Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [79]
He hurried past them and saw a door marked EXIT.
Pushing through, he found himself in another alley that ran the length of the building and then some, opening out to streets on either side. But there was no sign of the woman, and Jack was quickly coming to the conclusion that he wasn’t very good at this stalking thing.
Which way had she gone?
Making his choice—there was a faint floral scent in the air, possibly the hand lotion he had smelled earlier?—he went to his right and hurried toward the street, not slowing this time as he reached the mouth of the alley. Moving onto the sidewalk, he swiveled his head, glancing both ways, and was relieved to find her walking about a quarter of a block away to his left.
Dry skin, he thought gratefully. A woman’s vanity can be dangerously second nature.
As he moved out after her, she crossed the street again and disappeared into yet another alley.
What the hell was she up to?
Jack waited for a couple cars to pass, then followed. The way the alley was situated, there was very little light in there and he hesitated, once again wishing he had his .357 on his hip. Those years as an embedded reporter in Iraq had made firearms seem like part of a man. More often than not he was allowed to carry weapons in hairy situations. It was against the regs, but so was a lot of what happened in war. His third arm was an M249 light machine gun, fussy with sand but it took care of them; a Beretta M9 was his fourth hand, making up for a lack of stopping power with smooth, semiautomatic action that put a lot of those little balls into an enemy. Being unarmed felt like an unnatural state of being.
Plunging forward, he walked briskly, looking toward the other end of the alley. Jack didn’t see the woman. That was the first inkling he had that she was the cat and he was the mouse. But he had gone this far—
Halfway through, the building to his right gave way to a small car park—probably an employee lot. It was empty and lit only by a single incandescent bulb that burned over the building’s rear door. A faded sign under the bulb read CG & SONS FINE GARMENTS.
Had she gone in there?
Jack was about to move toward the door when a figure stepped from the shadows next to him and pressed the muzzle of a Browning Hi-Power 9mm to the side of his head.
He froze. Slowly, he shifted his gaze to her.
There was a gun at his skull, the safety probably off, an anxious and unsentimental finger on a hair trigger, yet he couldn’t help thinking she was even more mesmerizing up close and personal.
Ridiculous, but there it was.
Her face was a mask. Hardened. Unflinching. In these kinds of situations, it was best to let the person with the firepower do all the talking.
“Why are you following me?”
“I saw you at the club and—”
Gunmetal and perspiration produce a distinctive odor. It was in the air now and it overpowered the fading smell of aloe. The smart-aleck act was not going to buy him anything.
She pressed harder. She knew what she was doing. She didn’t lean into the gun like an angry street thug. She knew he would feel the increased pressure against his skin, understand that it meant her center of gravity was off, realize that if he were willing to risk it he could step from the line of fire, pivot, grab her wrist, and hurl her off-balanced self against the wall. It was basic self-defense.
So much for the stuff you can’t do, he thought.
“Who do you work for and what do you want?” she demanded.
She was getting impatient but she wasn’t quite there. He had a little wiggle room. He hoped so; he was betting his life on it.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Jack said.
“Except you’re the one following me, remember? Although you’re not very good at it. I spotted you back at the train station.”
“That shows what you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had you way before that,” he said. “I was in Abdal al-Fida’s flat when you found him.”
That caught her off guard. Her dark eyes widened. “That’s impossible.”