Cold Pursuit

Thirty-Four

Myrtle dropped Grit back at the hotel where she’d picked up him and Charlie and took off again. The only reason he’d let her go was that he’d spotted his new FBI pals, and he thought he might need their help after all. As he walked toward their black sedan, he hit the redial button on his cell phone. This time, Elijah answered. “Storm over?” Grit asked.

“Long night. What do you have?”

Grit gave him the news. “Alexander Bruni was on his way to meet Thomas Asher for breakfast. Asher must have phoned in the tip about the messenger. They now have more specifics on her identity.”

“How do you know?”

“I have my ways.” Best not to tell Elijah about Charlie and his cousin switching places. Grit didn’t want to put Elijah in the position of having to lie to his Secret Service-agent girlfriend. “I’m about to get into a car with a couple of FBI agents. I could be a while. If you don’t hear from me in six months, come find me.”

“Will do,” Elijah said without hesitation, and Grit knew he meant it.

“What’re you up to, anyway?”

“I’ll fill you in later. Right now I’m eating apple pie.”

“ Vermont,” Grit said and disconnected.

The back door of the FBI car opened, and he climbed in, ignoring a sudden tightness in his left foot. The cute female agent was driving this time. She glanced in the rearview mirror at his reflection. “Who were you just on the phone with?”

“Elijah Cameron.”

From the narrowing of her eyes, Grit guessed she hadn’t expected a straight answer, but she got her FBI face back on fast-just not fast enough. Whatever had been going on in Vermont while Elijah was incommunicado, she knew about it.

“Let’s go see Myrtle Smith,” Grit said, snapping on his seat belt. “She just dropped me off. But I figured I might need your help. You know where she lives, right?”

“Where have you been?” the beanpole agent asked him.

“Parking with Myrtle. She’s a doll, isn’t she? Those lavender eyes.”

The female agent wasn’t in the mood. “Start talking, Petty Officer Taylor.”

“That reminds me. What are your names?”

They pretended not to hear him and drove out past Embassy Row and onto a shaded cul-de-sac of tidy Craftsman-style houses.

Flames were coming out of the front window of a cream-colored stucco two-story.

The two FBI agents swore under their breath, but before their car came to a full stop, Grit had the door open and was on his way, racing across the lawn in long, even strides, arms pumping, his mind focused on one thing and one thing only: Myrtle. She lay crumpled in her doorway as black smoke poured out of the house and swirled around her.

Grit heard popping, hissing and cracking sounds from inside as he ran up the front steps. He grabbed Myrtle up in his arms, turned and charged back out across the grass and all the way to the side of the road.

The beanpole FBI agent was on the radio, calling in the world.

Myrtle coughed, spat black gunk and sat up. “I knew you were on my tail,” she told Grit.

He grinned at her. “You hoped I was.”

The female agent beelined for them. “Ma’am, are you all right?”

“Just ducky.”

Grit could see Myrtle was shaken, but he said, “You should have told me you were getting threats.”

The female agent’s brow furrowed, but she kept quiet.

Myrtle wiped a shaking hand across her mouth, smearing soot. “Hindsight. I get people warning me to back off all the time. I guess these bastards meant business.”

“The Russian?”

She coughed, then nodded. “Andrei was a good man with bad enemies.”

“You two-”

“Doesn’t matter anymore.” Her lavender eyes were red rimmed and watery. “One of his enemies hired our assassins to kill him.”

“Proof?”

“My damn house burning down does it for me.” She looked back at the flames and smoke, sirens already sounding in the distance. “At least I don’t have a cat. I’d have hated to have a cat killed in a fire.”

“Ever have a cat?” Grit asked her.

She spat some more and shifted her gaze to him. “Why? Do I strike you as the type?”

“Yeah.”

Tears welled in those big eyes of hers. “Lefty. I had to say goodbye to him a year ago. He was eighteen. Life sucks, Grit.”

“Sometimes.”

“We’re dealing with ruthless, dangerous people.”

“Yeah, Myrtle, we are.”

The beanpole FBI agent joined them, and his partner looked up at him and said, “The fire trucks are on the way. In the meantime, Myrtle and Grit here are going to talk to us about assassins.”