Erainya dreamed of J.P.
He stood over her, telling her not to worry-he’d have the ropes off in a moment. She could smell his cologne. She was grateful for the familiar silver stubble on his cheeks, the strong line of his jaw against the broadcloth collar. His hands worked deftly at the knots.
But J.P. had been murdered. She had seen him fall in the alley behind Paesano’s.
The man over her became Fred Barrow. He tugged at the ropes, clumsy and insistent, a gun in one hand, which made it impossible for him to get anywhere.
“Goddamn it, Irene.” He smelled of cigars and bourbon. His belly pressed against her ribs, crushing her as it had the night she’d killed him. “Wake up. Come on.”
Son-of-a-bitch.
She brought up her legs and kneecapped him in the face, sending him sprawling.
Erainya blinked, and came fully awake.
She was lying on a dirty pile of blankets, her arms bound behind her, her dress soaked with sweat. The man she’d just kneed in the head was the young fugitive-Pablo.
He got up, cursing, went to the table and exchanged his gun for a knife.
“Hold still,” he growled, “or I’ll cut your hands off.”
Erainya felt the cold metal blade slip between her wrists. Pablo tugged, and the ropes snapped. She sat up, tried to move her arms. She felt like someone had poured boiling water into her veins.
Pablo stepped back, retrieved his gun. “Do the rest yourself.”
Her fingers were numb. She managed to peel back the duct tape from her mouth.
“Get up.” Pablo stood by the plywood-barricaded window, peeking out a sliver of sunset at something below. “We don’t have much time.”
She fumbled with the knots that bound her ankles. She wanted to feel hopeful about being untied, but she didn’t like the urgency in Pablo’s voice. He had that wild, angry look in his eyes he got every time Will Stirman yelled at him.
She must have missed something. Had Stirman called? Erainya cursed herself for falling asleep.
“Stand up,” Pablo ordered.
“My legs are numb.”
He turned toward her, the light from the window making a luminous pink scar on his left cheek. “Get over here if you want to live. You need to see this.”
Erainya got unsteadily to her feet.
At the window, Pablo put the gun against her spine. “Quietly.”
The evening air felt good on her face-better than the stifling heat inside anyway.
At first, Erainya saw nothing special-train tracks, a half-flooded gravel parking lot freckled with rain, empty loading docks and gutted warehouses. The sun was going down through a break in the clouds.
Then she noticed the blue van with tinted windows, parked under a chinaberry tree at the end of the block. She caught a flicker of movement on a rooftop across the street. A glint of metal in an upper window that should’ve been empty.
“Cops,” Pablo told her. “Your friends broke faith.”
The muzzle of his gun dug between her vertebrae.
Erainya tried to steady her breathing. “I don’t see anything.”
“You won’t see them until they break down the door, huh? They’re setting up a perimeter. We’ve been screwed.”
His breath was sour from lack of sleep and canned food, his eyes red with shame, like a kid who’d just been beat up in the locker room.
Give him options, Erainya told herself.
Pablo had used the word we. He was desperate and alone. He was looking for help.
“Get away from the window,” she told him. “You’re giving the snipers a target.”
He pulled her back, shoving her toward the mattress. “Your friend thought I wouldn’t shoot you? Is that what he thought?”
“You’re not cold-blooded, honey. You just cut me loose.”
“I can’t shoot a woman sleeping and tied up.” His voice quivered. “I wanted you to see them out there. This ain’t my fault.”
A big rig rumbled by outside, drawing Pablo’s attention to the window.
Erainya could try to disarm him, but her limbs were sandbags. She’d grab for the gun only as a last resort. She was afraid that decision might be just a few seconds away.
“Shooting me won’t help,” she said. “Don’t listen to Stirman.”
Pablo’s face was beaded with sweat.
“I can still run,” he said. “The loading dock in back-”
“They’ll kill you as soon as you step outside.”
“I’m not going to mess with a hostage, miss. I’m sorry.”
“Let me go out there,” she said. “I’ll tell them Stirman forced you. That’s true, isn’t it? They’ll treat you fair. I’ll stay with you, honey.”
Pablo blinked.
It had probably been a long time since anyone had offered to stay with him in a crisis.
He raised the gun. “I’m not going back to jail.”
“You don’t have to kill me.”
“If I don’t, Stirman will find me-doesn’t matter if I’m in jail or out. I have to get home. My wife…”
Erainya imagined a SWAT team moving silently into position. A flash-bang grenade would roll in the door first. Maybe tear gas. It wouldn’t be soon enough. Pablo and she were both going to die.
“There’s another way,” she told him. She tried her best not to make it sound like a lie. “I have an idea.”
His finger was white on the trigger. “No time, miss.”
“Listen to me.”
Pablo shook his head, his eyes bright with anger as if he were still hearing Stirman’s voice giving him orders.
Erainya started explaining anyway, describing her last-resort idea as Pablo took aim at her heart.