Sheikh's Rescue. Ryshia KennieЧитать онлайн книгу.
a yip and a shriek. She hurled herself down and back so she was within range to take him down by force if necessary.
“What’s going...” he began as she had him by the arm, taking him down, too.
“Shut up! Stay there!”
She got up in a half crouch while giving him a bit of a push on his chest to remind him to stay down. She turned her back to him, moving toward the railing. Cement, she thought with disgust. The railing was a solid block of cement. Great protection and lousy visual. The only way to find the perp was to make herself vulnerable and lift her head over the edge.
Another shot.
Seconds ticked by. A minute, then two.
A rush of movement to her right and a crash directly below her.
She was blinded by the balcony. She looked to her right. The ceramic planter that had sat on the railing had been taken out. It had crashed into the parking lot. Hit by gunfire, she was sure, considering everything that had happened in the last few minutes. But the sound had been muted and the only real alert was what had followed, the noise of pottery shattering. She bet that whoever was shooting at them was now using a silencer. Why hadn’t he used it for the first shot or even the second? That was a mystery she might never have the answer to. Unnecessary question, unnecessary information, she told herself. But the shadow that flitted from one dead tree to the next and where the last shot had come from wasn’t. This might be her only chance. She took aim and fired.
She glanced back. Stanley was on his knees in a position that in yoga was called a prayer position. The only difference was that his hands were covering his head.
She turned back to the balcony. She scanned the street. She doubted she’d hit anything. There’d been no evidence of her taking out anything more than the bark of a tree.
Whoever was out there would not want the attention of the sheriff. She had to assume that they would shoot only when they spotted a target, that they would not fire needlessly and create extra noise and, potentially, undue attention. She moved slowly, trying to find a place to see and not be seen.
Her Colt was clutched in both hands as she considered the next move. Everything had changed. The white-coded, dull little assignment had just been upgraded.
To code red.
“Why are they shooting at us?” Stanley looked at her as if the answer to that question would spin back the clock, as if this had never happened.
There was no time to ask who and why. No time for the volley of questions that answering that one question could turn into.
She looked over her shoulder. Stanley was crawling toward her. His face was white, but he wasn’t stopping.
“Get back,” Jade said, and waved him back toward the safety of the apartment. She should have known that there was a time limit on how long he’d follow instructions. She rose slowly to peer over the concrete railing. There was another movement to her right. A flash, and she dived down, glancing over her shoulder as she did so. Stanley hadn’t moved.
“Stay down,” she commanded in a whisper. “Stay there.”
She shifted her attention away from Stanley. The assailant might be across the street, but she had no idea if he was alone. She rose up on one knee. “This sucker’s not done with us,” she muttered as she peered over the balcony. Everything was quiet except for an odd shuffling sound behind her. She turned and found herself face-to-face with Stanley. “Down,” she repeated, and he nodded, flattening himself to the balcony floor.
She hunched down, her eyes meeting his. Panic was in his eyes and in the tense line of his lips. “There’s nothing you can do. This is why I was hired,” Jade said patiently as if more words would somehow calm him. “You’re unarmed,” she reminded him, betting that he didn’t even realize that important fact. She saw the fear in his eyes as she delivered the clinching words. “I’m not.”
This time he seemed to get it as his frightened eyes met hers.
Jade turned, rising to her knees to peer over the balcony as she scanned the street for further trouble.
Silence.
To the left of the parking lot was a two-story plain brick building. Its main floor was boarded up. She looked away. Whoever had fired at them had done so from the right. That meant that they were close to the low-rise building. It was an office building, closed on the weekends. Nothing had changed from the last time she’d looked. She glanced back at Stanley. She breathed a sigh of relief to see that he had retreated inside. Her attention went back to the street. Her Colt was in both hands. There was no sound from the other apartments. Her mind went over the last few minutes.
Two shots.
Three if you counted the one with the silencer. That shot had been muted and mostly unheard by those inside, living in the vicinity, but it appeared, so had the others. Gunshots were out of the norm. They were sounds that many people might consider part of their imagination. Television programs, online games, the clamor of day-to-day living masked all sorts of noise, including that which was unanticipated and unfamiliar, gunfire. It would be easily discounted as part of the noise of a television program. Now there was nothing but a strange silence. Was the gunman still out there? And if he wasn’t, where was he?
She slid down with her back to the concrete balcony railing. She debated whether now was the time to report in that her assignment had taken a critical turn.
One more check.
She pushed up over the balcony, looking left and right down the street. A movement to her left; she watched with bated breath. It was nothing but a jackrabbit that had made its way into the city. The hare took its time. It seemed to lope, hopping this way and that, stopping to sniff the air. Finally, it disappeared between two buildings. The street was again empty.
She sank below the railing as she put the Colt down and pulled her phone out of her pocket.
“Zafir,” he answered with a concerned tone, for this number was never used except in case of emergency.
“Code red,” she said simply. “I’m pinned down at the client’s apartment. Shots from across the street at the client’s balcony. The client’s secure.”
“Last count?”
“Unknown shooter. Three shots fired. Four, if you count mine. He has a silencer.” She looked where the planter used to stand. “It’s been quiet for over five minutes.”
“Did you see...”
“Nothing,” she interrupted. “No visual. Like I said, I got one shot in, that was it. I never had a clear shot and on a public street, well, that just made it difficult.”
“I can imagine,” he said. “Keep it contained if you can. I’ll be there in five.”
The call disconnected as abruptly as it had begun.
Keep it contained if you can.
With gritted teeth, she shoved the phone into her pocket. For a second she really wished that she could shove it somewhere else.
* * *
THE SNOW WOULDN’T stop falling. The man wiped perspiration and melted snow off his upper lip and swore as a car came down the street. Until now, it had been deserted.
He should have taken him out. Except he’d never had a clear shot. The woman had placed herself between him and his target. The plan was to take him out in a maximum of two shots and then get out before the authorities showed up. He’d already shot three. He couldn’t fire any more. Even with his silencer, it was too dangerous. The woman was shooting back. Her gun didn’t have a silencer. The cops could be alerted at any moment. His opportunity had slipped through his fingers, and Stanley had moved off the balcony. There was nothing to be done.