't an obvious spot she cranked the wheel hard, plowing her car's nose into tall green stalks. Ten seconds into the field, she cut the engine.

No ears of corn battered the hood, just snapped green
stalks releasing a powerful, sweet aroma. They sat in a tunnel of green overarching the car just enough to hide it. Felicity turned to look at Paul, and noticed for the first time that her expensive sports car had no back window. It must have been shot out when that maniac tried to shoot her friend in the back seat.

“We can't stay here long,” Paul said, his voice slurred. “Let me out. I can find a good vantage point and reduce the odds.”

“Not today, pal,” Felicity said with a soft smile. “You're needing medical attention. Stay in the car while I lead them off on foot. I think I can lose them in here. You wait ten minutes, then get the car going and get to a doctor. Got it?”

Paul shook his head. “No, ma'am. You can't escape them on foot. I have to protect…”

“I don't need you defending me,” Felicity said. “I need you free to find Morgan and keep him from getting caught. You've got your orders, mister. I expect you to carry them out.” Paul frowned at her, sighed, and nodded.

Felicity popped the door handle, but the door didn't budge. Corn stalks formed a thick wall beside the car. Even pressing with her feet, Felicity couldn't get the door open. Sighing with frustration, she lowered the window and crawled out. Sliding over the car roof, she dropped off the trunk lid, into the path she had driven down.