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“Wait.”
He turned, and she stretched up on her toes and kissed him hard. “Hurry.”
“I will. Now, go.” He gave her a gentle push toward the cellar stairwell.
12
Ryan tightenedhis grip on the length of chain wrapped around his right hand as he speed-walked out of the resale shop. The pawn shop had been a bust. The only viable weapon for sale was a katana, but the sword posed three distinct problems: it cost more than Ryan had on him in cash; it appeared to be more decorative than utilitarian; and he had never swung a sword in his life.
He’d nearly conceded defeat. Then he remembered that one of the mannequins in the thrift store window next door was dressed in a punk-style outfit. Black pants and t-shirt, a studded leather jacket and collar, Doc Martens, and a thick chain-link belt with a heavy buckle fashioned from a padlock. Back when he’d been a prosecutor, he’d handled a case stemming from a brawl at a high school football game. The school district had installed metal detectors and routinely searched the students for guns and knives (and presumably samurai swords), but the group of British-style punk rockers had breezed through with their chains and studded cuffs and collars and nobody had batted an eye. He’d never forget the crime scene photos of the damage their fashion accessories had wrought—most notably, the hefty chain belt that the seventeen-year-old defendant had proudly informed him was called a smiley.
And,his lawyerly mind chimed in,an improvised weapon sows reasonable doubt about premeditation and intent.
If he hadn’t been so worried about Leilah and how long he’d been gone, he’d have laughed aloud at himself. Already formulating his defense. Maybe she was right: his brainwashis most effective weapon. The thought of Leilah, crouching along in the stairwell, spurred him forward, and he broke into a run.
When he skidded around the corner, his throat constricted. Two of the men were clustered directly in front of the stairwell, arguing. He withdrew, pressed himself against the cold brick wall, and listened.
“They didn’t disappear into thin air,” groused the man whom Ryan had pegged as the leader back at the crash site.
“That woman at the front desk said they didn’t have wheels,” the lanky guy reminded him, tapping on his phone screen.
“They could’ve boosted a car—or rented one,” he shot back.
The tall man raised his head from his smartphone and gave it a decisive shake. “They’re not using cards. They each withdrew a grand from the bank machine in that sports bar. That’s the daily limit on both their accounts. Nobody’s renting them a car.” Then he reconsidered. “They might have called a rideshare.”
The boss jerked his chin. “Here he comes.”
The third member of their group strode along the alleyway and joined the others.
“Well?”
“They were in that Mexican joint. Their waiter said they never even ordered. Something spooked them and they ran out through the kitchen. They must’ve seen us through the window.”
“Bloody hell!” The guy in charge pounded his fist on the wall behind him.
The others exchanged a look.
“They didn’t get far. They couldn’t have,” insisted the third man.
The leader waved a hand in disgust. “Call it in.”
Smartphone guy was a step ahead of him. He already had the phone to his ear. After a moment, he said, “Mr. Ahmadi, sir. There’s good news and bad. We’ve confirmed she’s still in Harrisonburg. But she gave us the slip a moment ago. She’s nearby, though. We’ll find her.”
He paused, listening. Then he frowned. “Yes, sir. She’s still traveling with the lawyer.”
He listened some more, wincing at whatever Ahmadi was saying on the other end, then murmured his understanding and ended the call.
He turned toward the others. “Mr. Ahmadi isn’t happy. He said we have until midnight to find the woman—and that lawyer—or he’s calling in another team.”
While the men grumbled, Ryan fisted and flexed his right hand and mentally walked through how to approach them. He may not have the same training and background as most Potomac’s employees, but he knew from years of prosecuting crimes like the melee at the football game that the guy who struck first prevailed more often than not.
He squared his shoulders and stepped out of the shadows, swinging the chain. “Looking for me?”
* * *
Leilah preparedto spring out of her crouch. She figured she’d launch herself at the man who’d called Ahmadi and wrap her hands around his neck. He was standing closest to the stairwell, leaning against the metal railing. She recalled the many hours of self-defense training she, Olivia, Chelsea, and Marielle had undergone in her garage. All of that was to prepare her for a situation like this.
She remembered what Liv had told them. “Don’t overthink it. You’ll have to adapt on the fly in any hand-to-hand combat situation. And so will your attacker. It’s like that boxer said, ‘Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.’” She was no Mike Tyson, but she could do this.
