Читать книгу Outside The Law - Michelle Karl - Страница 10

ONE

“I’m going to be fine, Auntie Zee. Please stop worrying about me.” Yasmine Browder hoisted her messenger bag higher on her shoulder and tucked her cell phone between her cheek and ear so she could reach back to pull her ponytail holder out of her hair. After having her hair up all day at the bakery, her scalp felt tight and in desperate need of relief. “I’m not lonely.”

It was a partial truth, but she wanted to ease her aunt’s anxieties, not add to them.

“I can’t help but worry about you, honey.” Her aunt’s words were strained. “You’ve been back for only eight months and you work so hard, and now, with Daniel gone...”

Aunt Zara’s voice trailed off, but Yasmine caught the unspoken meaning. She ignored it and slipped the hair elastic around her wrist. She pulled her sweater sleeves down, sneezing at the flour released from where it had become trapped in the fabric. She normally wore short-sleeved shirts to work, but the weather had cooled with the change of seasons—and besides, she often found herself chilled by the weather in western New York State. Especially after having returned here only about eight months ago from a ten-year stay overseas in the Kingdom of Amar, the desert-swathed country where most of her mother’s family lived.

“I have to put in the work if I want Cinnamon Sunrise to thrive. Starting a small business is no easy feat.” She’d come back to her hometown to live with her brother, but since his death several weeks ago, she’d begun wondering if she ever should have come back at all. He’d been happy to share his apartment with her, but now that she was on her own...well, Auntie Zee wasn’t far off in her concerns. In dusty Amar, she’d never been alone, constantly surrounded by friends and family, whereas the prospect of entering the apartment tonight, knowing she’d spend the evening inside by herself watching television or reading—or, if she was being honest with herself, probably working on new recipes for the bakery’s Thanksgiving menu—sounded less than appealing.

But what was her other option? Admit defeat to her aunt and listen to another lecture on why she was wasting her life running a bakery? Or phone a relative back in Amar, only to hear a different lecture about how she should move back there for good? That wasn’t appealing, either, and besides, she loved Newherst. And New York State, despite the weather. She’d made a good life here in only eight months, and she cherished her childhood memories of this town.

“You’re better than this, Yasmine. All that education and all that discipline you learned in the military, and you spend your days baking rolls. For what? You might as well go out and get married like your cousins. At least then—”

“I like what I do, auntie.” Yasmine tried to maintain her composure as she trudged up the steps to her brother’s fifth-floor apartment. The elevator would have been faster, sure, but staying health-conscious had become a priority since she started spending her days around breads, sweets and pastries. “And I’m surprised you’re not more supportive. You remember that many of my recipes are based on your own wonderful creations, right? The people of Newherst adore your spiced flatbread.”

Her aunt grumbled unintelligibly as Yasmine reached the apartment door and dug in her bag for the keys.

“I’m home, auntie. I’ll call you tomorrow, all right?”

“You’ll come for dinner, is what you’ll do. At six.”

“The bakery closes at six. I’ll come as soon as the doors are shut and locked.” Yasmine found her keys in a side pocket and shook her head at the silliness of constantly losing the same item over and over each day, in the same bag, no less. She slipped the key into the lock.

“Fine.” Her aunt went silent before releasing a heavy sigh. “I love you, honey. And I miss your brother.”

“We all do, Auntie Zee. Love you, too, and see you tomorrow.” She turned the door handle, slipped her phone into her messenger bag and paused.

Something felt wrong.

She pulled the door shut again and slipped the key out. When she’d turned the key, she hadn’t heard a click, which meant that the door hadn’t been locked after all. She clearly remembered locking the door that morning. The only other people with a key to this apartment were the building landlord and her aunt, and her aunt didn’t drive.

Her throat grew tight and dry as she considered her options. Maybe it was a neighbor and the landlord had let the person in. Or maybe there’d been a utilities issue and someone had come inside to fix it, and nobody had locked up afterward.

She glanced down the hallway, seeing nothing else amiss.

“You’re just being paranoid,” she mumbled. “You’re alone and jumpy since losing Daniel, and now look at you, talking to yourself. Get a grip before you give Auntie Zee more ammunition.”

Taking a deep breath, Yasmine gripped the handle again and turned. She pushed open the door and lifted her messenger bag strap up to slip it off her shoulder. A click came from somewhere nearby, and she froze.

“Hello? Is somebody there?” Stop it, she thought. There’s nobody—

Something zipped past her ear, splintering the door frame beside her. At the same instant, the two front windows shattered as black-clad bodies burst through them into the room, aiming large semiautomatic weapons at her.

As the next bullet zipped past her ear, she dropped to the floor and rolled out of the apartment, then sprang to her feet and sprinted down the hallway. Bullets tore through the wall beside her, ripping through her living room and bedroom. Those are powerful guns. She scolded herself for the thought. Why are you analyzing their weapons at a time like this? Go, go, go!

Her left knee began to sting, but despite knowing what that sting might mean, she kept moving. She’d taken a bullet before, during her time in the Amar military. She’d joined out of loyalty to her family’s heritage and as a way to earn dual citizenship with both countries she considered home.

She reached the elevator and paused, but the thundering of boots behind her said she’d run out of time. It was back to the stairs.

She spun on her heel and slammed her body through the door into the stairwell. She felt air displacement as a bullet whipped past her shoulder. She gripped the hand rail and took the stairs three, four at a time, swinging her body around at each landing to gain precious seconds in her escape.

Of course, if whoever was shooting at her had left somebody outside to guard the exits, she’d be done for. And she’d never know why.

It doesn’t make sense. Why are people shooting at me? And why shoot to kill instead of taking me into custody or as a hostage?

Had she done something or said something political since returning from Amar? But that wouldn’t make sense. Both countries were on the best of terms, especially since the recent discovery by an American professor of an ancient archaeological site in Amar had resulted in a boost in tourism and significant global press about the partnership between several universities there and here in the United States.

“I don’t know anything,” she said through gritted teeth. “What are you after?”

At the base of the stairs, she pressed her ear against the exit door, listening. She heard nothing unusual outside, but the pounding of heavy footfalls in the stairwell and the sudden ding of the elevator doors told her she’d run out of time to make a decision.

It was escape or die, which left her with only one real choice. She shoved the crash bar on the door, blinking against the descending sun’s rays. The footfalls were growing closer and closer, and another gunshot told her that they weren’t too concerned about ricochets in the metal stairwell—so they were very stupid, they wore full body armor or they were highly trained and incredibly accurate shots when presented with a normal target. Perhaps they hadn’t accounted for her military training. Or maybe they had—maybe that’s why there were so many of them.

Seeing no one outside waiting, Yasmine let the heavy metal door swing shut behind her as she sprinted toward the street. Several cars drove up and down the street on either side of the road, but she saw nothing unusual for this time of day...except the three black Suburbans parked in front of the apartment building. She crouched behind a steel waste container and peered around the corner, praying that nobody in the SUVs had been assigned to watch this edge of the building. When no one jumped out of the vehicles and ran toward her, she sent a quick prayer of thanks to God and tried to calm her racing thoughts.

At any second, men with guns would come bursting out of that stairwell door, and it wouldn’t take them long to find her. She couldn’t run back to the building to reach her car—the parking structure was on the other side, and if there were still men in the black SUVs, she’d never get there in one piece.

None of it made sense, but she’d have to figure out the whys later. If she survived.

She took a deep breath and counted to ten, exhaling slowly. She’d have to make a run for it down the street. She had to make it only one block before she’d reach a fairly busy street, where she should be able to get help and maybe flag down a ride to the police station. She plunged her hand into her bag and touched her phone, thinking to get a head start on a 911 phone call, but she’d run out of time—the side door burst open and five black-garbed men poured out and stood in a V-shaped formation, scanning the area. Even their faces were covered by shiny helmets and faceplates.

She swallowed hard, kicking herself for not moving seconds earlier. She’d taken too long to decide what to do next, but that didn’t mean she was going to stay here and wait for a bullet to find her.

I don’t know what’s going on, Lord, but I’m going to trust that You have a way out for me. She closed her eyes and visualized the route she would take. Three, two, one...

Yasmine took off in a crouch from her hiding place, hoping the waste disposal bin would provide enough cover to distract the gunmen from seeing her right away. It didn’t take long, though. While she didn’t hear any shouts behind her, she felt air whoosh past her arm as she ran. They were still shooting, and they clearly didn’t care if they hit anyone or anything else.

A car turned the corner at the end of the block, and Yasmine’s heart sank. She waved her arms, not caring if it made her a bigger target. “Turn around! Go back!” she shouted, hoping the driver would hear her, but he kept coming down the road. If he continued, he’d head right into the line of fire.

She veered off the sidewalk and into the street, heading directly toward the car. Even if the driver couldn’t hear her or was trying to ignore her waving arms, there was no way he’d be able to avoid a person right in the middle of the street.

“Reverse! Call the police!” She reached the center of the street, but the car didn’t slow down. She put on a burst of speed as more air displacement near her shoulder and waist told her that it was only a matter of seconds before the shooters had her directly in their sights.

And if the driver wouldn’t stop, she’d force him to.

She ran straight toward the hood of the car and let herself be swiped by the side of the front bumper. The car screeched to a halt as she took the hit, tensing her body and rolling off to the side, collapsing on the opposite side of the hood.

Before the driver could open his door and jump out to ask questions, Yasmine reached up, grabbed the passenger door handle and threw open the door. Then she lunged inside, slammed the door shut and slid down in the seat so that she couldn’t be seen through the windshield.

“There are men with guns coming this way,” she said in a rush. “Reverse the car or we’re both going to get shot.”

As if in response, a bullet slammed against the windshield, sending a spider web of cracks spreading out from where it struck. Yasmine gaped. Why didn’t it shatter?

Only then did she think to look at the driver of the car, who stared at her with an expression of utter disbelief. “Noel?” she said. “Noel Black?”

“Yasmine Browder?” He laughed, though his mouth hung open in shock. “What’s going on here? Why are you in my car?”

Ping. Crack. More spider webs spread across the windshield. It didn’t look like the thing could take many more hits.

“Can we do this later?” She pointed at the cracks. “Preferably while we’re both still alive?”

“Right.” He threw the car into Reverse, looked over his shoulder and stepped on the gas. The car shot to life. He backed down the street, turned the wheel and shifted gears to lunge forward and around the corner.

Yasmine released the breath she’d been holding and peeked through the rear window. “Thank you. If you don’t mind, can I get a ride to the police station?”

* * *

Noel Black tried not to stare at the woman sitting in the passenger seat of his car. She looked terrified and trying very hard not to show it. After spending twenty weeks in the FBI Academy at Quantico for his special agent training, he’d seen that look on the faces of many of his classmates—and he’d probably worn it himself, to be honest—more than once in the time they’d all spent together. And those had only been Hogan’s Alley training scenarios. He’d always hoped that look wouldn’t appear on his own face the first time he tackled a real-life threatening situation, but he hadn’t counted on receiving the shock of his life less than twenty-four hours after graduation.

He had a feeling he wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding his surprise at seeing his childhood crush jump into his vehicle to avoid getting shot. My poor car. Good thing I had her readied for duty last week.

“You want to tell me what just happened?” he asked her, though what he really wanted to do was pull over and savor the moment of this reunion. How long had it been since he’d seen her—ten years? More? “Were those guys actually shooting at you?”

Yasmine shook her head and chewed on the edge of a fingernail as she stared through the back window. “Yes? No? I don’t know. Look, Noel, I’m sorry to ask this of you, but I really do need to get to the police station. Actually, I should call 911 first, get them over there.”

“Who were those guys?” He’d seen the black Suburbans at the end of the street and what appeared to be men in full black tactical gear—including facial coverings—down by the Willow Street apartment complex.

“I don’t know.”

“Were they after you?”

“It appears so, but I honestly don’t know.”

“Is there anything you can tell me?”

“No. Aren’t you listening?” She twisted to look through the window again, then fell back against her seat with a huff. “If they shot up my reupholstered sofa, I’m going to be really upset.”

Noel almost veered off the road at the inanity of her comment. “Masked men shooting at you for no reason, and you’re worried about your sofa?”

“I’m probably in shock.”

“You think?” Noel wanted to laugh, shout at her and run into the fight all at the same time. Apparently a decade hadn’t changed her one bit—she was still the same quirky girl he’d known from those days spent together watching cartoons and, later, preteen sitcoms when both of their moms had Bible study at her parents’ apartment on Saturday mornings. The Browders’ home had always smelled of cinnamon, nutmeg and honey. Didn’t seem to matter what time of day or what time of year, middle of summer or dead of winter. In fact, he thought he could even smell it now.

The scent grew stronger as Yasmine shifted in her seat. Wait, was that scent coming from her? Noel swallowed a growing lump in his throat, fighting to suppress the surge of memory from those days when he’d accompanied his mother to her place just so he could sit near the pretty girl with the long, dark hair.

Beeping cut through the moment of memory. Yasmine had her phone out and was pressing buttons. She told the operator what had happened and mentioned that she was on the way to the Newherst Central Police Station. As she hung up and tucked the phone back into her bag, Noel considered how to broach the topic of...anything. Anything at all. What did you say to someone you hadn’t seen for ten years who’d just jumped into your car to avoid gunfire?

He sent his mind into the past, trying to choose a safe topic. He could ask about her family or her time away. He couldn’t remember exactly where she’d moved—he’d tried to look her up a few years back out of curiosity but couldn’t find any social media profiles. Ask about what she was doing these days? It seemed too benign, especially considering the situation. They had armed gunmen to worry about, not a reunion to stage.

The police station parking lot came up quickly, and he pulled into a spot near the door. Yasmine fiddled with her seat belt, nervous fingers betraying her calm exterior. Best to take her mind off things with an easy, comforting question.

“So, how’s your brother Daniel doing these days?”

Her fingers stopped moving. The silence that followed told him he’d made a huge mistake.

In one quick movement, she unlatched her seat belt and threw open the car door. She slipped out and leaned over to look at him with eyes of stone. “He died.”

Noel’s stomach and heart sank into his feet. Not Daniel. Yasmine hadn’t been the only Browder he’d shared Saturday mornings with. “Yasmine, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Was it recent?”

“Three weeks ago.” Her voice held no emotion as she pulled her body back from the car, feet and hips distancing themselves from him. “Freak workplace accident.”

He wanted to ask where Daniel had worked, how it had happened, but the coldness in her expression told him that she’d already shut down. The woman had just been shot at, and now Noel had to go and bring her late brother into the conversation. Could he feel like any more of a jerk?

“I’ll come in with you” is what he said instead. He slid out of his side of the car as Yasmine slammed the door. “I saw the trucks and some shooters, and ballistics may need to check my car over.”

She shook her head. “It’s okay. Don’t feel like you owe me anything.”

He circled his vehicle as she backed away. “You’re the one who hurdled my car and used me as a getaway driver. Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

The barest hint of a smile appeared. “Touché.”

He came alongside her, and they strolled into the police station together. He reached for the door to hold it open for her, but she grabbed it first and held it open behind her for him. “I don’t mean to pry,” he said, “but do you know for sure no one else was in your apartment?”

She pursed her lips and sighed as they approached the reception desk. “I shared it with Daniel since coming back from Amar. And with him gone, it’s just me. Shouldn’t I be giving this info to law enforcement first? If you want to listen, fine, but—”

He felt a smirk crawl across the corner of his mouth as his right hand reached into his inner left jacket pocket. He touched the ID sleeve carrying his badge and FBI identification, which he still hadn’t gotten used to carrying around—not that he’d had it for all that long. Less than a day, to be precise.

“What?” Yasmine’s hands landed on her hips, the movement releasing more of that delicious scent of honey and cinnamon. “Since when is any of this something to smile about?”

He pulled out the ID holder and flashed his shiny new FBI shield for the first time since leaving Quantico, making sure Yasmine was the only one to see it. No need to alarm the local police or have them think he’d come to pull rank. They might not understand that he’d stumbled into the shooting scene by coincidence, and he’d rather have a handle on the situation before revealing his credentials.

Yasmine gaped at the badge, then looked from him to the receptionist and back at him. “What is that? Noel?”

He touched a finger to his lips. “Yasmine, I am law enforcement. And as much as I want to think that you returning from Amar, your brother’s death and this attempt on your life are not related, let’s not rule it out.”

“But—” She stopped and crossed her arms. Looked at the floor with a frown and then back at him, her stony eyes reflecting a deep, fresh pain. When she spoke, her voice was almost a whisper. “Noel, there’s something else you should know, something no one else believes me about because I don’t have any proof.”

He gripped her by the shoulders so she faced him straight on, but he let go just as quickly when he saw the surprise in her face. “You can trust me.”

Whether she actually did or not, he couldn’t tell, but he could tell she was keeping a secret that was eating her alive inside. He’d learned to identify that in training, so the knowledge was recent and clear.

She came to a decision, her eyes flicking first to the pocket where he’d tucked his badge and then back at him. “I think Daniel might have been murdered.”