Though she hadn’t heard any more gunshots since the near-miss by the Volkswagen, Val chose a careful path back toward the building where she’d spotted the shooter minutes before. She dashed from one parked car to the next, pausing and surveying the scene and planning the next move before taking any step that would expose her to the line of fire. It took extra time, but kept her alive.
So far.
Val reached the edge of the parking lot, then the curb, where cars sat at metered spots down to the intersection. At the last vehicle, a small Toyota pickup truck unscathed by gunfire, she peered up and down both streets, both empty of traffic because of the melee. Still, the lack of busy-ness at midday felt unnerving to her, even in a strange city.
From where she hid behind the Toyota, the building where the shooter had perched sat catty corner from her. Stopped vehicles choked the alley running along the side of the building. No doubt their drivers parked and fled once the shooting started. Not much activity there.
Except…
About a third of the way up the alley, a white delivery van sat at the curb, blocked in by cars clogging the street. Right outside an emergency exit door. The truck resembled the one she’d seen in the jewelry store’s video from the last shooting in Clayton.
Interesting coincidence, for someone who didn’t believe in coincidences.
The “Walk” light at the corner changed to a blinking red “Don’t Walk.” As good a sign as any it was time to make her move.
Val gripped Gil’s .22 high in both hands, clammy from sweat. She dashed across the three-lane street, then across the alley. She sidled up to the driver’s side of the delivery truck, the side facing the street. Working up her nerve, she glanced in the window. No one visible inside. No faces staring back at her. She sighed in relief.
She slithered toward the rear. Peeked around. Clear. Listened for movement inside the truck. None.
She slid against the rear bumper to the split in the doors. Glanced down at the white lettering, giving the truck ID in the state transportation database. Whipped out her phone, opened the photo gallery, found the one she’d snapped from the video. Then the one the forensics folks sent from Stevie’s truck. Neither matched this one.
Then, peering closer, she detected a raised edge, the thickness of a bumper sticker, surrounding the Truck ID lettering. One corner curled out, its glue unable to adhere to the metal door. Val tugged at it, and with a little effort, the thin plastic decal peeled away from the paint underneath, revealing a different set of letters and numbers.
They matched the ID forensics took from Stevie Ray’s truck.
Val continued toward the corner against the curb, her back against the truck’s rear doors, legs resting against the bumper. She peeked around, saw only sidewalk. Then the truck vibrated against her thighs, more than once. Footsteps, getting softer. Inside, heading toward the cockpit up front.
Then the footsteps stopped.
She took a deep breath, let it out, breathed in again, and spun around the side, gun facing forward in both hands—
And came face to face with Stevie Ray, crouched in a shooter’s pose on the sidewalk.
As soon as Dawes showed herself around the side of the truck, Stafford squeezed the trigger on his Sig Sauer.
Nothing. He’d forgotten to slide the safety off.
“Drop it,” Dawes said, her pistol aimed at his chest.
Dammit! Twice now he’d had her dead to rights, and both times he’d failed. What is with this woman?
However, she wouldn’t know that his safety was on. No way she could tell from there. Time to play it cool.
“Valorie.” Stafford stood and lowered his aim a few inches, pointed at her chest. Each had a clear view of the other.
He had a clear view of her tits.
Jesus! What was she wearing on top? A sheer white underwear sort of thing, almost see-through. Nothing left to the imagination.
Valorie Dawes dressed that way for him.
Stafford smiled. “You came for me. I knew you would.”
That didn’t get the reaction he expected. Puzzlement spread all over her face. “What a pity,” she said. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
He stared at her hard nipples, and they stared right back at him. Predictable reactions started in his groin. “It’s our destiny to be together today,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Can’t you see?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if you don’t drop your weapon right now—”
“Of course.” Stafford lowered his weapon further, aimed more or less at her waist. “Sorry for pointing my gun at you. You startled me.” He smiled. “I love what you’re wearing.”
Dawes shivered, glancing down for a moment. At her chest? Did she not realize she was half-naked?
She took a step toward him. For a split second, he imagined her dropping her weapon, placing her hand on his shoulder, pulling him close, her lips parting—
Stafford regained concentration, focused on her face. Saw no desire there—only determination. Bitch!
He raised his Sig Sauer again. His hands shook, and a drop of salty sweat tickled the corner of his mouth. “Stop right there, or I’ll shoot. I don’t want to, but I will.”
“Stevie,” Dawes said, her tone pleading. “Listen to me. Let me help you. There doesn’t have to be any more death. We can end all of this.”
“All of what?” Did she mean this standoff? Or this moment of intimacy between them?
Or—did she know?
He cocked his head, then tossed it in the general direction of the abortion clinic. “You mean—? Oh, Valorie. I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong idea. You believe I did all that?” He laughed. “You think I have that in me?”
Say yes, Valorie. Stafford so wanted her to tell him she recognized what he was capable of, and respected him for it.
“Put down your weapon and we can talk about it.”
“I thought you were here to save me. Superhero cop Valorie Dawes to the rescue.” Stafford smiled. “But don’t worry, I can protect myself. You go on ahead and catch the guy. I’ll wait here, where it’s safe.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you drop your weapon.”
“Drop yours first,” he said. “I mean, what if you’re the shooter?”
“Seriously?” Dawes took another half-step toward him. Their raised weapons rested in their respective palms only a few feet apart.
Too close.
For her.
Years of self-defense training prepared him for a moment like this, including three years in the Army and four in hand-to-hand mixed martial arts combat. Training that taught him how to disarm an opponent, using the element of surprise.
Stafford lifted his weapon back to eye level, drawing her attention upward. Where he wanted it.
A vicious kick, toe digging hard into the heel of her gun hand, sent her weapon flying. His foot came down in her midsection, knocking her backwards to the ground. His body followed, landing knee-first on her chest, and in an instant, he flicked his safety off, the barrel of his Sig Sauer pointed between her beautiful hazel eyes. “Don’t move,” he said.
Dawes lay still, taking labored breaths beneath his weight, hands palm-up on the sidewalk next to her head.
He could end her right there. It would be so easy.
Except that it wasn’t easy at all. Those pretty eyes stared at him with a touch of fear and an equal measure of defiance. Her fine, light-brown hair lay against her unblemished pale skin. He recalled watching her at the dojo and at the MMA gym, her lithe body moving with determination and grace. He’d longed to be near her—even more, in this moment, than he’d ever wanted Nora. And here he was, his body touching hers. Almost laying on top of her. It would be such a shame to lose her like this.
“Valorie,” he said. “You know I love you.”
Her eyes widened. “Stevie,” she said, her voice soft. “Oh, Stevie.”
“I’ve wondered whether you loved me, too.”
After a long moment, she smiled. Genuine happiness showed on her face. “Stevie, you know without me saying it how much I love you.”
“Really?” Stafford pulled the Sig back an inch or two. “You mean it?”
“Of course. You’re right. I came here to make sure you were safe. I’m so relieved. But Stevie, the shooter—”
“Don’t worry about that right now,” he said. “I just need you to say it again. The actual words, ‘I love you.’ Say it.”
“Of course. Stevie, I—”
“Don’t use that name.” That stupid nickname he’d given himself when he started over, adopting a cute rock and roll persona to impress the girls. But which girls? Not the air-headed Stacys, who couldn’t tell Stevie Ray Vaughn from Stevie Nicks. Why bother to impress the Beckys, the desperate girls willing to sleep even with him?
“What name should I call you?” she asked, her tone soft and inviting.
“Stafford. Call me Stafford.”
“Okay.” Recognition dawned on her face. Yes! She’d suspected all along that he had a deeper side, a more complex depth to him than the silly boy she saw at the dojo. “Stafford. I…I—”
“Wait.” He couldn’t waste this moment. He had to be sure. “I want you to say it in front of him.”
“Him? Who? Tank?”
Stafford laughed. “Tank? Why in God’s name would I care about him witnessing this? No, Valorie. Not Tank. Him.”
“Him who?” Dawes blinked a few times. Pure innocence in her face.
“The man you’ve pretended to love. While you waited for the right man.” He smiled, waited for her to smile back.
After a moment, she did. “You mean Gil?”
Her tone, so disapproving, so disdainful. So convincing. He almost let her go.
Almost.
She blinked again. “Gil’s not here. He’s—”
“Come with me.” Stafford took his weight off, stood, waved her up, weapon still pointed at her. “Get in.”
“The truck?” Dawes, hands raised, glanced at the vehicle. “Why? We can’t go anywhere. You’re blocked in.”
“If you say it again, where he can hear, I’ll believe you,” he said.
“Say it where?” Then the realization hit her, visible on her face. “You have Gil? Inside the truck?”
“This moment,” he continued, his body flooding with frightful desire, “is ours.”
He waved her around to the back of the truck, staying one step behind her. When she stopped behind the bumper, he opened the door and waved her in.
She clambered inside.