They still held each other's wrists, but when Troy attempted to body-slam Sam into the column again, Sam twisted away, releasing Troy's arm long enough to round the beast and raise his weapon for a clean shot to Troy's spine.
Troy kicked out faster than I thought an oaf could manage, knocking Sam to the ground. Which closed the distance between Sam's muzzle and Troy's leg. He fired.
A primal cry erupted. Sam jumped to his feet, wrenched the weapon from Troy's hand while the shock still surged through Troy's body, and stepped back. Felled to his knee, Troy leaned against the column, blood seeping through his pant leg, his face draining of color. And that had been his good leg.
"You wanna play, Dawg, 'cause I got plenty of game left in me." Another elbow strike from Sam and Troy's nose burst. Sam stood back, his shirt sleeve covered in blood spatter. "Get on your knees. What's left of them, anyway."
I looked again. Not Troy's leg but his knee was bleeding out. I registered a blast hole before I averted my eyes from the exposed muscle and bone.
A born masochist, Troy growled my direction. Sam shoved his heel into the back of Troy's other knee so fast and hard the brute dropped to all fours. No human should howl low and dark like Troy did. The room's echo chilled me.
"Tell you what, Troy. Let's play your favorite game. The one you used to make me play in front of the men." A weapon in each hand, Sam clicked the muzzles together in front of Troy's face. Then he tossed Troy's weapon to the floor. "Your turn. Show me how fast you are, fat ass."
Troy and I both stared at his Glock laying two yards from his knee. He could lunge, reach the weapon with the length of his torso and arms, but he'd be dead before he touched the trigger because Sam aimed at the back of his skull.
I wasn't sure what I was witnessing. "Sam, you don't want to do this."
"Sure I do. We've been here before, me and Troy. Brotherhood feels better every time."
Sam was sweating buckets, his face as shiny as the polished marble, his Glock never detaching from Troy's head. His executioner position made my stomach drop, and imagining another head exploding in front of me made me want to vomit. Worse, the thought of seeing Sam pull the trigger struck terror in my soul.
"This isn't you, Sam." I stared at the pistol in my own hand, and then tossed the weapon back on the carpeting, far from Troy's reach.
"Get out of here, Jules. You don't wanna see how this game ends." He didn't swallow, didn't avert his gaze from Troy.
"Don't end like this, Sam. Not like this."
Sam wiped his eyes. His face still boiled red, his eyes were fully dilated.
"I know you, Sam. I know you."
He looked up, swallowed when he looked into my eyes.
"I know you, Sam," mimicked Troy in a high-pitched voice.
Sam re-attached the gun muzzle to Troy's cranium with force.
"Police, freeze." Voices yelled in tandem. The broken column hid me from view, but their guns were on Sam, not Troy. "Drop your weapon!"
"Federal agent," Sam called.
"Drop your weapon!" One of the cops repeated.
"I'm the federal agent," said Troy. "He's the perp."
"Drop it now!" Two cops neared, fanning out and braving steps toward our soiree. "Both of you, on the ground, hands behind your head."
Sam's forehead gleamed. "FBI. Agent Fields. Call it in, damn it."
"Oh yeah? Badge number."
"Get my superior on the line first. Agent Vilet." Sam lowered his voice for our ears only. "Can't beat an army, Troy. It's over."
"Three boy scouts and a whore ain't no fucking army." Again his wicked smile my way.
"Confirm agent on site," one cop said to another. "Don't move while we check you both out. Don't move, I said."
Troy reached and hooked Sam's leg to trip him. Sam couldn't shoot without drawing fire, so he lunged and wrestled Troy to keep him from reaching either of the weapons lying on the carpet.
I bolted. A narrow line to the hall. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Troy throw Sam aside, then hop one-legged to retrieve his pistol.
Why the hell didn't the cops shoot?
I shoved my weight into my strides. Sirens rode the wind outside, leading me to the exit. Another glance behind me. Sam lunging, Troy raising the Glock. On me.
Thwack.
The wall plaster exploded near my head, but nothing stung. I approached the corner with a swift look back.
Troy rammed his shoulder into the column, keeping upright by the sheer thickness of his gimpy leg, while his blown-out leg hung sideways. He stretched his arm, struggled to point the Glock as gunfire from the cops sliced his side, flicking pink spray.
Another stumble. His gun-arm collapsed, and Troy threw his head back and roared. He regained composure, attempted a Hail Mary to shoot me. Here was a true Goliath, who terrified and inspired awe in one gesture of madness.
Sam walked forward, blew consecutive holes into Troy's chest till the man's bearded cheek skated down the rough column and Sam stood over him.
I could smell the gunpowder, taste the blood in my mouth from hitting the floor, feel the grip Troy still held on my throat and lungs. No less than a hole through that beast's heart could end him.
Every muscle of Sam's body remained rigid as he checked the body. The cops held their weapons on Sam, yet he bent to feel Troy's pulse. Spotting me down the hall, he mouthed, "Run."
"Stand back," called Reynolds among the chaos of an arriving SWAT team.
I turned and ran.
CHAPTER 31
The United Airlines ticket line moved glacially slow, begging review by two NYPD officers cruising the terminal. The fair-haired cop muttered into his shoulder radio, his thick ruby lips bouncing as he spoke, while the other cop swiveled his pear-shaped head, giving everyone the twice-over.
If these officers could see the sweat pooling under the overcoat Sam gave me, they'd rush me with handcuffs just for looking guilty. Then again, the scarf tied over my head to hide my blonde hair made me stand out plenty. I regretted losing Sam's hat and sunglasses at the hotel. And Sam. Though my escape was intended to keep him out of danger, and out of my history, regret burned through me. Being noble and being stupid suddenly seemed a lot alike. And being paranoid about the past and lying to Sam about my reasoning, ignoble at best.
A hefty woman in front of me was also sweating. Beads rolled down her plump cheeks despite the sixty-degree air. She lugged no less than five suitcases and three yapping toddlers, and every time the line shifted, she kicked each suitcase forward, and then reeled each kid closer, shouting their names in the same sequence—Harry-Joe-Melissa—like they were one brand name. Her accent was pure Texan and loud, like her bright teal raincoat with matching hat. But I admired her tenacity for keeping her lot together so effectively.
The cops sauntered our way. I put mom and her herd between me and the officers. All that speeding in a taxi to the airport, only to languish in this Texan's heat. I was going nowhere fast.
Something brushed my thigh. No one was behind me when I looked over my shoulder. To my left, a silvery-blue suit strode the causeway, a newspaper slapping his leg, one, two, three. Goosebumps cooled my hot nerves. But I couldn't bolt with cops so close.
My heart raced, my fingers tapped against my leg. The line shortened and the Texan brood wobbled forward. Mom bent to shove a suitcase, exposing her two-moons-over-Texas to me and exposing me to the cops.
Time for an about face. I tracked Sam's serpentine path through the crowds. He'd moved so fast, I could barely see the glint of his suit among the heavy winter coats and luggage-laden tourists crowding the causeway. Someone might spot the bullet holes in his coat or the blood spray on his shirt. Then again, this was New York. Violence was expected.
Security guards appeared to Sam's left. The spindly one was handing out flyers to similarly-uniformed men and women.
At first Sam lingered in front of the bookstore, watching their leaflet handoff and giving me time to catch up, if the guards didn't tackle me first. Then he shot into a men's clothing store, sheared a jacket from a hanger, and ducked into a dressing room.
The security guards dispersed, flyers in hand. My feet covered the distance to Sam's side fast. Once inside the store, I waited for Sam to emerge. And waited. To keep myself looking occupied, I toyed with a wooden box covered in black-and-white photographs, scenes of lovers kissing, the type of kitsch a man buys on the way home to convince his wife he'd thought about her the whole trip.
Finally, I grabbed a new pageboy cap and slipped into the dressing room next to Sam's.
"About time," he said through the thin wall. "They've tagged your cards and ID."
"That was fast."
"Too fast."
Sam's door squeaked opened, and I peeked out. He looked sideways in the mirror, smoothing a blue car coat till the lapels lay flat over his chest. Covering his suit jacket's bullet holes with this new coat seemed rational, but the swelling around his eye socket and blood-red marks on his neck told the real story.
He slapped his gut. "Less beer. More sex."
"Damn it, could you be serious for once."
He stepped into my dressing room, grabbed my waist, and hoisted me onto the bench.
"Sam, this is no time for—"
"Baby, there's always time for that. What we don't need is two sets of feet under the door with cops eyeing the joint."
"Like the sales guy won't notice."
"Not when he's got his nose in those shipments. Look, no one knew your cards weren't deactivated but me. It's Bureau info only. That means we're looking for someone on the inside, someone from the hotel, who knew you were on the run again. Someone who's—"
"Who's still alive." Shit, I mumbled to myself, thinking of Stone. "I haven't used the cards outside the hotel store. So how'd you find me?"
"Doormen have ears. And I tip better. Besides, I told you not to go to the airport, so of course..."
I pecked his forehead. "Spank me later. I'm just glad you're my kidnapper today."
He grumbled dissatisfaction and then pulled me down for a real kiss. So real, so slow—lips tugging mine open, his tongue tasting me in small samples—for a moment I forgot... whatever it was I supposed to remember to ask him.
"Apology accepted," he said, brushing my lip with his thumb. "But don't do that ever again."
When my lungs finally rebooted, I said, "You gotta stop doing that."
Seeing me discombobulated always evoked Sam's amusement. "Only when I'm dead."
"That's not funny." I thumped his shoulder, thinking how easily Sam, not Troy, might have been pummeled with bullets by the cops. I started to peel off Sam's overcoat, but he pulled it back over my shoulders. "I'm burning up in this."
"You need to stay hidden. All of you."
"So I should grab another taxi and find a place to lay low."
"Nope. Now
we
drive you out. And no, we're not arguing the plan, Jules. Your way sucks." He grimaced at my white Keds. "And take off those laser beams. They know your uniform as well as I do."
Quibbling over footwear seemed useless, so I pulled off my shoes, wincing as I shifted.
"What was that?" Sam closed in on me when I didn't reply immediately.
"Nothing. My stomach burns a little."
He motioned for me to stand up straight. "Always something with you, Larson. Come on." He yanked out my white shirttails and unzipped my black waitress pants and tugged lightly on my panties. "These the ones I got you?"
I rolled my eyes. "You have predictable hormones, Detective."
"Hey, you'd be wearing granny briefs and a sports bra if it weren't for me. Standard issue crap." Sweeping his palm over my scar, he silently swore. "Tissue's a little swollen, but that's probably normal."
He brushed his lips over the scar. A cooling shiver replaced the heated pain.
"Sam, we can't—"
"A little warm, but that's to be expected under the circumstances. As long as you're on antibiotics, you're good. Take your pain pills if it's hurting." He kissed my belly and looked up, found me pulling my bottom lip between my teeth. His smile dropped. "You remembered your pills, right? Ah, Christ."
"Stone took the bottle."
"You get his gun and wallet but leave the pills?"
"Shhh. They're just ibuprofen. I can get those anywhere." I hadn't the heart to tell Sam that Stone had grabbed my antibiotics as well.
"Shit." Sam punched the stall door and it flew open.
The salesman's head came up from his boxes, and I grappled for the door before he got a good look at me. Seconds later, a pair of small men's tan slippers shot under the door. Sam announced that he'd paid for the lot and would be right back to fetch me.
I pulled on the pageboy cap to cover my face, the slippers to cover my tracks. When I exited the changing room, the same pair of cops I'd seen at the United Airlines line lingered outside the Starbucks across the causeway, watching schools of passengers slowing at the causeway crossroads before flitting in opposite directions like fish. Sam was nowhere in view.
Taking my chances, I stepped around the corner and found a pay phone. After a few rings, a slippery professional voice answered the phone, though I was calling his personal line. "This is Howard."
"Your favorite Chinese takeout is ready. Extra spring rolls." I prayed he recognize my voice, though by now he'd been told I was dead.
"Oh, my God," he stumbled. "Yes, yes of course. I just, I thought you'd gone. Out of business, I mean."
"You have to pick up your order at the restaurant. Our driver is out today." I winced, unsure of what new danger I was putting Howard into by sending him to our favorite lunch haunt. "You remember the address?"
"Who forgets their favorite take out joint? I can be there at thirteen hundred hours." He was laying on the secret agent routine a bit thick.
"Bring the special chopsticks we gave you last time. And you should eat your spring rolls here, so they don't get cold. Then you can meet our new helper and show him your chopsticks." God, please let him understand my code.