Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [79]
She flashed me a military-style hand gesture that I didn’t really understand, but I nodded and followed along. We were on her turf after all, and this wasn’t my corner of town. For all I knew she hung out on the roof and ziplined around the city easy as you please, just for shits and giggles.
I opened my mouth to ask, “Where are we going?” because she’d started leading me at a leaning pace around the edge. But she smacked me in the mouth—more roughly than strictly necessary—and hissed a “shh!” that could’ve cut tile. She pointed at my shoes and pretended to hold them by the heels. Who was I to argue? I played copycat and joined in the angled game of walking at a sideways lurch, heels dangling from one hand and bare feet sticking grittily to the shingles.
“My car,” I whispered softer, at her back. Because I was confident that I could dodge her if she tried to smack my mouth shut again, now that I knew to expect it.
“Where?”
“Peachtree, a block that way.” I pointed when she looked over her shoulder to see what nonsense I was going on about.
Down below us we could scarcely hear them, but we could see them.
They were splitting up, circling the building. If they knew we were up above them, they were careful to hide it, but one of them buzzed into his mouthpiece that they needed reinforcements and asked something about a satellite. Call me a pessimist, but I figured that whatever came back through his earpiece wasn’t good for us, which was a bummer. I’d thought it might be worth my time to hop down, wreak a little havoc, and boom—two feds out of the way, and permanently off our trail. But if more were coming, it might be too much of a time sink to be worth the trouble.
“Do they know?”
“Know what?”
“About your car,” she whistled quietly between her teeth.
“Not unless they’re magically tracking me by the pixie dust that spills out of my ass. It’s down there,” I said, as if I might’ve somehow parked it on the shingles where we stood. Lest that be the last idiotic thought ringing through Sister Rose’s ears, I added, “We have to go down and get it.” Because I didn’t plan to carry the bulky queen anywhere. It’d scarcely be any faster than hobbling around in high heels. Behind the wheel, I could get us out and clear at eighty miles per hour, if it came down to it. “Besides, they’re looking for two … woman-shaped people on foot. Let’s go get my wheels and scramble their assumptions.”
“Okay. We’ll split up and do that.”
“Are you crazy?” I demanded, a smidge too loud. “Don’t you ever watch any horror movies?”
“They can’t chase us both.”
“Yes they can. There’s two of them.”
“Look, they’ve called for backup,” she said, indicating the two men below. “They’re going to hang together until backup arrives. They won’t divide to chase us.”
She sounded pretty confident of this fact—confident enough to risk her life. So I replied, “Fine. I’ll go get the car.” I jacked a thumb to the west. “And I’ll pick you up …?”
“Down at the diner, as originally planned.” I detected an accusatory scowl, and ignored it. “Give me five minutes.”
“Five minutes?”
She reconsidered. “Three. And you’d better be there. What kind of car?”
“Dark blue pseudo-cop-car. Crown Vic.”
“Fantastic,” she said, and I couldn’t tell if she meant it or if she was being bitchy.
“Three minutes,” I repeated.
“Three minutes,” she said back.
And on the count of three we each dove in a different direction and went leaping, scattering, splashing down off the roof.
I shudder to note that I was the one doing the splashing.
Barefoot and now stinking of something homeless people do in public, I hightailed it around the corner and down the block—without bothering to pretend like I was just an ordinary lady, dressed somewhat sluttily, barefoot, and running for her life from a rapist or carjacker or something. No way.
I ran full-tilt, bumping into the late-night (or early-morning) clubgoers hard enough