38

Salem, Massachusetts

Bel leapt forward, grabbed the assailant’s wrist, and twisted it as she ducked under in a move that reminded Salem of square dancing. They’d learned the basics in a middle school gym class, except in Bel’s current version, she kept moving underneath and behind, twisting the man’s arm to the point where Salem could hear the sinew protesting, at which point Bel shoved the sharp side of her foot into the back of his knee, pushed in and down, and used her weight to pin him long enough to yank her Glock out of its holster and press it deep into his temple.

“Don’t!” A girl no more than seven, all jutting bones and greasy hair, jumped from the shadows and pushed Bel, oblivious to the gun and the danger. “Don’t be mean to my brother!” She beat Bel with her tiny fists.

“Ernest?” Salem asked, recognizing the lanky man in Bel’s grip. “Bel, let him go.”

“Not until he tells us what he’s doing here. And get the kid offa me.” A car motored by slowly, the driver certainly wondering at the tableau of Bel overpowering 6'7" Ernest while being pummeled by a little girl.

Salem reached toward the child, but the girl moved to the other side of Bel, just out of Salem’s reach.

“Don’t hurt her!” Ernest’s voice was tight with panic, his flesh white from the pain of Bel’s hold. He jerked his head toward the girl, whose face was streaked with tears and dirt. “I think they’re after her.” She was still pounding Bel but hadn’t the strength to do damage. “Mercy, stop it.”

The girl paused, stepping around front so she was face to face with Bel. Her eyes were wide, scared, their lashes impossibly long. “Will you let him go?”

Bel didn’t answer.

Ernest tried again. “I need to get out of town to protect Mercy. You two need to get out of town to save your own lives. The Hermitage Foundation sicced one of their best assassins on you, and the FBI is in Salem too. No telling whose side they’re on today. I figure you have sixty seconds before one or both locates you here.”

Bel ground her knee into his back. He grunted.

“Bel!” Salem said.

“Fifty seconds.” His jaw was clenched. “No way can you get a car rented in that time. Even if you did, it’d be traceable. We can take mine.”

“That’s as traceable as a rental,” Bel barked.

“But it’s not tied to you two.” He glanced away from Mercy, who was twisting a soft-looking blanket in her hands. “And anyhow, it’s not mine.”

“Stolen?”

“Yes,” he said. “Forty seconds.”

Bel glanced at Salem.

“Please,” the little girl begged, turning to Salem. With her huge eyes and wringing hands, she reminded Salem of a Keane painting.

“You don’t have to trust me,” Ernest said. “You don’t even have to like me. Just get in my car, let’s drive somewhere safe, and I can explain the rest. You know you can overpower me if you need to. You’ve done it twice.”

Still, Bel paused.

“Thirty seconds,” he pleaded. His upper body was trembling from the pain of Bel’s hold. “That old brown sedan over there is mine. We can still get out of this.”

“Go. Now!” Bel holstered her gun, released him, and all four of them raced to the car.