First Night. Debra WebbЧитать онлайн книгу.
He tried to catch his breath and slow his racing heart. She was right. He patted his pockets for his cell phone. Tried to remember if the police had given the phone back to him. No, he decided, they hadn’t, hadn’t given him back his wallet, either.
Didn’t matter. She had her phone in her hand before he could explain the absence of his own.
Headlights fanned across the dim alley. The vehicle had come from the narrow cross street at the back of the alley. Only the city’s garbage collection truck or a delivery truck usually drove through the area. The lights bobbed as the vehicle cut around Dumpsters and trashcans, coming closer. Too close.
What the hell?
She was pulling on his hand again, moving toward the street at the front of the alley.
Hadn’t she said they shouldn’t go out toward the front?
But the vehicle was bearing down on them now.
After them.
Damn! What the hell?
He surged forward, letting her drag him toward the street.
Tires squealed.
Brandon ran faster in an effort to keep up with the woman one step in front of him.
“Stop!”
The male voice was close behind them. Too close.
Merri Walters kept running for the street that seemed so far away. Brandon slowed but didn’t stop as ordered. She kept moving…shouldn’t he?
“Stop or I’ll shoot!”
Brandon dared to glance back. The blinding headlights on either side of the man made Brandon squint. But there was no mistaking the black ski mask he wore, his fire-ready stance…or the gun in his hand.
Brandon stopped. Merri’s forward momentum jerked on his hand. He tightened his grip, halting her movement. He didn’t have to wonder if she looked back and saw what he’d seen. She was suddenly standing next to him, staring at the man with the gun.
“Put your hands up,” the man warned. “Now!”
Brandon heard the sirens in the distance. Help was on its way, but it wouldn’t get here in time to stop this man from shooting one or both of them if they failed to obey his command. Brandon’s hands lifted in surrender. Merri looked at him, then did the same. He didn’t know if she carried a weapon, but Brandon definitely didn’t. This was bad.
“This way,” the gunman ordered as he gestured with his weapon toward the van behind him.
Brandon glanced toward the woman at his side. She didn’t move. Should he?
“Now!” the man shouted. “Or you’re both dead.”
Brandon didn’t wait for Merri to make the first move. Keeping his hands up, he started toward the van. Merri followed him. Was she playing the part of reluctant victim? Trying to seem the non-compliant of the two? Sort of good cop-bad cop?
The van’s side door glided open. Another dark figure popped out. Another weapon. Another mask. What the hell was this? Brandon climbed into what he now recognized as a cargo van. The interior lights were dim, but those from the dash allowed him to see that a network of canvas straps were fashioned like mesh separating the front seats from the open space where Brandon found himself. No seats. The low height of the interior forced him to lower his head and shoulders. His hands remained up as he watched Merri climb into the vehicle.
The gunman behind her shouted, “Sit. Keep your hands on your head.” When she didn’t readily comply, the man snatched the bag from her shoulder. She glared at him but still did not obey his order. Fear for her safety rammed into Brandon’s chest.
The van was moving in reverse before the side door slammed shut. Brandon had scarcely hit the floor, his hands positioned on his head as he’d been told, before the backward momentum had him struggling to stay sitting upright. He resisted the urge to use his hands to keep his balance.
Merri practically fell on top of him as the gunman pushed her to the floor. The first man, the one who’d shouted at them in the alley, was behind the steering wheel. He continued backing the van until he wheeled out onto the cross street at the back of the alley. Brandon got a glimpse of blue lights pulsing from the street at the front of the alley.
The police had arrived…too late for them.
His attention settled on Merrilee Walters. Brandon didn’t have to wonder if this had anything to do with Kick’s death and his story. Brandon understood that both he and the woman he’d gone to for help were in serious trouble.
The police should have listened to him.
Now they would both likely end up like Kick.
Dead.
MERRI CLOSED HER EYES and ordered them to adjust to the darkness. She had to be able to see the faces and read the lips of anyone speaking. The mask the second gunman wore, like the first, pretty much prevented her from reading his lips. The near non-existent lighting kept her from seeing Brandon’s lips well enough to understand anything he might say.
Brandon leaned slightly closer and whispered something against her ear.
She didn’t understand!
She should have told him right up front. That was one of the points Ian Michaels had attempted to get across to her. She could not pretend she was like everyone else. The need to ensure her potential clients understood her lack of hearing was essential.
Ian had been right, it seemed. Simon would be immensely disappointed in her. She’d not only screwed up a case, her actions would likely get both her and the client killed.
Damn it!
Brandon stared at her, his confusion evident in his rigid posture. He had no idea why she chose not to respond to whatever he’d said.
She had messed up.
Maybe her family and Metro’s top brass had been right about her. She was handicapped and didn’t want to admit her shortcoming. The inability to own her boundaries was a danger to herself and anyone else. The line came up frequently on her performance evaluations.
For years she had fought that issue. Had proven time and again that she could do what any individual who could hear could do.
But she had been wrong. This was proof positive.
She watched the gunman standing above them, his fingers locked on an overhead strap to maintain his balance in the moving vehicle.
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