Chapter 17
I’ll call 911.”
Mitch caught Dylan opening her small evening bag one-handedly and taking out her phone. He snatched it from her before she could tap the SOS. “No 911 call, no nothing. Except I could use that thing draping your neck.”
Without asking permission, he pulled off her pashmina wrap and stuffed it between his side and his left hand. “Damn, that hurts.”
“Mitch, what are you doing?”
“Don’t want to leave a blood trail, and my clothes were getting soaked. I’ll buy you another thing.”
“I mean,what are you doing?You’ve been assaulted with a knife. You’re leaving the scene of a crime.”
“Where an undercover cop can’t be exposed as such.”
Her footsteps faltered. “Oh.”
“Did you think this getup was for Halloween?” He took a swift glance over his shoulder to see if anyone was in pursuit.Pedestrians and motorists alike were gawking at the ongoing action taking place in the median. Best he could tell, no one was paying attention to the ragged homeless man escorting a babe wearing high heels with sparkly stuff on the toes.
But he didn’t take for granted that no one had noticed them. It was vital that they get out of sight. He secured Dylan’s elbow more firmly and hustled her along. “Here’s a cut-through.” As he squeezed them into a dark, narrow alleyway between two walled courtyards, he felt her hesitation. “Keep up, Dylan.”
“You know your way around here,” she remarked.
“Yep, and we’ve got blocks to make.”
“To where?”
“Anywhere but here. Like right now.”
“You’re covered in blood, Mitch.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“You need immediate medical attention.”
“Negative. Hurts like a mother, and I’d like to kill the little shit that cut me, but it’s not that bad.”
They came out of the alley and took a right turn down a buckled sidewalk shadowed by the widespread branches of venerable live oaks that sheltered condemned houses. After another few blocks, they reached the parking lot where he had left his piece-of-shit pickup.
Digging into the deep pocket of the baggy, dirty trousers, he found his key and ushered her around to the passenger side. She said, “This isn’t your truck.”
“It’s one of them,” he said, swinging open the door. “Get in.” He attempted to boost her up, but she resisted.
“You get in, I’ll drive.”
“You think I’m stupid?”
“Yes!” she said. “Incredibly stupid. You’ve been knifed!”
“Um-huh. And if I let you drive, you would head straight for the nearest ER.” Somewhere from back the way they’d come, a siren wailed. “There’s no time to argue, Dylan.Get in!”
She huffed something under her breath, but climbed up into the passenger seat, made difficult because of her stilettos and skinny skirt. He went around the battered hood and hauled himself up into the driver’s seat, where he whipped off the cap with the fake, mangy hair, and tossed it into the floorboard. Reaching behind him with his right hand, he took his pistol from its holster at the small of his back and tucked it between his thighs.
With alarm, Dylan said, “Who are you going to shoot at?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He started the truck’s reliable engine and left the parking lot in a hurry. As he drove through a maze of side streets, he kept one eye on the road, the other on the rearview mirror. He didn’t detect anyone coming after them and began to breathe a little easier. But only a very little.
