Kelley Armstrong - Exit Strategy

Ahead, Jack waited by the stairwell. As I took that last step past the hall junction, one of the FBI men moved. I caught only the flash of motion, not enough to know whether he was turning to watch me or scratching his ass. I picked up the pace. Footsteps sounded behind me.

I flicked my fingers at Jack, telling him to get out of the hall. He stepped into the stairwell, but held the door open. Six steps, seven, and I was there.

Behind me, shoes squeaked against the linoleum, making a sharp turn. As I ducked through the door, Jack grabbed my elbow and pushed me toward the stairs.

He paused behind me, presumably to double-check. I didn’t wait for the verdict. I galloped down the steps as fast as I could without stumbling. As I rounded the first flight, Jack fell into step beside me, caught my eye and nodded. The Feds were following.

I lifted my forefinger, then swiveled my thumb down. “First floor or basement?” I mouthed. Jack pointed down. Basement. Above us, the door finally clicked shut, only to whoosh open seconds later. Footsteps thumped across the landing. I shifted to the outside, where I’d be harder to spot, and Jack fell in behind me.

At the first floor, I motioned for Jack to continue heading down, then turned toward the door. He caught my arm, but I motioned that I’d follow in a moment. I jogged to the first floor door, opened it as far as it would go, released it and turned to race after Jack. As we rounded the midflight turn, Jack glanced up. The door I’d opened was slowly swinging shut, where the agents would see it and assume we’d gone that way. Jack nodded his approval.

Above us, several sets of shoes clomped down the steps at double-time. When we reached the basement door, Jack waved me against the wall. He opened the door slowly and silently. We slipped through and he eased it shut behind us.

We turned to survey our surroundings. A typical industrial basement: big, semidark, full of wheezing, clanking machinery. Helpful signs on the wall indicated points of interest: furnace, laundry, storage, deliveries. Jack jabbed a finger at the last.

As we turned the first corner, a grating squeal cut through the mechanical roar, growing louder by the second. We looked around. To our left was a hall lined with old office equipment. We took refuge beside a filing cabinet.

The squeal turned to a steady squeaking. Wheels in need of oiling. Seconds later, the sound began to recede. I leaned out to see an employee wheel a metal cart of laundry onto an elevator. We waited until the doors clanked shut before we took off.

After years of being the hunter, it was strange being pursued-and by cops, no less. I felt an uncomfortable inkling of shame, not unlike when I was nine and Amy talked me into swiping a candy bar from the store. I hadn’t been caught. I’d even snuck back later and returned it, without her knowing. Running from these agents, I felt the same twinge, mitigated only by the reminder that I wasn’t committing a crime, but trying to solve one.

My ruse with the first-floor door wouldn’t stymie the FBI for long, but it had bought us a few critical minutes. We made it to the delivery loading dock without incident. From there, escape was a simple matter of unlocking the exit door and walking out.

We stepped into the fading light and found ourselves at the foot of a small flight of stairs.

“I’ll look. Wait here.”

I nodded. Though I was quite capable of scouting, I was the lawyer who’d snuck out. No one was looking for a janitor.

Jack climbed the steps and disappeared. By the time I’d slipped my shoes back on, he’d reappeared at the top. He waved me up. I was just high enough to peek over ground level when two men in maintenance jumpsuits walked around the corner. I ducked so fast I nearly fell backward down the steps. Jack started to follow, then let out an obscenity.

He turned to me, said, “Wait,” then strode off.

Had the maintenance men seen Jack, noticed his janitor’s uniform shirt and called him over to help with something?

A moment’s silence. Then a man’s voice, raised just loud enough to carry.

“Drive where?”

“Just drive,” Jack called back.

I walked up a few steps and stood on tiptoes to peek over the top. Jack and the two men were about twenty feet away, on the other side of a storage shed. I darted over to it.

“Not good enough,” one man said. “Tell me where the hell I’m driving, Jack, or…”

I didn’t hear the rest of it. My brain snagged on Jack’s name.

Jack walked past the storage shed. Hearing the other man still talking, I swung back, trying to get out of sight. I stepped on a branch, the crack of breaking wood loud enough to make Jack turn. His gaze met mine. He looked away quickly, but it was too late. The two men in maintenance suits were behind him, now both staring right at me.

One of them was around Jack’s age, average height and lean to the point of bony, with thinning ginger hair, a sparse beard and glasses.

The other man was closer to my age, a little over six feet with a solid build, light brown hair, and a face that was pleasantly handsome but no cause for second glances. Nothing about him screamed “cop”-no mustache, no brawny forearms, no steel-eyed glare of perpetual suspicion. But I knew that’s what he was, the same way I’d know a Beretta from a Glock with a split-second glance.

The cop looked from me to Jack. “Your new partner, Jack? Either that’s one hell of a disguise or there’s something you forgot to tell us.”

“Drive,” Jack said. “North. First rest stop.”

The cop opened his mouth to argue, but the red-haired man said, “We’ll be there.” He smiled at me, then shooed his partner toward the parking lot.

“That was Quinn, wasn’t it?” I said as we got into the car.

“Yeah.”

I fought the first bubble of panic rising in my gut. “Okay. Presumably, Quinn got the same message those Feds did, and came by hoping to find out what was going on. Bad timing, but now we have to deal with it. This meeting at the rest stop. Should I stay in the car?”

He pulled out of the parking lot. “Up to you.”

“My first instinct is to stay out of their way. But he already got a good look at me, and he obviously figured out I’m your mystery partner. So if I stay in the car, that’s going to arouse suspicion. They’ll wonder if it’s more than rookie nerves.”

“Yeah.”

I looked over at him. “Can I get some advice? Please?”

He drove for at least five minutes without answering, then did so slowly, as if with great reluctance. “Safer to meet them. Get it over with. You’re in disguise. Quinn’s a blowhard but…” A long pause, as if he’d rather not finish. “He’s good. Trustworthy. You’ll be fine.”

Quinn and his partner were waiting when we pulled into the rest stop. Jack drove past them, circled to the rear of the building and parked on the far side. He looked around, then got out and headed for the picnic area that, given the cool season and the late hour, was understandably empty.

He gestured at the table in front of us. “Here good?”

“Seems okay. We’re far enough from the buildings that no one should overhear if we keep our voices down. Watch the body language, though.”

When I looked up, Quinn was bearing down on us, jaw set, fists balled at his sides.

“So much for body language,” I murmured.

Jack stood, shoulders squaring. Quinn’s partner headed our way, as if to intercept, but he was too far to reach us in time.

“What’s this?” Quinn said, gesturing at me. “When you said you had a partner, we all figured you meant Evelyn or someone we knew. That”-his finger jabbed my way-“is neither.”