Michael Prescott - Mortal Faults

For the second time in two days she was in a gunfight. It irked her. Variety was one of the perks of her job, but this case wasn’t offering her any.

Her revolver had used all six shots. She dumped the empties and speedloaded another six. There was a second speedloader in her purse if she needed it. She figured she would.

Reynolds was edging out of the Mustang again, the gun leading him. She took aim this time-couldn’t afford to waste any more shots-and fired once. He twisted away, disappearing into the vehicle’s interior. She thought she might have scored a hit on his shoulder or arm.

More gunfire from the van. Sounded like only one gun, which meant only one bad guy inside. He had the advantage, though. As long as she was pinned down, he and Reynolds could pop caps in her direction until one of the shots connected.

She risked a peek at the van and saw that the gunman had ventured out of the vehicle. Time to go on offense. She fired off three more shots, repelling the driver back inside the van, then sprinted out from behind the pillar and dived under the Mustang. It was a good bet that in the dim light and the confusion of battle the van driver hadn’t seen where she went.

Beneath the car she crawled forward on elbows and knees. Oil leaked from the chassis, forming a viscid pool on the concrete.

Movement from the van. It rocked gently on its springs. A pair of leather sneakers came into the view.

The driver was out of his vehicle again, edging sideways along the Mustang.

That was a mistake.

Abby gripped the. 38 in both hands and fired twice at his feet. He went down. Even as he hit the ground she dumped the spent shells from her revolver and speedloaded her last six rounds.

A shot burned past her, her wounded enemy firing blindly under the car. She squeezed off three rounds and blew the gun out of his hand, which was not a hand any longer but a gushing stump. He howled like an animal and fell abruptly silent, unconscious or dead. No threat either way.

But Reynolds was still a threat. Directly above her, in the Mustang-

In time with that thought, a bullet punched through the chassis, plowing into the concrete and kicking up splinters of stone.

Son of a bitch was firing straight down through the floor of his car.

She rolled sideways, dodging three more shots that punctured the bottom of the Mustang, then fired upward into what she thought was the front passenger compartment, hoping for a lucky hit, but luck wasn’t with her, and his gun boomed back, targeting the spot where the shots had originated, missing her-but only just-as she flipped to one side. She squeezed off two more shots, and the hammer made a dry click.

Out of ammo. No more speedloaders in her purse. Not that it mattered, since her purse was gone anyway, lost in her rapid maneuvers beneath the Mustang.

Reynolds hadn’t run out. He fired again and again, and above the roar of the shots she heard him yelling, a long incoherent shout of rage.

Andrea’s gun was an automatic. Maybe fourteen rounds in the clip. And Reynolds was probably carrying a gun of his own. Too much firepower. She couldn’t dodge every shot.

She propelled herself out from under the car, sliding on a slick of blood from the van driver, and found his gun, the one he’d dropped when she blew his hand off his wrist.

She spun in a crouch and fired at the Mustang, gouging a hole in the side window, and Reynolds, in silhouette, dipped quickly as if hit.

She waited, expecting him to pop up and return fire.

He didn’t. Maybe he was hit worse than she’d thought. She wasn’t in a hurry to find out, though. He could be playing possum. Never trust a politician-that was her motto.

Movement in the car. It shivered on its springs, rocking gently, and something fell out of the far side, something heavy and ungainly.

Reynolds, blindly seeking escape.

He drove himself to his feet and stumbled away, one shoulder crooked at an impossible angle, his legs trembling with the strain of holding him upright. Behind him leaked a long ragged trail of blood.

Abby jumped onto the hood of the Mustang and tackled him. He went down hard, the gun still in his hand. She ripped it free and pitched it into the shadows, then pressed her weapon to the back of his head.

For a moment the garage disappeared, and the ruined vehicles, and she was facing Dylan Garrick again.

“Don’t do it,” a man’s voice said, and it might have been Reynolds or Garrick, she couldn’t say. “Please. Don’t.”

She felt her finger tighten on the trigger. Just a little more pressure, a few ounces’ worth, and she would expel this man from the world.

But she didn’t fire. She took a long, slow breath and let her grip relax.

“Quiet, Jack,” she said softly. “Quiet now.”

Beneath her, Reynolds was whimpering. In pain, maybe, or in humiliation. She knew he didn’t like to lose.

Well, he’d lost now. Lost everything.

Behind her, a clatter of rapid footsteps. Beam of a pocket flash impaling her in its glare.

“Drop your weapon! You’re under arrest! Drop your weapon! ”

Slowly, Abby smiled. She tossed the gun aside and stood up, raising her hands.

“Hey, Tess,” she said. “Long time no see.”

Stenzel’s desk phone rang in the emptiness of campaign headquarters. No one was here on a Saturday night. Even the lowliest volunteers had some kind of life. Only Stenzel had shown up, not because he had work to do-although there was always work to do-but because he couldn’t relax until he knew that the operation at the Brayton Hotel had gone smoothly.

He picked up the phone on the first ring, hoping it was Jack calling to say everything was taken care of.

It wasn’t Jack. It was a newspaper reporter from the L.A. Times, a pain in the ass like all of them, but someone whose calls Stenzel had no choice but to take.

“I’m kind of tied up right now, Charlie,” Stenzel said, in no mood for the usual pleasantries, off-the-record remarks, deep background quotes, and other bullshit. “Whatever this is, maybe it can wait till tomorrow.”

“I’ll make it quick. Just want to know if you have any comment about the situation.”

“What situation?”

“At the Brayton.”

Stenzel had occasionally encountered the expression his heart skipped a beat. He had never taken it literally until this moment.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” he said.

“I’m referring to the fact that your boss was reportedly seen in the lobby of the Brayton Hotel in downtown L.A. earlier tonight, in a heated discussion with a woman, or maybe two women-the reports are unclear-and some people say this woman or women kidnapped him at gunpoint, and now I’m hearing that arrests have been made. And the FBI is all over it. That situation.”

“This is the first I’m hearing about it. You sure you’re not putting me on?”

“No joke, Kip.”

“It can’t have been Jack. Why would Jack-I mean, Congressman Reynolds-why would the congressman be at the Brayton Hotel, anyway?”

“You tell me.”

“The whole thing sounds like some crazy mix-up. You’re not running with this, are you?”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“You’ll look pretty foolish when you have to retract the story.”

“Maybe you can put me in touch with the congressman, and he can straighten things out.”

“The congressman isn’t here at the moment.”

“Where is he?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You may want to track him down.”

“I’m sure he has no involvement in any of the events you’ve described. And I’m sure you won’t be printing rumor and innuendo in a reputable paper like the Times.”

“Is that your only comment?”