Page 37 of Long Past Deadly

“Let me.” He popped his can open and handed it to her.

She opened her mouth to argue, but tightened her lips and handed off the unopened can with one hand while taking his. Wanting in some way to make this easier for her was a faulty idea, but he’d try anyway. He was sure he wasn’t going to like any of what she had to tell.

“I was studying the parking lot. The whole route we ran isn’t visible, but he took too many shots for a professional. Killing us was a side-objective.” He checked to make sure she heard him.

She gazed at the window and frowned. “How so? He could have hit either of us.”

“It would have been dumb luck. Not his intention.”

“If he’s military trained like you believe, his performance suggests he sucks at it. I’m guessing this is not the case. So why?”

“He wanted us to run. He likes the chase. He gave himself extra points for nailing my car. All of the above. None of the above.”

She took a sip of coke. He was getting used to her musing moments. “And the explosives at the hotel?”

“Military personnel train in all sorts of wartime jobs, especially special operations. He might have enough training in weapons, tactics, explosives, depending on branch, to pull off some proficiency. Evidence suggests yes.”

“So what are you saying?”

“The assassin is a business. He has one or two methods he uses. Our attempted murder in the parking lot was not part of his professional work. It was compulsive.”

Alanna’s expression gave away her deep concentration on the subject.

God, he hated to do this. “Do your memories track with what I’m saying?”

“Whit knew him in Iraq. Where, how, when?” She shook her head in disgust. “It was not a subject that we discussed. If I had to compare…” She stopped and chewed her lip.

“Lay it out, Lani. Even the tiniest detail could help.”

“I was fifteen, Quaid. I have memories of a lot of it, but I made assumptions about some of what happened because Whit wouldn’t explain. I didn’t know what I didn’t know. Crossing Whit was not something anybody did. He knew how to take care of himself and any others needing his protection, but he was not a big talker. That included to me. But this thing with Mercer was on a whole different level.”

“What was your perception?”

Alanna set her coke aside and rose. She paced to the window and stopped, staring out at the parking lot as he’d done. Giving her space was the wrong thing to do, for comfort and for truth, so he joined her.

“I witnessed something. I had a friend when I was living with Whit. We called her Frenchie cause she spoke fluid French. Her name was Esme. I never knew her last name. She was in the streets without her parents, too. I saw her earlier in the evening. She was going into hiding, afraid of a bad man who was tracking her. She was scared. I wanted her to go to Whit, but she wouldn’t.”

“Did you see her after that?”

Alanna bit her lip, the blankness gone from her face. “Yes. Fighting with Mercer.”

&&&&&&&&&&

Alanna took a few moments, trying like hell to turn off her emotions. Quaid didn’t push, and for that she was grateful, because the clog of panic in her throat wouldn’t let her talk. He got extra credit for carefully walking her into her memories. But if something was coming back around from Esme, it was time to dig deep and lay out what she knew.

Her eyes followed each parking lot line, and she mourned the echoing violence there. The parking lot would forever remind her of the threat, the blast of gunfire, and her fear for Quaid’s safety.

“What was happening?” Quaid’s quiet voice worked like magic. The panic dissipated. Dr. Williams asserted herself.

“Esme was screaming, sobbing, hysterical. Her clothes were torn. With my education and experience now, I understand he’d raped her. She twisted and struggled so hard to get out of his grasp, she was bleeding and bruised. I was afraid she’d be hurt worse. I had to help, so I attacked Mercer from behind. Stupid, but no choice.”

“You had to help your friend.”

“Yes. Only he slammed her to the ground. Her head bounced on the pavement like a melon dropped from a ripped grocery bag, and she didn’t move. He tossed me off his back in one hard thrust. He was so strong, I tumbled onto the concrete, slamming my forehead. It dazed me. He kicked me in the side multiple times, hard blows that I’m sure broke ribs. I just remember not being able to draw in air. He rolled me then and kicked me in the head, over and over, screaming obscenities and threats. Don’t ask. I don’t remember what they were. Everything went black. When I came to, Esme was gone. I remember being relieved she’d escaped. More likely, I didn’t want to face what happened. I was bleeding and incoherent. Whit and Mercer were in the mother of all knife fights. I’d never seen anything like it.”

“Who won?”

“Neither. It was a fight to the death, now that I know what I was watching. But somebody called the police. Whit broke away at the sirens and carried me to a hiding place. When it was safe, he took me to a hospital.”