Линвуд Баркли - Find You First

“Maybe close the doors before one of us gets thrown out?”

He pulled over to the curb, slipped between the two front buckets, slid the doors shut, then got back behind the wheel. He put the van back in Drive and kept moving.

“Okay, now what else do we do? Go to the police? Tell them what happened?”

Sandy’s face paled. “Are you kidding?”

“What?”

“They were the police!”

“I don’t think so,” Travis said. “I mean, maybe, but they never let us get a close look at their ID, they never identified themselves, and like I said, cops don’t go around killing you for being on private property.”

“No,” Sandy said. “No no no no no. Not a good idea.”

“But what you did, it was justified,” Travis said. “He was going to shoot me! In the head!”

“I have to think about this,” she said, suddenly going very quiet. Then, “Pull over! Pull over!”

“What?”

“Pull over!”

He hit the brakes and veered over to the side of the road. Sandy barely had her feet on the ground before she bent over, put her hands on her knees, and threw up.

Travis jumped out, ran around to the other side of the van, and rested a comforting hand on her back. He could feel her heart pounding.

When she believed she was done vomiting, she spat a few times, dug a tissue out of her pocket and dabbed her lips, then stood up straight and looked at him.

“No police,” she said. “Promise me.” When Travis didn’t respond right away, she added, “It’s how you can thank me for saving your life.”

She put a hand atop his shoulder and squeezed.

“Okay,” he said.

“Motherfucker,” Rhys said as he gave up trying to run after the van.

His knee, while still barely workable, was throbbing. He leaned over, touched it delicately. His upper thigh hurt, too, and he’d no doubt have a hell of a bruise there, but it was the knee he was more worried about. He wasn’t sure, at this point, whether it was broken, but he sure wanted to get some ice on it as soon as he could.

“That bitch,” he muttered under his breath.

How the hell didn’t they hear her come back? Why weren’t they watching for her?

Stupid stupid stupid.

He hobbled over to retrieve the gun that Sandy had tried to throw on top of the shipping container. He picked it up and gave it a cursory inspection. He’d have to fire it to be sure, but it appeared to be in working order. It was a wonder it didn’t go off when it was thrown.

Then he looked over at Kendra.

He limped to where she lay on the pavement and, with considerable difficulty, knelt down beside her. Had the girl killed her with a single blow to the head? She sure as hell had made a mess of her face. The woman’s nose appeared to have been turned inside out.

“God damn it,” he said.

And then she moaned.

“Kendra?” he said.

Her eyelids fluttered.

Rhys took her hand. “I’m here. It’s Rhys. You’ve been hurt bad. Fucking bitch came at you with a bat.”

Her lips moved but no words came out.

“They got away. We fucked up.”

Rhys noticed the rectangular bulge in the front pocket of her jeans and fished out her cell phone. He took her hand and pressed her thumb to the home button to unlock it. Then he went into the settings and deactivated the touch password so he could use it himself.

The app they’d used to track the Roben kid’s van was open. He and the girl were already miles away, but Rhys could find them if he wanted to.

But did he?

His gut told him it was time to abort. At least temporarily. If Roben went to the cops, told them what had happened, they could be here very soon. Then again, he and the girl might be too scared to go to the authorities. If they still believed he and Kendra were police, they might lie low.

But Rhys couldn’t be sure. He had to move.

Except he had a wounded associate to deal with. He couldn’t take her to a hospital. And he certainly didn’t know how to treat her himself. Sure, Rhys had some basic first-aid skills, but Christ on a cracker, Kendra here needed emergency surgery. It was remotely possible there were under-the-radar local resources, someone outside of a hospital with medical training who could look at her. Retired doctors, or ones who’d lost their licenses to practice.

Fucking veterinarians, if it came to that.

Kendra moaned again. This time, she managed to open her eyes all the way and she trained them on Rhys.

“Hey,” he said.

“Blerm,” she said, blood seeping out from between her lips.

If he was going to have even a chance of saving her, he would have to run back for their rental, bring it here, load her into the back seat, get as far away from here as possible, as fast as possible, and get on the phone to see if there was someone who could tend to her wounds. Rebuild her fucking face, basically.

Rhys thought about all that.

And then said, aloud, “No time.”

He bent down and whispered into her ear, “Sorry, Kendra. Only one way this can go.”

Putting as much weight as he could on his good knee, he stood, aimed the gun at Kendra’s forehead, and pulled the trigger.

New York, NY

Roberta was in her first-floor office in Jeremy’s brownstone, sitting at the computer, trying to reply to several dozen emails but finding it very difficult to concentrate. This whole business with Nicky was dragging on too long. She understood Jeremy had specific people in mind for an assignment of this nature. This was a very delicate task, not the sort of thing to be left to an amateur, and Jeremy was willing to wait for a person with the requisite skills. Such a person was supposed to be coming soon.

There were only a few people in the building who knew about Nicky. Herself and Jeremy, of course. The housekeeper, who was undocumented and definitely not going to call the authorities. And Boris, the security guard. Not even Antoine, who made the meals that Roberta took up to Nicky’s room, knew who that extra plate was for, and no doubt assumed it was for some random staff member.

She was thinking about all of this when Boris came into her office and said, “Problem.”

Roberta looked at him wearily. “What now?”

“Front door.”

Roberta pushed back her chair and followed him through to the front of the house. Along the way, Boris explained that a friend of Nicky’s was on the step, asking for her.

Roberta opened the door and gave the girl standing there a businesslike smile. She was fifteen or sixteen, short black hair, and about the skinniest thing Roberta had ever seen aside from a garden rake.

“May I help you?” Roberta said.

“I’m looking for Nicky?”

“Nicky?”

“Nicky Bondurant? She’s a friend of mine?”

“And who are you?”

“Stacey.”

“Do you have a last name, Stacey?”

“Booker. Stacey Booker. Is Nicky here?”

“There’s no Nicky here,” Roberta said. “Do you have the right house?”

Stacey took two steps back and looked up at the number over the door. “Yup,” she said.

“Trust me, no one named Nicky lives here.”

“I didn’t say she lived here,” Stacey said. “I’ve been to her apartment. But I’ve walked with her to this address before. I’ve been trying to find her. She hasn’t been at school. They said she had mono but she’s not at her place.”

“I’m sorry,” Roberta said. “We hire a number of people for functions, but we’re not hosting one at the moment, so even if we had ever hired someone named Nicky, she would not be here now.”

“Well, would you know—”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” Roberta said, and closed the door in the girl’s face.