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Eye Patch moved around behind her, and the back of her neck tingled.
“Why you hangin’ around here?” Fedora Guy moved the toothpick in his mouth to the other corner. “You got a beef with me?”
“We were curious about the wharf. Saw the road and came over to look around. We’re leaving now.” Mitch took her hand and started toward the street exit.
“Wait.” Sports Fan handed the head honcho a folded piece of paper. “’Member what the big boss told us?”
Fedora Guy pointed his toothpick at them. “You got a brother, lady?”
Cath stared at the sheet in the man’s hand. That looked like a photograph from her refrigerator. Her pulse beat so hard she would probably explode any minute.
Fedora Guy shook his head. “You got to know if you got a brother or not.”
No. Never had a brother. Bile choked her throat.
“Belinda ain’t yo name. Is it, doll?” The drug pusher lifted his chin, and both of the others moved.
Mitch grabbed Sports Fan’s wrist at the same time a heavy hand slammed Cath’s shoulder.
“Hey, let go.” She twisted against the hold. “What do you think you’re doing?”
A hand gripping her wrists held her still. The voice behind her growled. “Shut up.”
Fedora Hat lifted his hat. “The big boss will be happy.”
* * *
Blood dripped down Mitch’s swelling cheek. He gritted his teeth against the pain, concentrating on the slap of the car’s windshield wipers. Cath bumped his leg, her eyes full of regret, her kissable mouth turned down. Mitch wanted to taste that mouth again. At least once. He nudged her shoulder. This ain’t over yet.
The lights of Canal Street blazed only a few blocks ahead. Despite the rain and the hour, crowds in town for Mardi Gras swarmed the sidewalks in front of the bars and music venues lining this block. He needed to act soon if they were to take advantage of the narrow French Quarter streets. The drug dealer had rushed them into an SUV, and if he took the expressway to deliver them to the “big boss,” they might not have another chance to escape.
All Mitch had to do was figure a way out of this back seat alive. Not so easy since his and Cath’s hands were zip-tied behind their backs. Both of them sat squeezed into the middle between the dealer’s henchmen. One held a modified AK-47 submachine gun. The other held a semiautomatic with a silencer.
Mitch had pulled his SIG to defend them, but the dealer’s men had stripped him of his weapon. Cath hadn’t shown hers, and they apparently didn’t think a woman would carry. The congestion that kept the car moving in fits and starts had worked in their favor. So far.
A man jumped into the street ahead, his orange safety vest slick with rain, and stopped them. A garbage truck backed across the street like a plodding prehistoric beast, the dumpster in its claws rising in slo-mo.
The drug dealer in the driver’s seat cursed. Two vehicles rode their bumper, and the garbage truck blocked the narrow sidewalks on either side. To the left, an iron fence and thick shrubs surrounded a small park slap up against a row of stores, eliminating any chance to turn around. They had to wait for the truck to finish, but the dumpster stayed suspended over the street.
The guys guarding Mitch and Cath bailed out into the street. One of them ran to the garbage truck, the second toward the cars behind them. The guy in the hat stood in his open door watching the truck’s lifting apparatus grind and groan but go nowhere. Mitch leaned close to Cath. “Get my knife from the pocket along my thigh and give it to me. I’ll cut you loose.”
He braced against her searching fingers. Once she dropped the pocketknife into his hands, he pried open the blade, felt for her wrists, and cut through the ties. Seconds later she’d freed him.
“Wait for me at the first corner back, Quarter side,” he whispered. “Go.”
She bolted out the door. Mitch rolled out his side, grabbed the driver around the neck, and applied pressure. The man crumpled to the ground. Mitch ran to Cath and caught her hand. A stucco chip blew off the corner building, narrowly missing Mitch’s eye. The guy with the shiny sports emblem charged toward him, his silenced weapon raised.
Mitch ran with Cath up the dark street. A patch of darkness opened between buildings up ahead. He pulled her into the alley, slamming into construction debris before ducking between two dumpsters. “Give me your gun.”
He aimed her small pistol at the end of the alley and took his bearings. The buildings along the narrow passageway all looked in the process of renovation. Portable toilets and more dumpsters dotted the entire length of the block to a major through street they could take into the heart of the Quarter.
He squeezed Cath’s hand. Be ready to move.
Two men stopped at the mouth of the alley. Streetlights outlined the shape of the machine gun. Mitch couldn’t catch any words, but they entered the alley. Each step brought them closer to his and Cath’s hiding place. He followed their progress, his finger tense on the trigger guard. When both men vanished through a building’s unsecured door, Mitch trapped Cath’s hand in his and took off.
She staggered when he pivoted at the end of the alley. He wound an arm around her waist and kept going. “Can’t stop here.”
They dodged garbage cans on the curb outside dark restaurants. The downpour drowned out their running footsteps. Had they lost the dealer’s minions? He swiveled to check, and a gunshot flashed. A man shouted.
