She stared up at him, her breath turning white in the cold, mingling with his.
Bud came up beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Okay, hon,” He said. “Get in the lead car and—“
“She’s coming with me.” John’s tone was non-negotiable as he spoke to Bud over her head. “I’ll drive her downtown. She’s not getting out of my sight. Not for a second.”
Bud stared at him and John glared back. Bud’s shoulders lifted. “Okay. It doesn’t make that much difference who drives her. We need to talk to you, too, anyway, as you can imagine. You know the address of headquarters?”
John nodded.
“Wait,” Suzanne said. “My house.” The intruder had broken her alarm system. Her building was vulnerable. “We can’t just leave it like this.”
John understood and squeezed her waist. “The police will post a guard. Nothing will happen to your house.” He speared Bud with a hard look. “Will it?”
Bud’s mouth lifted in a half smile. “Yeah, okay, sure. I can spare an agent, and of course we’re putting up police tape. No one will touch your house. You’ll find all your knickknacks when you get back, or Claire will have my head. It’ll still be Fong—” he hesitated.
“Feng Shui.” Suzanne tried to smile past her sadness. It wasn’t true. Her wonderful home, which she’d labored over and dreamed about and worked on, wasn’t Feng Shui any more, wasn’t in tune with wind and water. The harmony of her home had been broken, the energy shattered. Her refuge had been violated. She wondered if she would ever feel safe there again.
“Right. Whatever.” Bud watched the body being lifted up into a van which had pulled up to the curb. “Let’s take this downtown. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.” He looked up at the still-dark sky then down at his watch. It was three a.m. “Or morning. I’ll lead, John. You follow me.”
“This way to the car,” John murmured to her once they were outside the gate. He turned left and she pulled her suitcase behind her. She felt foolish with the wheels trundling along behind her. John hadn’t volunteered why he wanted her to pack a suitcase and she didn’t dare ask him. Not with him so intensely focused on their surroundings. Time enough for that later.
He was scanning the empty night sky, the dark buildings, the deserted streets. But there was nothing to see. It was so late not even the streetwalker twins were out. Or maybe they were in the St. Regis, plying their trade.
As they passed by the dilapidated hotel, she wondered where John’s Yukon was. He’d parked it out of sight, he said. Why couldn’t they take her car? It was working like a dream now, thanks to him.
Car. She slowed. They couldn’t take her car. She’d changed purses this evening and left her driver’s license, together with two charge cards, on her vanity table. That wasn’t good. Even if they posted an officer at the door, it wasn’t smart to keep documents and credit cards out in plain sight. Not to mention the fact that she’d probably need some form of ID at the police station. Suzanne turned back.
It happened all at once.
There was a coughing sound and she felt her cheek sting. Not even a second later John slammed into her, crushing her against the wall, knocking the breath out of her. She tried to get her breath back, to ask him what he was doing, but his broad back squeezed her, hard, against the wall.
His arm lifted and she heard two loud noises, so close together it took her a second to realize there were two reports, so loud they deafened her. She was dazed, pinned against the wall, unable to see past him. She realized with a sense of shock that John had fired into a building. She peered around him, following the direction of his arm. He’d fired into the St. Regis. He’d fired a shot—no, two shots—into a hotel! Good God, he might have killed someone!
“John!” Bud shouted as he came toward them at a dead run. He reached beneath his coat and pulled out a gun as he ran. “What the hell’s the matter with you, man! That’s a hotel! Have you gone crazy?”
John grabbed her arm and pulled her forward, keeping himself between her and the wall. All three of them looked up at the sound of shattered glass and cracking wood. A body leaned out of the broken window frame of a second story room in the St. Regis. It moved slowly at first, then gathered speed as it tumbled to the ground. For a second, a man had been silhouetted against the porch lights and the long deadly rifle in the man’s hand was clearly visible. As was the shattered head, a mass of blood and brains.
Suzanne stood, shocked, and uttered a little cry.
“Come on.” John’s hand pulled at her, hard. He moved quickly and she was forced to keep pace. She slid a little on a patch of ice and he half-lifted her as he steadied her. “That was the second shooter, Bud!” he shouted over his shoulder, running and pulling her along. “Dig the bullet out of the wall if you don’t believe me. You goddamned find out what’s going on, you hear me, man? Until you do, you’re not seeing her again!”
“Wait!” Bud yelled, his voice echoing in the empty street. “Where are you taking her?”
But John had rounded the corner at a run. Suzanne had to work at keeping up, dragging her suitcase. Shocked, shaken, she tripped. Without breaking his stride, John bent and lifted her into his arms, suitcase and all, and continued running. A block down Singer Street she could see the Yukon. He had his remote out, unlocking the doors as he ran. In just a few seconds, he’d shoved her into the passenger seat, rounded the vehicle and taken off with the sound of rubber burning.
Suzanne sobbed once, then with a shudder controlled herself. The last thing John needed at this moment was a hysterical woman. He was driving dangerously fast down the dark streets. His hands were strong on the wheel, but they were going at a speed which would be fatal if they came across another car. His eyes flicked continuously to the rear view and side view mirrors.
“Fasten your seat belt,” he said, his voice calm, remote. Hands trembling, Suzanne did what he said, tucking her suitcase in the footwell so it wouldn’t bounce around.
He gunned through an intersection.
“Hold on tight,” he said coolly, hitting the brakes and twisting the steering wheel. Suzanne was thrown violently to the right, held in place only by the seat belt. She bit her lip to keep from screaming as they went into a long skid. She braced herself for the crash, which never came. The squeal of the tires was loud in the silence of the night and the smell of burning rubber drifted into the cab. It was clear, however, that John was in perfect control of the vehicle as he fought the wheel, pumping the brakes in a smooth rhythmic progression. He brought the SUV around facing the direction they’d come in, executing a 180° turn in a matter of seconds, and accelerated back down the street.
She’d never seen driving like that before, where the driver was an extension of the vehicle. John’s gaze went from the street ahead, to the rear view mirror to the side mirror, in regular sweeps. She had to brace herself against the door as he raced through the streets, taking corners in tight turns.
“Is anyone following us?” Suzanne was proud that her voice was steady.
“No, we’re clear,” John replied, eyes searching the road ahead. His deep voice was remote, dispassionate. He could have been reporting on the weather—it’s stopped raining now, instead of no killers are following us.
He had slowed down a little, driving steadily toward the outskirts of the city, finally passing the city limits. There were no streetlights this far from town and his face was illuminated only by the lights on the dashboard. They highlighted the rigid line of the jaw, the brutal slash of cheekbones, the strong brow.