placement, and tighter security. If Burdett didnât listen, she would call Bayard and keep calling until she got results.
The beach was still crowded, the roads crammed with tanned couples holding hands, kids wearing fluorescent shorts and eating ice cream, but Taylor couldnât relax. There were plenty of tall, dark men around, but none wearing spectacles. She studied faces, but dark glasses distorted appearance to a degree that she had to accept that even if she looked directly at the man who had been following her, she wouldnât recognize him.
She walked into the nearest mall, found a supermarket and bought the few items she needed. Without a car, she couldnât carry much so she kept her purchases to basics: fresh milk, salad vegetables, wholegrain bread and washing powder. There was no point in loading up with food when she would be leaving Wilmington.
When she stepped out of the mall, she slipped dark glasses on, studied the queue of tourists lined up waiting for cabs and decided she would get home faster walking. Crossing the road, she threaded her way through a parking lot. As she stepped onto the sidewalk, light flashed from one of the apartment balconies overhanging the street. A flicker of movement drew her eye, another flash, and for a disorienting moment she was transported to a cold, gray street in D.C., ice and rain forming a misty murk, and shiny dents in stainless steel. She was already moving when lettuce and wholegrain bread exploded and, for the second time in less than two months, she hit the sidewalk.
The Glock in one hand and dragging her handbag, which contained her cell phone, she crawled behind the nearest cover, a shiny black convertible. Her right forearm was burning where the bullet must have grazed her. Blood had already soaked her jacket sleeve and was steadily dripping, making her grip on the gun slippery.
A metallic pop split the air and a sideview mirror shattered. Her arms jerked up, shielding her face, but it was too late. Her skin stung where shards of glass had either cut her or become embedded.
Long seconds passed while she waited for the next shot. When it didnât come, she risked checking out the direction the shots had originated from. Above street level, floor space was mostly given over to apartments with balconies, and in the balmy weather a lot of doors and windows were open. The flash of light sheâd seen had most likely come from a telescopic sight. She knew the general location, but she couldnât pinpoint the exact balcony.
Staying low, she fumbled in her bag, found her cell phone and dialed emergency services. Normally she would have the local police department on speed dial, but with a new identity, and living in a strange city, she hadnât thought she would need that particular number.
The operator picked up and began taking details. Blood dripped from her wrist, soaking into her clothes and forming a small, viscous puddle on the asphalt as she answered questions.
The operatorâs voice was soothing. âStay calm, maâam. Weâll have someone with you shortly.â
âI am calm.â But she wasnât. Her voice sounded hollow, as if she were talking into a drum, and adrenaline kept kicking through in spurts, making her shake.
A horrified gasp jerked her head up. She registered the wide-eyed stare of a slim, tanned woman wearing tennis whites.
Unclenching her teeth, she motioned for the woman to get down. âItâs okay. Iâve been shot, but I think heâs gone.â
But it wasnât okay. Whoever had shot her had wanted to hit her. They had fired at least twice.
She dialed Burdett, then hung up when she spotted one of his men crouched behind a car near the entrance of the parking lot, talking into a radio. She had been aware that he had followed her, keeping a discreet distance, but she hadnât seen him since she had entered the mall.
The woman, who was now huddled down by the back wheel of
The beach was still crowded, the roads crammed with tanned couples holding hands, kids wearing fluorescent shorts and eating ice cream, but Taylor couldnât relax. There were plenty of tall, dark men around, but none wearing spectacles. She studied faces, but dark glasses distorted appearance to a degree that she had to accept that even if she looked directly at the man who had been following her, she wouldnât recognize him.
She walked into the nearest mall, found a supermarket and bought the few items she needed. Without a car, she couldnât carry much so she kept her purchases to basics: fresh milk, salad vegetables, wholegrain bread and washing powder. There was no point in loading up with food when she would be leaving Wilmington.
When she stepped out of the mall, she slipped dark glasses on, studied the queue of tourists lined up waiting for cabs and decided she would get home faster walking. Crossing the road, she threaded her way through a parking lot. As she stepped onto the sidewalk, light flashed from one of the apartment balconies overhanging the street. A flicker of movement drew her eye, another flash, and for a disorienting moment she was transported to a cold, gray street in D.C., ice and rain forming a misty murk, and shiny dents in stainless steel. She was already moving when lettuce and wholegrain bread exploded and, for the second time in less than two months, she hit the sidewalk.
The Glock in one hand and dragging her handbag, which contained her cell phone, she crawled behind the nearest cover, a shiny black convertible. Her right forearm was burning where the bullet must have grazed her. Blood had already soaked her jacket sleeve and was steadily dripping, making her grip on the gun slippery.
A metallic pop split the air and a sideview mirror shattered. Her arms jerked up, shielding her face, but it was too late. Her skin stung where shards of glass had either cut her or become embedded.
Long seconds passed while she waited for the next shot. When it didnât come, she risked checking out the direction the shots had originated from. Above street level, floor space was mostly given over to apartments with balconies, and in the balmy weather a lot of doors and windows were open. The flash of light sheâd seen had most likely come from a telescopic sight. She knew the general location, but she couldnât pinpoint the exact balcony.
Staying low, she fumbled in her bag, found her cell phone and dialed emergency services. Normally she would have the local police department on speed dial, but with a new identity, and living in a strange city, she hadnât thought she would need that particular number.
The operator picked up and began taking details. Blood dripped from her wrist, soaking into her clothes and forming a small, viscous puddle on the asphalt as she answered questions.
The operatorâs voice was soothing. âStay calm, maâam. Weâll have someone with you shortly.â
âI am calm.â But she wasnât. Her voice sounded hollow, as if she were talking into a drum, and adrenaline kept kicking through in spurts, making her shake.
A horrified gasp jerked her head up. She registered the wide-eyed stare of a slim, tanned woman wearing tennis whites.
Unclenching her teeth, she motioned for the woman to get down. âItâs okay. Iâve been shot, but I think heâs gone.â
But it wasnât okay. Whoever had shot her had wanted to hit her. They had fired at least twice.
She dialed Burdett, then hung up when she spotted one of his men crouched behind a car near the entrance of the parking lot, talking into a radio. She had been aware that he had followed her, keeping a discreet distance, but she hadnât seen him since she had entered the mall.
The woman, who was now huddled down by the back wheel of
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