Mortal Pursuit

64

Ally’s heart sped up. She licked her lips and peered into the night. “Trish”

“Yeah. It’s me.” A dark, slender shape, unmistakably female, took substance among the tangled foliage. “You okay”

“I’m fine, just hurt my foot, you’re not mad, are you” Ally knew she was babbling. “I’m sorry, I know I was supposed to stay by the boat, but I couldn’t let you go by yourself, I just couldn’t.”

“It’s all right.”

She blinked, catching her breath. “Is it”

“Get over here.”

Relief lifted her. Quickly she moved forward, limping a little on her bloodied foot.

Trish was just ahead, a kneeling figure in silhouette, wearing a gun belt, a pistol in her hand.

“I’m glad you’re not ticked off or anything,” Ally whispered. “I really thought you’d kill me.”

Very close now, and in the shadows Trish was rising, her gun lifting as she stood.

Stood-without the crutch.

This wasn’t Trish, wasn’t Trish.

Ally threw herself to the ground behind a leafy scrim of manzanita, and a cork popped.

After an endless moment Trish relaxed, breath sighing out of her, and lowered the Glock.

Her gamble had paid off. Cain and his accomplices really had cleared out.

Clinging to the wall, she pulled herself upright, then crabbed to the corner of the shop and faced the first kiosk.

She lifted the handset, blinking back tears of relief.

It would be so good finally to ask for help. So good no longer to carry this weight of responsibility for so many lives.

Her trembling finger stabbed the keypad three times.

Nine-one-one.

She put the phone to her ear.

No ringing.

No dial tone.

Silence.

She stared at the phone. The thought occurred to her that she needed money, had to feed a quarter into the slot, and she didn’t have a quarter—

Stop.

A 911 call didn’t require payment. She knew that. She was just getting hysterical.

She touched the digits again.

The silence continued.

Out of order. Must be.

Well, there was a second phone. Maybe that one would work.

Please, God, please let it work.

She tried replacing the handset, but her shaking hand released it too soon, and it fell.

The handset thumped on the grass, trailing a severed cord.

Sabotaged.

Her gaze shifted to the other kiosk. A cut cord dangled from that handset also.

They were here.

Or had been. Could have left by now. But she didn’t think so.

Creak of hinges.

The shop door.

She started to turn, and powerful arms seized her from behind, crushing her stomach, driving breath from her lungs.

A gloved hand chopped her wrist. The Glock fell.

She was disarmed, helpless.

Finished.