Double Play (Nadia Stafford 3.5)

I said nothing.

"Okay, I know you're not going to take my word for it," he continued. "Even if I did just save your life."

I tried not to snort at that. He grunted, and I could see a shadowy figure near the blind. Another grunt and a thump, as he moved the thug's body.

"I see you didn't actually need my help. Nice shooting."

I shifted position, squeezing my injured arm with my free hand to stop the bleeding.

He continued. "I knew something was up. We did--Contrapasso. The plane ticket was purchased in Mexico, with a card number Quinn no longer uses. I knew all that before I came to see you."

He took a few steps, looking around. "Contrapasso thinks you might have been involved in whatever happened to Quinn. That's why they sent me. I disagreed--I don't see a motive. But that ticket meant someone was linking you to Quinn's disappearance, which bore investigating. When you wanted to come back and hunt for him, I realized that might have been the point of letting us find the ticket--getting you involved. Luring you out. They knew you flew into Buffalo, so they bought Quinn a ticket there. But they didn't actually know where to find you."

I still said nothing.

He continued. "I suspected you'd pick up a tail as soon as you went to check out Quinn's last known location. You did. They probably hoped you'd go into the building, where they could grab you. When that failed, they followed your car. That's why I sent you down these back roads. To give them a quiet spot to cut you off. I was behind them. That's also why I didn't come after you to get back the gun."

He went quiet, looked around, and then sighed. "Tell me what else you need, Dee. You suspected something was up--that's why you cut out early. You obviously thought I'd set you up. I didn't. Let's figure out who did. Together."

I waited.

"Listen," he said. "I'm putting my hands up. My gun is holstered. Tell me what else you need."

I waited until he had his hands raised and I could see they were empty. Then I rose just enough to peer around the area, looking for any sign he wasn't alone. The forest was still and quiet. I opened my mouth . . . and caught a movement to Diaz's right, a dark shape slipping through the trees.

Son of a bitch! Double-crossing--

Sunlight glinted off a gun. A sawed-off shotgun. Very clearly not pointed at me.

"Diaz!" I shouted. "Get--!"

The shotgun fired. Diaz went down. I was halfway to my feet. I froze and had to lock my knees to keep from dropping so fast I'd be spotted. Gaze fixed on that shotgun, I lowered myself slowly back to a crouch. I almost fell doing it, my head swimming, as if in delayed reaction to jumping up. I blinked hard and rubbed my face with my free hand. Then I hunkered there, my gun poised, trying to get a clear shot, but the guy was on the move, walking toward Diaz, who lay moaning on the ground. The gunman walked right up to Diaz, aimed the shotgun and--

I fired. Even as I pulled the trigger, I knew my angle wasn't good enough. The gunman staggered back, the shot catching him in the side. He swung the shotgun in my direction. He fired. I hit the ground hard. A couple of pellets ripped into my shoulder and side. I raised my gun. A blur of movement as Diaz grabbed the guy's leg.

Damn it, no, Diaz. Don't--

I fired mid-thought. So did the guy with the shotgun. He swung it on Diaz and fired and my bullet hit him a split-second later, catching him square in the chest and he went down.

I pushed up--too fast--and nearly passed out. Teeth gritted, I stood and staggered toward them, my gun ready, my gaze on that shotgun, still in the guy's hand. The barrel lifted, barely half an inch, shaking hard. I was about to squeeze my trigger when the shotgun fell and the guy let out a long hiss and went still.

I continued toward them, slowly and carefully, still aiming in case the shooter was faking. When I was close enough, I kicked the shotgun. It fell out of his hands. I checked for a pulse. None. Then I turned to Diaz.

There wasn't any need to check for Diaz's pulse. The guy had aimed that shotgun at his head, point-blank range. I swallowed and turned away. Even that movement seemed too much, as if my body had hit its limit. I tried to lower myself to the ground and got halfway down before collapsing.

I blacked out for a second. When I came to, it took a few more seconds to orient myself. Then I saw Diaz and remembered what was happening. I needed to get out of here. Those three guys weren't working on their own--they were very obviously hired thugs, and their handler would be tracking them by GPS. When they didn't call in an update--

As if on cue, a phone vibrated from the pocket of the guy with the shotgun. I fished the cell out. The caller ID only said "Juan," but I knew it wasn't a buddy calling to see if he wanted to come over and watch the game.

I pocketed the phone. I needed to get out of here. Just get up and . . .

Halfway to my feet, I swayed, the world dipping and darkening. I quickly lowered myself again.

I might be able to get as far as the cars, but neither vehicle was in any condition to get me out of here, and I didn't know where Diaz left his.

I just needed to get someplace temporarily safe. Someplace I could rest and assess my injuries.

I took the guy's belt to use as a tourniquet and checked his pockets for anything else I could use. A wallet--probably fake ID, but I grabbed that. A pocket knife. Might as well take it, too.