Gabby exited the crowded department store wondering when businesses had started playing Christmas music in November. Not that she didn’t enjoy the season’s hustle and bustle all wrapped in the nostalgic flutter of lights and decorations, but she hadn’t even started thawing the Thanksgiving turkey yet.
She glanced behind her, an impulse that was quickly becoming a habit. While her meeting with Mickey Chandler had left her frustrated that the government wasn’t interested in getting involved like she’d hoped, putting a plausible name to her target had only added to the realness of her fears. But even so, she had no intentions of living her life dictated by a string of threats, even it was only a quick stop by the mall on her way home. Her father hadn’t allowed fear to run his life. Neither would she.
She stopped at the edge of the wrought-iron railing that overlooked the bottom level of the mall and eyed her surroundings. Breathing in deeply, she let the canned music playing over the sound system and the smell of cinnamon soak in—which only managed to leave her craving cinnamon rolls from the vender two stores down.
Tightening her hold on her black-velvet dress hanging neatly from a hanger and tucked inside plastic, she watched the shoppers and tried to relax. Sabrina had made her promise she’d do one thing for herself today, and there was nothing like a new outfit to lift her melancholy mood. While the black number hadn’t been on her shopping list, discovering she could slip into a size smaller had cinched the deal and made the past six grueling months at the gym worth it.
Something gnawed on the edges of her mind and snapped her back to the present. Years of reporting and journalism had turned her into an observer of people, which meant ignoring instinct was no longer possible. A man stood in the shadows, talking on a cell phone … and watching her. Cropped hair, blue jeans, and nondescript T-shirt. Maybe she was only paranoid, but she knew she’d seen him before. At the food court an hour ago when she’d bought a cappuccino, and later when she’d left the gift shop with a small basket of soaps for her mother’s birthday.
A familiar wave of panic gushed through her, but she shook it off. Her reaction was nothing more than plain old paranoia from all that had happened the last week. E-mail threats and phone calls were one thing. It didn’t mean a sniper was aiming a bullet at her. And besides, what journalist hadn’t received a threat or two in his or her lifetime?
Determined to enjoy the rest of her afternoon, she moved in front of a jewelry store to study a pair of black onyx drop earrings that caught her eye. The spendy pair was nestled in a bed of fake snow and was certainly more than she wanted to splurge on, but they would go perfectly with the dress. She weighed her options. The first article in her series had just been published, which gave her plenty of reasons to celebrate. She eyed the rest of the display case. A pair of purple tanzanite earrings sat in the top corner. Gabby felt her throat tighten. Six months ago, she wouldn’t have thought twice about buying the stunning earrings on a whim.
But then she’d met Samuel.
Samuel was twelve, but barely looked eight or nine. He spent his days sifting through the sand for the sought-after gem in exchange for one meal a day. His mother sold vegetables at the nearby market, and when that wasn’t enough to feed them, she subsidized her meager income through prostitution.
Gabby’s fingertips touched the surface of the glass before she turned and hurried toward the nearest exit and the parking lot with her purchases, any joy in shopping lost. Outside, sounds of traffic from the busy street adjacent to the mall greeted her. Standing next to a donation bucket, a bundled-up volunteer rang his bell while the dreary skyline showed signs of the evening’s forecasted storm.
She rummaged through her purse, dumped a handful of change into the red bucket, then pulled her coat tighter around her to block the icy wind. For a moment she wished for the clear, blue skies of Africa. No matter what tragedies she’d witnessed, there would always be that mysterious pull to the continent where her father had been born and raised. The openness and friendliness of its people had dredged up longings for community that were hard to find in the hectic pace of this city. And with that same longing had come a measure of hope that things would one day be different.
Her fingertips where numb by the time she found her car. She clicked the fob on her keychain and popped open the trunk. Her father had to be right. One person could make a difference—one person at a time. It was enough to keep her going.
He attacked from behind.
Gabby felt the air rush from her lungs as her assailant tried to shove her into the trunk. She blocked her fall with her arms, then swung around and slammed her elbow into this throat. knocking him off balance. He wavered, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. In an instant, he’d recovered and pinned her against the car. She swung her fists at the bulky figure, but he was too strong for her. She screamed, but he shoved something into her mouth.
Oh, God, not this way …
Gagging at the pungent scent of gasoline coming from the cloth, her mind fought to focus, because in order to survive she was going to have to fight to win. She caught the glimpse of his gun as he reached for it and countered by thrusting her fingers into his eyes. Her attacker let out a howl as he fell back and grabbed his face.
The gun slid beneath the truck beside her. Her attacker stumbled against the car behind him, one hand still on his face. She now had the few seconds she needed. She slid beneath the truck, skinning her knees in the process, but she didn’t feel a thing. Nor did she have time to think through what she needed to do.
She picked up the gun as he lunged toward her, then aimed and fired. The smell of gunpowder filled her senses as the man dropped to the ground. She let the gun clatter beneath her, while a pool of red liquid formed beneath him on the cold, gray pavement.
She couldn’t move. How many times had she reported on gunshot victims and murders in the past? She’d interviewed those very same victims’ families and even the murderers themselves, but she’d never aimed a gun at a person. Never shot a man.
The insistent shrill of a car alarm brought her back to the scene. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and stared at the blurred numbers.
“Miss, are you all right?”
Gabby tried to answer the woman standing beside her, but she couldn’t speak.
“You’re bleeding.”
“He … he attacked me …” She looked down at her hands. They were stained with blood.
“It looks as if you have a cut on your head. I think you’ll be fine, but you need to go to the hospital.” The woman led her away from the car … and the body that lay there. “My husband’s just called 911. Is there anyone else I can call for you? A boyfriend or husband?”
“I don’t know … I …”
Gabby tried to concentrate, but she couldn’t think. Her head felt as if it were about to explode. Hands trembling, she knew what she had to do.
She pulled out Mickey Chandler’s business card from the side pocket and handed it to the woman. “I need you to call this man. Tell him it’s an emergency.”