On Midnight Wings

Heather’s fingers curled around the sink’s cool, wet edge. He’d cuff her to a chair the moment she stepped from the bathroom. No way he’d leave her able to move around while he was using the john.

A moment later, the front door thunked shut, then Heather heard a car engine roaring to life out in the parking lot. Her pulse kicked into high gear. She and Roberts were alone.

Leaving the faucet running to camouflage any noise, she sidled over to the coffeemaker. She carefully pulled the carafe free. Water would give it more heft, but he would hear her filling it up. And that would put him on alert. Bring him into the doorway, Taser already in hand.

No water. She couldn’t risk it.

Heather tightened her grip on the carafe’s handle and leaned against the threshold, angling her body to hide the carafe. Roberts sat at the desk, checking his cell phone for messages.

“Okay, it’s all yours,” she said, pleased that her voice remained level despite the tension thrumming through her body. “And in your case? Please feel free to close the door.”

“Ha-ha. Another comedian.”

“By the way, the faucet won’t turn off. At least, I can’t get it to turn off.”

“Christ,” Roberts muttered. “Damned cheap motels.” He stuffed his cell phone into a jacket pocket, then rose to his feet and headed for the bathroom.

Heart drumming, Heather watched his approach. “Maybe you should just call the manager,” she suggested.

“Oh sure, you’d like that, huh?” Roberts said as he reached the doorway. “Give you a chance to claim you’d been kidnapped—”

Heather swung up the carafe and slammed it into the SB agent’s temple. His words cut off and he staggered back a step, expression stunned, pained. She immediately clocked him again, then a third time. Roberts stumbled backward, then fell hard on his ass. Blood smeared his temple, dripped down to his jaw. A thick, coppery odor threaded into the air.

Heather lifted the blood-smeared carafe for a fourth blow, but the handle snapped off, sending it rolling across the carpet. Roberts, dazed and blinking, scrabbled for the Taser clipped at his belt. Or for his gun.

Roberts was supposed to bring her in alive, of that much Heather was sure. But given his current pummeled-by-a-coffee-carafe state, she had a suspicion that might be a hard fact for him to hold on to.

A snap-kick to the chin knocked Roberts flat and clacked his teeth together. His head lolled to the side, eyes closed, out cold. Pulse roaring in her ears, Heather bent and fumbled both his Taser and Glock free from their holsters.

A quick search of his jacket produced the handcuffs key. She quickly freed herself, then cuffed Roberts to a leg of the nearest gold comforter-draped bed. Scrambling to her feet, Heather tucked the Glock into her jeans at the small of her back, covering it with her sweater, but kept the Taser in hand.

She hurried over to the desk and picked up Roberts’s cell phone. She could call Annie, then speak to Von, but she didn’t want to remain here while she did. And taking it with her would be too risky. GPS, sure, but she had no idea what else SB agents might have attached to their phones.

Heather tossed the cell back onto the desk. Nope. Not worth the risk. She’d rather try her luck at borrowing a phone from a friendly stranger. Outside, a diesel engine rumbled, the sound vibrating like a heavy bass note into the room.

Roberts groaned. Stirred.

Time to go.

Heather unlocked the door, then raced out into the chilly night air, teeth gritted against the bolt of pain from her ankle. She slowed to a limping walk when she saw the bus—ALL SAINTS GOSPEL TOUR!—in the parking lot and the presumed saints climbing down from it, trudging wearily to the manager’s office. The pungent odors of diesel fuel and exhaust permeated the air.

Suddenly aware of the Taser she held, Heather stuffed it into the front of her jeans, underneath her sweater. She kept walking, edging toward the parking lot’s shadows as she wiped cold sweat from her forehead and combed her fingers through her hair in an attempt to look normal. Nonmemorable.

A vehicle turned into the parking lot, its halogen headlights blinding Heather with blue-infused brilliance. The relief she felt when she realized it was a car and not the rented SUV the SB agents were driving died quickly. The car steered past the bus and the little knots of people from the bus and pulled alongside her.

Heather halted, pulse pounding in her throat, and pulled the Glock free from the back of her jeans. She held the gun at her side, ready to swing it up, if necessary.

A window hummed down.

“Wallace,” a woman said. Faint Italian accent. A voice Heather recognized.

“Cortini,” Heather breathed. “How the hell did you find me?” Not that it mattered, she wasn’t about to look a gift assassin in the mouth. This time her relief was so intense, it nearly took her knees out from under her.

Caterina shrugged. “SB agents on an expense account are very predictable. Let’s get you out of here before reinforcements arrive.”