Playing Dead_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [123]
“Frank!”
There was no answer from the backseat. Steve spared a glance in the rearview mirror. There was a lot of blood against the rear passenger side window.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
The killer did a 180 at the T-intersection and passed Steve as he escaped back onto the freeway.
Steve leapt from the car, gun out, blood pouring from his wound. Traffic had stopped on the major thorough-fare, and a scream pierced the air. From this angle, he couldn’t see which of three possible directions the killer went.
The entire hit took seventy seconds.
Steve could smell gas leaking from his car. He crawled over to the door, opened it. Frank Lowe fell out, blood pouring from his chest and a head wound. Steve unlocked the handcuffs, pulled him away from the car. He stripped off Frank’s shirt, assessed the damage. Two holes, one next to the other, in Frank’s upper chest. The bullet to his head had taken off one ear and a chunk of his scalp.
“Come on, Frank!”
Frank was breathing too rapidly, his pulse racing. Steve applied pressure to the wounds, but blood seeped through his fingers. Frank was trying to talk, but couldn’t. Then his body convulsed and he was gone.
Steve stared at the dead witness. No, no, no!
A car skidded behind his. Steve held his gun on the driver.
It was Matt Elliott, the county’s district attorney.
“Donovan!” Elliott ran to the bloody scene and felt for Frank’s pulse. His lips tightened, and he turned to Steve. “You need to lie down.”
“He came out of nowhere.”
“You’ve been shot.”
“He’s dead.”
“Did you see the shooter?”
Steve ran through those seconds. “He wore a mask. Ski mask in the middle of May. Late-model Ford Tempo. Black. 5THH. I didn’t catch the numbers. There was an 8, but I don’t know in which spot.”
“That’s good. We’ll find the car. Lie down.”
Matt forced Steve to the pavement and applied pressure on his shoulder wound. Steve was fading. The last thing he heard was the D.A. calling for an ambulance and backup.
The last thing he thought was I fucked up big time. I got a witness killed.
THIRTY-FOUR
Tom looked at Nelia. “Is she coming?”
“She said she would be here.”
He needed to see Claire. He might die tonight, and he wanted to see his little girl one more time.
“Nelia?”
“I’m right here.”
“I love you.”
“I know. I love you too, Tom. You’re going to be fine.”
“I don’t know.”
He’d been in more pain than he’d told her. He hadn’t wanted her to worry, but this morning he couldn’t walk. His right leg was nearly paralyzed. He could feel everything, but he couldn’t move it. She’d been indignant that the FBI had interviewed him while he was being poked and prodded and subjected to X-rays and a multitude of tests. But Tom didn’t mind. They were listening to him. Really listening, and that meant everything. Someone cared about the truth.
The doctor said the bullet had been lodged in muscle near the spine. It had slowly moved over the past few months until it impinged on the nerves to his right leg. If he didn’t have surgery immediately, he’d be partially paralyzed, and in the coming weeks he’d be dead since, as the bullet shifted, it had moved precariously close to his liver.
“Tom.”
He turned to Nelia. She stared down at him with love and compassion and worry.
“They believed you,” she said.
A weight lifted off his chest. “You think so?” he whispered.
She nodded, ran a hand over his forehead as if he were a child. “They know you’re innocent. Be strong in there. I need you.”
He clasped her hand. “I love you. If—if it doesn’t work, tell Claire I’ve never blamed her for any of this, that I love her.”
Nelia’s voice cracked. “I will.”
“Mr. O’Brien?” The doctor came in. “We’re ready.”
“Five more minutes?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not.”
“I’ll be here when you’re done,” Nelia said.
The nurse injected something into his IV, shifted the bed he was on, and started rolling it out of the room, down the hall . . .
“Wait!”
That sounded like Agent Elliott, whom