Power Play (FBI Thriller 18)

“Autumn is no concern of yours. If I ever see her again I’ll make her see me, really see me, this time.”

Believe me, she really saw you the last time.

“Keep going. We weave down the aisle through all those storage racks, right toward that exit sign and out the back door.”

She walked through a swinging door into a huge back storeroom with the restrooms to the right and row after row of heavy metal racks filled with stock straight ahead. Blessed was so close he was nearly pressed against her back. He said, “She made me promise to find a wife for myself.”

He was talking without her questioning him, but why? And then she realized he was completely alone. Blessed had no one else to talk to, no one who knew him or had any kind of tie to his life before.

Sherlock saw a lone clerk off to her left, some ten or so feet away, a clipboard in his hand, counting cans of pork and beans. He paid no attention to them.

“Look at that!”

The gun jerked.

Sherlock grabbed the corner of one of the metal storage racks and jerked it forward with all her strength.

It teetered, sending cans and boxes tumbling off, raining down on both of them, but the huge structure didn’t fall.

“No more of that! Walk, you bitch,” and he shoved her forward with her Glock.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing? You shouldn’t be in here.” The clerk with the clipboard was marching toward him, his anger giving way to fear when he saw the gun.

Sherlock grabbed a can of okra and hurled it at Blessed. It struck him hard on the forehead at the same time he fired at her. The bullet went wide, tore through a big box of oatmeal and slammed deep into a concrete wall. The sound was deafening. She slipped around the storage rack for cover, yelling at the clerk, “Get out now!” She heard him yell again as he ran toward the swinging doors. She whirled about and peeked between boxes of soap to see Blessed. What she saw was an old woman leaning back against a storage rack, holding her head. And over her tatty gray crocheted sweater covering a lacy blouse, baggy flowered skirt, and sneakers, she was wearing a camel wool coat.

An old man peered out of the unisex restroom. She yelled, “Get back inside and lock the door!” Blessed, still shaking his head, jerked toward the man, but the man moved fast, the door slamming loud as Blessed fired two bullets, one of them hitting the bathroom door dead center. She heard the old man yell, not in pain, thank heavens, heard the clerk yelling back in the store. She grabbed a can of creamed corn, hurled it at Blessed, smacking him in the middle of his back. Blessed stumbled and jerked about to face her, his old woman’s seamed face tight with fury.

She was in big trouble. She grabbed another can and hurled it at him as he charged toward her and fired.

Sherlock dropped to her knees and rolled as he fired. He missed her. She jumped to her feet, grabbed the corner of a storage rack and pulled hard. Cans and boxes hurled outward, slowly at first, then in an avalanche, striking the bare concrete floor like claps of thunder and pelting the goods on the rack opposite. Bags of candy rained down on her. She heard yells and shouts from people outside the storeroom. She gave another final jerk to the storage rack, and the huge metal rack fell over, smacked hard against the rack next to it. She heard a low rumble, then saw the next rack topple, and the next one, a domino effect. She dropped to the floor as each of the great racks unbalanced the next, and one by one the racks went over. The noise was deafening, even louder than the bullets in the closed space. She tried to scramble away, but the floor was covered with rolling cans and she couldn’t gain purchase. It hurt, slipping and sliding over the rolling cans.

She heard Dillon’s voice above the din of shouts.

She’d lost sight of Blessed. But she thought she heard him now, a low, feral cry, harsh breathing, and then she saw the exit door open and close and knew he was gone. Before she could call out to Dillon, she fell on her face among the still-moving sea of canned goods, and smashed her temple against a fallen metal rack.

She shook her head to clear it. She had to get out of there or she’d be crushed. She felt hands pulling her up, felt pain from her fall, but at last she was free. Savich drew her against him and they picked their way carefully through the ruins of the storeroom and out the swinging door. A lone rolling can of pineapple struck his foot and he nearly went over, but he never let go of her. They walked right past the store manager, who stood staring helplessly through the storeroom doorway, blank-faced with shock at the devastation.

When they were back to safety, his hands were all over her, feeling and pressing every inch of her. “Are you all right? Do you hurt anywhere?”