Crossing Lines by Adrienne Giordano
21
The flu.
His damned cook had the flu.
Shane lay on his side in the big king-sized bed, his hand cupped over his phone so the glare wouldn’t wake Faith. At some point during the night, she’d pressed herself against his back, waking him up in the process.
Spooning. He’d never been a fan. Today?
Big fan.
He brought his focus back to making sure the bar could open. Friday night was not the time to be short-staffed.
Barely dawn and his day was falling apart. Maybe Stef, the part-timer who covered the kitchen when Derek needed a day off, could cover. She worked at another restaurant on the weekends, though, and with Shane not pulling his weight, they were already screwed.
“Shit,” he whispered.
Faith sat up. Boom. Instantly alert.
“What?”
He rolled to his back and dropped the phone on his belly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. I’ve been up since five.”
An hour? She’d been so still he hadn’t realized she’d been awake. “You should have said something.”
She smiled. “I was enjoying the quiet. What’s wrong?”
“My cook has the flu.”
“Ew.”
He snorted. “The bar doesn’t care that we’re chasing an assassin and a corrupt president.”
“Do you need to go? I can find us another hotel and work on Brutus’s files there. We should leave anyway.”
He sat up, swung his feet to the floor, dug his palms into his eyes and pushed. The damned pressure was insane.
“Hoping my part-timer can cover the kitchen.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve blown up your life.”
He looked at her over his shoulder. The phone’s light partially illuminated her face, giving her an ethereal presence that chipped away at his pissy mood.
“We’ve talked about this,” he said. “I could have walked away. It was my choice. I’m okay with that. For all our sakes, we need to close this out.”
How they’d do that if Alfaro located him, he wasn’t sure. Like Faith, Shane had zero interest in starting over.
Shane stood and stretched his back. “I’ll run to the bar, get the kitchen prepped and see if my part-time cook can cover today. Before we leave here, let’s find another hotel, something close to the bar. Which sucks since Brutus has already been to the coffee shop, but — ”
“You have a business to run. Don’t worry about me. I’ll lay low.”
“I’ll drop you off on the way and meet you there when I’m done. That work?”
She whipped the covers off. “It sure does. Hopefully, by the time you’re done, we’ll have heard from Rey and I’ll have found something in the files.”
Yeah, good luck. Chances of all those things happening in the next few hours were a total long shot.
Two hours later,Faith hunkered down in yet another hotel, this one smaller, independently owned and barely a mile from the bar. A bit too close, in Faith’s opinion, but they’d been hotel hopping each day and wouldn’t be squatting long.
For now, it was a necessary evil so Shane could be close while keeping his business afloat.
The only room available boasted two double beds, a desk she currently utilized, a loveseat, and a giant whirlpool tub her weary body might enjoy.
Combat with Brutus resulted in muscle soreness and stiff limbs. None of which were good on the run.
Back to work.
The tub would have to wait. She peered at the laptop in front of her. So far, she’d skimmed a handful of folders from the list Joel had given her. When skimming didn’t result in any hits, she used the find function and searched for Alfaro, Venezuela, United States, CIA and Liz Aiken.
Zippo. Zippo. Zippo. Zippo.
And zippo.
She sat back, stacked her hands on top of her head. Nothing in the files regarding Liz Aiken.
It should have been great. Terrific even.
But if her name wasn’t anywhere in Brutus’s files, how the hell had he found her so fast?
Then it hit her. An absolute blast that should have knocked her out of her chair.
Cover name.
Dammit.
He must know her cover name. All this time she’d been searching for Liz Aiken when she should have been searching for Faith Burgess.
Total rookie mistake.
She jotted her new initials at the top of the list she’d printed earlier and circled the directories she’d need to go back and search.
Her phone buzzed. Blocked number. For a brief second, she considered letting it go. What if . . .
She scooped up the phone, swiping at the screen. “Hello?”
“Hi.” The same high, male voice from the day before, but this time barely a whisper. “It’s me.”
Reynaldo. Thank God.
“Are you okay?”
“I have little time. This morning. Driving boss. He talked to someone. About Chicago. A restaurant, I think. He said fire.”
The words came fast. Mixed with Rey’s heavy Spanish accent, Faith wasn’t sure she heard correctly. “Slow down. A restaurant fire?”
“Si.”
Okay. Now that was weird. By now, Alfaro probably knew they’d found Brutus. Or at least that someone had found Brutus. Could he be planning on burning down a restaurant the man might be eating in?
That made no sense. Why would Brutus, after being outed, tell Alfaro where he might dine? If anything, he’d run like hell.
Wait.
She snapped her head up, sucked in a hard breath. No, no, no. Couldn’t be. But…
“Rey, are you sure he said restaurant? Or a bar?”
Because, holy cow, if it was a bar, they had a big problem. Deep breath. She needed to focus. Concentrate.
“He was on phone,” Rey said. “Talking about a kitchen. I heard corner and then tap. I have to go.”
She squeezed her eyes closed, visualized slowing the blood rush storming her system. “You heard corner and tap? Was it together? Like Corner Tap or was it broken up? Corner and tap with words in between?”
“Together. I think. Si. Corner Tap.”
Oh, God. She stood, already moving around the room and propping the phone between her shoulder and cheek. Her mind reeled, screaming commands as she grabbed her gun and holster, securing them to her waist. “When?”
“Good morning!” Reynaldo called to someone on his end then a flurry of Spanish.
“Reynaldo!” she snapped. “Please. This is important.”
The line went silent for a few seconds. “I have to go,” he said. “I call you back.”
Click.
Dammit, this guy.
She lowered the phone, staring at it for a solid five seconds while options whizzed through her mind.
Fire.
Corner.
Tap.
She eased out a breath, forced her brain into focus. One thing at a time.
Could Alfaro be planning to set Shane’s bar on fire? Why would he do that? Setting the fire wouldn’t benefit him. Why not just kill Shane?
What the hell was Alfaro doing?
The whole damned thing confused her. Unless . . .
Oh no. No, no, no.Could Alfaro know Shane usually went to the bar every morning? Could they be planning on killing him and setting the fire to cover it?
Faith ran.
Just bolted to the door, swinging into the hallway and charging to the stairs, flying down, using the railing so she didn’t faceplant. Get there. Warn him.
Yes. That’s what she’d do. Warn Shane. Tell him to get out until they verified he’d been burned.
Again.
Phone still in her hand, she paused on the second-floor landing. No signal.
She burst into a run, hurling her body down the steps. First floor. Finally. She whipped the door open. To her left was a long hallway to the lobby. To the right? Emergency exit. She pushed through.
Dark gray clouds rolled in and a blast of wind blew her hair back. She hadn’t been in the Midwest long, but she’d already experienced the intensity a spring storm could inflict.
She checked her phone. Signal. She tapped Shane’s number, lifted the phone to her ear and sprinted down the alley.
The call went straight to voice mail.
Was he kidding? Could the phone be off? No way. That’d be insanity.
“Shane!” she said. “Get out of the bar. Right now. I’m on my way. Rey called. I think Alfaro found you. Get out!”
She clicked off, reached the end of the alley and found herself staring at logjammed cars. The last of the morning rush. She turned left, heading in the general direction of the bar, hoping to find a cab at the corner.
Three-quarters of a mile. That’s all. She swung her head left and right. Cars, cars and more cars. A horn sounded. One of those long blasts that set her last nerve firing.
Even if she nabbed a cab, they’d be sitting in this mess.
Six minutes. If she pushed, she’d reach Shane in six minutes.
Her apartment, that cute little space she might never step foot in again was only a few blocks east. Over the last weeks, she’d mapped out every escape path from this neighborhood and knew them well. She hooked a left at the corner. She’d cut down the next block and — an alley. A long one that would shave at least a minute.
She gripped her phone. That and the gun were the only things she’d left the room with. Not her knife or cash or even a damned key.
Shit.
Emotions. Always the enemy. She’d been trained better.
She got to the alley. A garbage truck blocked traffic. Easy. She’d squeeze by.
Less than five minutes. That’s all she needed to get to Shane. But they’d need help if Brutus or Alfaro’s hit squad had already found him.
She stopped running. A quick second. Her lungs heaved and she forced herself to take deep, diaphragmatic breaths while stabbing at the phone. Searching for Dusty’s number.
While it connected, she sprinted around the garbage truck.
“Baby girl,” Dusty’s easy voice came through the phone. “What’s up?”
“Get to the bar. I think Shane’s in trouble. He’s not answering.”
“What?”
“Dusty! Please. I’m hauling ass there now. On foot. Meet me there.”
“On my way,” he said. “I’ll call Trev and we’ll meet you.”
The line went dead. God only knew where either of them were and how long it would take in this traffic. Shane had already said he, Dusty and Trevor lived on opposite sides of the city.
She glanced at the phone, willing Shane’s name to appear on screen.
Nothing.
By now, Shane might already be dead.
Shane stoodat the prep table tossing salt and pepper into the giant mixture of ground beef and pork. His mom’s trick with these babies was getting the ratio of beef to pork right. That’s where the flavor came from. Everyone thought it was the seasoning. Some sort of ultra-secret recipe. If they only knew.
Once he had the meat prepped, he’d move on to grinding chicken and turkey. They didn’t do as many chicken and turkey burgers, but he still liked to be prepared.
In larger restaurants, they had prep cooks that handled this level of work. In his operation everyone pitched in.
He kneaded the meat, giving it a final mix, the rhythmic, easy motion soothing his battered mind. He glanced at the wall clock: 9:10. He’d be out of here in an hour and the staff could handle the rest. Stef, his part-timer, had saved him, somehow managing to cover the weekend. It would cost him time-and-a-half, but he didn’t have much choice.
The sound of glass shattering in the bar area stopped him cold.
What the hell?
He dragged his hand from the raw meat, grabbed the dishrag on the prep table and ran to the swinging double-doors, kicking one open. More glass breaking.
Whump!
A fireball erupted in the middle of the floor, the flames shooting in all directions and — holy shit — a barstool went up in a flashing burst that torched the stool next to it.
He reared back, sprinting the few feet to the wall-mounted fire extinguisher.
Seconds. That’s how long a fire took to engulf a room. Particularly one with oiled wood. The whole place might be gone in minutes.
He ran through the doors and the P.A.S.S. method for fire he’d trained the staff on hammered his mind.
Flames shot up the walls. In those few seconds, the fire had doubled.
He pulled the pin, aimed, squeezed and swept side to side.
Should have called 911 first. At this rate, the bar would be gone before the fire department even got there.
He kept at it, spraying in a sweeping motion, aiming at the base of the fire. Barstools he could replace. If it got to the kitchen, forget it. Months of rebuilding.
The register. He’d been too tired to leave the hotel last night to collect the day’s cash. First time ever he’d left it and now an entire day’s revenue could burn up. He didn’t even know how much was in there. Could be thousands, could be hundreds. Either way, it was money he’d need.
Not to mention his mom’s blue ribbon from the baking contest. He kept the award on the wall next to the register. He’d removed any identifying features, leaving just a plain ribbon, but every time he went into that cash register, he had a reminder of a good life.
And he wasn’t letting it get torched.
He turned toward the bar, shot at the base of the flames. If he could knock it back enough, maybe he’d get there. But he needed two hands for the fire extinguisher. How the hell would he get that register open?
He’d figure it out when he got there.
If he didn’t die in the process.
The bar was on fire.
Her stomach cramping from the run, Faith sprinted the last thirty yards to the Corner Tap as glowing orange flames snapped and licked at the now broken front window.
A crowd of onlookers gathered across the street in front of the coffee shop where the owner, Darla, appeared to be on her cell phone. Hopefully calling 911. Thunder boomed overhead, the sky continuing to darken. Storm rolling in. A good soaking might help Shane.
Could he have gotten out? She scanned the crowd again. Please let him be there.
No Shane.
Back entrance.
He said he used that one most days to get in and out. He might be there. Safe in the alley.
“Darla!” she called across the street. “Have you seen Shane?”
For a second, Darla simply stared at her, apparently trying to make the connection between Faith, one of her customers, and Shane.
“Um, no,” she hollered back. “I called the fire department. Is he inside?”
Not bothering to respond, Faith cut down the intersecting block, nearly skidding around the corner. She pumped her legs, pushing herself harder, faster. Get there, get there, get there.
Cutting left into the alley, she spotted his car parked near the entrance. She reached the door. An old-fashioned one with a glass upper pane that had been painted black and blocked her view inside.
She touched her finger to the knob — no heat — then grabbed it. Locked. She smacked the door, banging her palm against the wood beside the window.
“Shane! It’s me! Open up!”
No answer.
Her heart banged against her chest, the panic spewing and lighting her senses. The stench of spoiled food from the dumpster assaulted her. Her gag reflex kicked in and she held her breath, focused on getting the damned door open.
Sirens howled. Not close enough. She had to try.
She slid her gun from the holster, but not wanting to take a chance that Shane might be on the other side of the door, decided against shooting the lock off. Instead, she slammed the butt of the gun through the window, cleared a hole big enough to snake her arm in and skimmed her fingers over the inside handle. No heat, but thick, black smoke filled the hallway, oozing toward her, stealing whatever oxygen might be left.
She’d never been inside, but had peeped in the front window once when she’d been out at dawn after a sleepless night.
Entering from the rear, the bar would be on her left. Kitchen behind it? Had to be.
“Shane!”
When he didn’t answer, another burst of panic flooded her. Smoke continued its snaking approach to the rear door, filling more and more of the hallway.
If she intended to go in, she needed something to filter that lung-destroying smoke.
She glanced down at her long-sleeved T-shirt. Removing it would leave her in a tank top. Zero protection from flames.
Burns she’d recover from.
Smoke inhalation would kill them both.
Tearing the shirt over her head, she covered her mouth, stepped inside and darted through the hallway. Ahead, flames swarmed the bar area and the smoke . . . Lord, her eyes burned.
First door. She opened it. Storage closet. She shut the door again, refusing to give the blaze additional oxygen.
Next door. Office. No Shane.
God help him if he was in the main area.
Before she reached the mouth of the narrow hallway, a bizarre roar sounded. What the hell? A blast of heat halted her then — poof! — the far wall went up.
Faith’s feet rooted to the floor as the flames devoured the wall in a glorious flash of orange and yellow. Seconds. That’s all she had before the entire interior succumbed to the vicious fire.
She had to find him.
Go.
Was he even here? Maybe he’d gotten out.
Had she run into a burning building and he wasn’t even here?
No. He’d have answered her calls by now. He had to be here. She ran toward the flames, reached the end of the hallway and there he was, fire extinguisher in hand.
At some point she’d rage at him for being an idiot. Right now she was so damned happy to see him, her mind tripped to an escape plan.
She lowered the shirt from her mouth. Smoke immediately filled her throat, smothering her air. “Shane!”
He swung to her, his eyes nearly bulging. “Get out of here! I’ve got it!”
Uh. No. He didn’t.
“Are you insane? We need to go! The fire department is on the way!”
“Last night’s cash is in the register.”
That’s what he was worried about. The cash?
He coughed, then lifted one arm, sealing his mouth against his sleeve, the smoke clearly getting to him. She’d been in here less than a minute and felt its effect.
“Forget the money,” she said. “Do you want to die in here?”
She charged him, grabbing hold of his shirt, squeezing her fingers over the fabric. “Let’s go.”
He gave the fire extinguisher a shot, spraying it in the general direction of the register. The flames retreated, then roared back, their angry licks snapping at the mirror behind the bar.
Again, she tugged on Shane’s shirt and he looked at her, his eyes darkening.
“The money. We need it.”
“I know,” she said. “But we’re not dying in here. Let’s go.”
She raised her shirt back to her mouth and used her free hand to drag him with her to the hallway.
Whump.
A fireball erupted through a floor vent, swarming the small area. She halted, slamming against Shane, in full command of that fire extinguisher.
Oh my God. Of all the ways to die, she didn’t want this to be the one.
Fire snaked up one wall to the ceiling tiles that exploded into a ball of orange.
Shane jumped in front of her, aiming and blasting the ceiling and the walls in a sweeping motion.
“Go!” he said. “I’ll hold it back while you run.”
“You have to come with me!”
“I will. I’ll follow.”
Again she grabbed his shirt. “We’re staying together.”
He continued the sweeping motion, back and forth, up and down clearing a path, momentarily delaying the inevitable, but giving them enough time to run. Just feet ahead, the door welcomed them to safety.
Get there.
That’s all they had to do. Just get there.