Shadow of Betrayal

Quinn held on tight, willing the man to remain calm. Just beyond the sidewalk was one of the older parking lots used by LACMA.

“Follow me,” Quinn said.

He guided Primus between the parked cars, then pulled Primus behind a Ford SUV and stopped. Quinn peered through the vehicle’s windows toward the museum. There was no one on the street. The pedestrians had scattered when the attack began.

Since the bullets had come at a downward angle, Quinn scanned the roofline of the Bing Building looking for the other suit. He spotted him almost at once. The man was hidden behind one of the small concrete blocks that decorated the roofline. But either he was a lousy shot, or he’d just reached the roof as Quinn and Primus began crossing the street and was rushed.

“That was meant for me, wasn’t it?” Primus said.

Quinn glanced over, then followed Primus’s gaze back toward the street.

The woman who had been hit was leaning against the back side of a large metal utility box near the corner. It was just big enough to shield her and the man with her from the shooter. The man, her husband perhaps, was talking to her as he pressed his hand down on her wound. She seemed to still be conscious, but she would need medical attention very soon.

“I think it might have been meant for both of us,” Quinn said.

He looked back at the roof where the assassin had been, but he was gone.

Sirens, dozens of them, wailed their way toward LACMA. The assassin would have heard them sooner up where he had been, and realized it was time to cut out.

“Let’s go,” Quinn said. He started to turn, but Primus stopped him.

“We’re going to get shot!” he said.

“He’s gone,” Quinn told him.

“Gone?” Primus glanced at the building, then back at Quinn. “How can you be sure?”

“You hear the sirens?”

The man nodded.

“He’s gone. Now come on.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“I was right about getting you the hell out of there, wasn’t I?” Quinn said.

Primus looked at Quinn for a moment, then nodded.

Fearing the whole museum complex, including the parking lots across the street, would go into lockdown the moment the police arrived, Quinn led Primus into the neighborhood farther south of Wilshire, then over to Olympic before heading west toward Fairfax.

He found what he was looking for near the intersection with San Vicente Boulevard. Another parking lot, this one serving a Shakey’s Pizza at one end and a Starbucks Coffee at the other. There was enough room for maybe forty cars, not huge but big enough.

Quinn concentrated on the cars behind the pizza parlor. The restaurant had no windows along the back, so he could work unobserved. And since it was only a little after noon, most of the car owners would most likely be in the middle of their meals and not returning soon.

It took him under a minute to find a car that was open.

“Get in,” he said to Primus.

“You’re going to steal a car?” the man asked like it was the crime of the year.

“Get in,” Quinn said. His tone left no room for further conversation.

Primus climbed in through the driver’s door, then maneuvered himself over the center console and into the passenger seat. Quinn followed him in and closed the door.

“Belt up,” he said as soon as he got the engine running.

“You’ve done this before,” the man said.

“Once or twice.”

Quinn dropped the transmission into reverse, and looked out the rear window as he began to back up. Their new ride was only halfway out of its space when two men came around the corner of the building. Young guys, in slacks and dress shirts. They came to a dead stop at the sight of the car pulling out of the space.

“Shit,” Quinn said.

“What?”

Quinn didn’t have time to answer. He hit the accelerator, whipping the car the rest of the way out of the space, just missing the passenger van parked in the next spot. There was a moment’s pause as Quinn shoved the car into drive, and the two men continued to stare at them. Then they all began to move at once, the car and the two men.

The men were able to pull level with the rear fender as Quinn reached the exit, but that was as close as they got. Quinn swung to the right and sped off down an apartment-lined street. In his rearview mirror, he could see the men give up running.

But not the chase, Quinn thought as he saw one of them pull out a cell phone.

Quinn zigzagged through the streets, moving south, then west, then south until they reached Venice Boulevard. He headed west, keeping pace with other cars and blending in. Soon they would be in Culver City, an independent city with its own police force. A stolen car from Los Angeles would not be high on the priority list of the Culver City PD.

He glanced over at his passenger. Primus had sweat beading on his brow and balding dome. His right hand was rubbing the spot on his left arm Quinn had been holding on to, a grimace of pain on his face.

“You all right?” Quinn asked.

“Fine,” the man said.

“Good. We agree on that,” Quinn said, knowing Primus would have been dead without him.