One Rough Man - Brad Taylor [120]
Her mind clicked on where Pike was headed, snapping her eyes back open. He might think Kurt was a peach of a guy, but she wasn’t so sure. Yeah, Pike was a one-man wrecking crew, but what if he was moving into a trap laid by a bunch of guys just as good as him? He wouldn’t even recognize it because of the trust he placed in the Taskforce. She grabbed her phone and dialed his number. She listened to it ring in her ear, then realized she could hear it ringing in his room as well. She jumped out of bed and went to his room through the connecting door. She saw his phone on the nightstand next to his bed.
“Damn it!”
She ran back to her room, ripping through her clothes in an attempt to get dressed before he got on the elevator. She left the room bare-footed, running to the foyer, but Pike had already gone down.
HEADING TOWARD CLARENDON, I realized I had run out of the hotel so hastily I’d left without my cell phone. Stupid, stupid mistake.
Not only could Kurt not contact me for anything, such as changing the meeting time or location, but I couldn’t make sure that Jennifer was safe. I thought about returning for it, but knew I didn’t have the time. If I missed this meeting with Kurt, I might not get another chance.
By the time I got to the Orange Line I saw I was running late, causing me to worry about missing Kurt. He had stressed he had little time. Should’ve never gone into Jennifer’s room. I paced back and forth, staring at my watch every few seconds like that would speed things up. Finally, the train arrived.
Luckily, the Court House stop was the first one past Rossyln. I exited the train at a trot. Glancing at my watch, I saw it was 11:03. Shit. Kurt’s probably already called. Probably leaving Four Courts right now. I broke into a run.
Exiting the Court House stop I could see the Four Courts pub about a hundred meters away on Wilson Boulevard. Two people were outside it, neither of them Kurt. If he had left in the last couple of minutes, I should be able to see him. Maybe he’s still there. I waited for the light to change, allowing me to cross the street. After two seconds, I had had enough of waiting. A break in traffic presented itself, and I sprinted across. I continued to the entrance at a fast walk, straining to see if Kurt left the pub.
My attention was jerked to the street by a car swinging onto Wilson Boulevard at a high rate of speed, tires squealing fast enough to produce smoke. I saw the car immediately slow down, the right side window lowering.
I watched a man wearing a ski mask stick his head out, looking like an IRA terrorist in Belfast. What the hell? I stopped walking, processing the scene and preparing to react. The man stuck a Heckler and Koch MP5 out the window, aiming it at a couple to my front. He let the MP5 rip, spraying the front of Four Courts with rounds. Both the man and woman were hit instantly, spinning and falling to the ground.
Time stretched out, moving at half speed. I assessed my options and realized I was in serious trouble. I was standing in front of the plate-glass window of Four Courts with no protection in sight, nothing at all to stop the rounds that were about to tear into me. I knew my best bet was an alley to my rear about thirty feet away, but from the time of the first round until now, I computed that I wouldn’t make it there before I was hit.
The man was still spraying rounds on full automatic, the bullets shattering the plate glass to my front, stitching toward me like a sewing machine. I saw the man’s gun hand begin to lose control from the recoil, giving me a sliver of hope. The car continued forward at a slow rate of speed, only fifteen feet away. Take him head-on. If I was wrong,