A clatter. Gasping.
“Lady, this better not be some trick... Nah, serious, man, she’s going purple. She ain’t breathing. What do I do? Well, someone’s gotta make a decision here! Where’s Fitz?”
Jamie exhaled and inhaled, like he was trying to do it for Samira. She would be fine. Terrified, of course, but nobody died from a panic attack. He pictured the goon’s position from his voice—looking down at Samira on the floor, facing the window? Gun in right hand, phone in the other? Doubly distracted.
“If Fitz is gonna interrogate her he better get here quick... No, I don’t fucking know CPR. Hang on. I gotta put the phone down a sec.”
Jamie launched around the corner. The guy looked up, fumbling to adjust his grip on a pistol. Jamie leaped, shoved the gun aside, wheeled and smacked his elbow into the guy’s forehead. The goon staggered back but gathered control of his weapon, swiveled and aimed it at Jamie’s forehead.Not so smooth,caporal.
Something blue flew across the alcove and clocked the side of the goon’s head. The impact rippled through him. He tipped sideways into a desk and crumpled onto the floor. What the fuck? A hand weight rolled off the desk and thudded onto the guy’s side.
“Oh my God, is he alive?” Samira’s voice, to Jamie’s right, barely audible over the alarms. She was kneeling in a corner, gray-faced, eyes huge. Over the loudspeaker, the recorded message repeated.
Jamie kicked the guy’s weapon across the floor. “You threw that weight?”
“It was sitting right there. It looked like he was going to... I didn’t think. Is he...? Did I...?”
Jamie checked the guy’s vitals. “Little groggy but okay. What happened to your panic attack? Were you faking?”
“No. But then I saw you and then the weight, and somehow I pushed through it.”
A tinny voice sounded.Merde.Jamie held a finger to his lips, and located the goon’s phone on an office chair. Still on. He picked it up, settling his breath.
“Nah, I’m okay. I’m fine,” he shouted, in his best imitation of the guy’s accent, muffling his voice with his hand. “Just some fucking security guard. Knocked him out cold. Listen, there’s some paperwork sitting here, says I’m in the...” Jamie stared at a concrete courtyard. What was on the far side of the building? “The...gynecology outpatient clinic. Shit, someone’s coming. I gotta go. You better get here, quick.”
Jamie hung up. The goon groaned. Jamie retrieved his rucksack, and drew out a syringe and vial from his white box of goodies.
“What is that?” Samira said, grabbing her sunglasses from the floor beside her.
“A sedative. Keep him in a happy place a while longer.” The guy wouldn’t be able to give much of a description of Jamie, especially with a concussion, but the longer they kept him quiet, the better.
“Where did you get it?”
“Would you believe a prescription?”
“No.”
He laughed.
“Let me guess,” she said. “You have a contact?”
“Traditional weapons are a little harder to come by here and a few people owed me—”
“Favors. I’m beginning to see a pattern.”
Not that this favor had come cheaply. Andy had charged him top dollar. But at short notice, with limited access to real firepower, Jamie needed every advantage he could think of. And if there was one weapon he knew how to wield...
After injecting the guy, Jamie tucked him into a bed in a private room in the evacuated orthopedics ward next door. Samira relieved him of a clip of pounds in his pocket.
“I wish they’d shut off that fucking siren,” Jamie said as they left the room, closing the door. “We’d better get out of here before security arrives—or this guy’s buddies. I’m afraid we’ve lost your shoes, Cinderella. You might want to put your boots back on.”
“I have an idea how we can get away,” Samira said a minute later, as she zipped up the boots.
“All ears.”
She led him back to Occupational Therapy. “There,” she said, pointing to a display box fixed to a wall. Inside, two dozen keys hung on nails. A sign readOT Pool Cars. Sign the log BEFORE you take a key. Return with a FULL TANK. NO exceptions.
“Crumbs, Samira! Are you suggesting we steal a car?”
