Instead of repeating the two-day drive back to Wilmington, Taylor made arrangements to leave the car at the Miami airport and caught a flight out the following afternoon. She had driven to the Keys so that Burdett, or anyone else who might be following her, wouldn’t have the easy convenience of a paper trail to follow. Now that she’d concluded her business, the fact that her name would register on a flight manifest was no longer a problem.
When she stepped into her apartment, her answering machine was flashing and her phone was ringing. It was Burdett, and he wasn’t happy. She hadn’t informed them that she was leaving town after he had authorized extra protection. He was more than happy to supply the protection—they were there to support her—but she had to cooperate.
Taylor understood Burdett’s view perfectly, but that didn’t change her reality.
After a restless night, she showered and dressed, shrugged into the shoulder holster and slipped on a fresh jacket. Checking the load on the Glock, she placed it in the holster.
She made coffee, then grimaced when she discovered the milk had gone sour. Emptying the milk into the sink, she spooned sugar into her cup instead and drank the coffee black while she did an inventory of the cupboards. She was reluctant to leave the apartment complex, but she was almost out of food, which meant she had to shop.
After loading laundry into the washing machine and discovering that she didn’t have washing powder, either, she added that to her list, locked the apartment and strolled to the front gate. One of Burdett’s men waved at her as she stepped out onto the sidewalk and relief channeled through her. Despite Burdett’s annoyance, he hadn’t canceled the security detail.
She waved back and kept walking, but her response to Burdett’s security had made up her mind. Wilmington was supposed to be her refuge, but not any longer. Somehow, despite all the precautions, her security had been compromised. When Burdett had calmed down she would request a new placement, and tighter security. If Burdett didn’t listen, she would call Bayard and keep calling until she got results.
The beach was still crowded, the roads crammed with tanned couples holding hands, kids wearing fluorescent shorts and eating ice cream, but Taylor couldn’t relax. There were plenty of tall, dark men around, but none wearing spectacles. She studied faces, but dark glasses distorted appearance to a degree that she had to accept that even if she looked directly at the man who had been following her, she wouldn’t recognize him.
She walked into the nearest mall, found a supermarket and bought the few items she needed. Without a car, she couldn’t carry much so she kept her purchases to basics: fresh milk, salad vegetables, wholegrain bread and washing powder. There was no point in loading up with food when she would be leaving Wilmington.
When she stepped out of the mall, she slipped dark glasses on, studied the queue of tourists lined up waiting for cabs and decided she would get home faster walking. Crossing the road, she threaded her way through a parking lot. As she stepped onto the sidewalk, light flashed from one of the apartment balconies overhanging the street. A flicker of movement drew her eye, another flash, and for a disorienting moment she was transported to a cold, gray street in D.C., ice and rain forming a misty murk, and shiny dents in stainless steel. She was already moving when lettuce and wholegrain bread exploded and, for the second time in less than two months, she hit the sidewalk.
The Glock in one hand and dragging her handbag, which contained her cell phone, she crawled behind the nearest cover, a shiny black convertible. Her right forearm was burning where the bullet must have grazed her. Blood had already soaked her jacket sleeve and was steadily dripping, making her grip on the gun slippery.
A metallic pop split the air and a sideview mirror shattered. Her arms jerked up, shielding her face, but it was too late. Her skin stung where shards of glass had either cut her or become embedded.
Long seconds passed while she waited for the next shot. When it didn’t come, she risked checking out the direction the shots had originated from. Above street level, floor space was mostly given over to apartments with balconies, and in the balmy weather a lot of doors and windows were open. The flash of light she’d seen had most likely come from a telescopic sight. She knew the general location, but she couldn’t pinpoint the exact balcony.
Staying low, she fumbled in her bag, found her cell phone and dialed emergency services. Normally she would have the local police department on speed dial, but with a new identity, and living in a strange city, she hadn’t thought she would need that particular number.
The operator picked up and began taking details. Blood dripped from her wrist, soaking into her clothes and forming a small, viscous puddle on the asphalt as she answered questions.
The operator’s voice was soothing. “Stay calm, ma’am. We’ll have someone with you shortly.”
“I am calm.” But she wasn’t. Her voice sounded hollow, as if she were talking into a drum, and adrenaline kept kicking through in spurts, making her shake.
A horrified gasp jerked her head up. She registered the wide-eyed stare of a slim, tanned woman wearing tennis whites.
Unclenching her teeth, she motioned for the woman to get down. “It’s okay. I’ve been shot, but I think he’s gone.”
But it wasn’t okay. Whoever had shot her had wanted to hit her. They had fired at least twice.
She dialed Burdett, then hung up when she spotted one of his men crouched behind a car near the entrance of the parking lot, talking into a radio. She had been aware that he had followed her, keeping a discreet distance, but she hadn’t seen him since she had entered the mall.
The woman, who was now huddled down by the back wheel of the car, stared blankly at her face. Taylor didn’t bother checking. She could feel the stiffening of her skin where the blood from the cuts had dried. If her face looked anything like her arm, she was a mess.
Across the parking lot, she could see people strolling in the sun and loading groceries into their cars. Seconds later, the sound of a siren cut the air. The medics took a little longer, which was a crying shame.
It was weird, but in contrast to being shot in the chest, the shallow crease across her forearm hurt like hell.