Page 67 of Philly
“They have a nice spa at the resort,” she pointed out, wanting to hear him talk.
“Too fucking rich for my blood,” he replied. There it was again, a tiny accent on his second f-bomb.
“If you can’t afford a spa treatment here, then whoever is paying you isn’t paying you enough.”
“Ain’t that the truth. But there’re other perks,” he said, confirming his professional standing.
A trickle of blood slid down her neck, and the faint sound of a small motor drifted on the breeze. A boat arriving to pick him up.
“You didn’t manage to finish the job, though. We’re still standing. And Joe, well, you heard the sirens.”
The sound of the motor grew louder in the silence that followed. Then her chatty killer heaved a sigh. “I won’t much regret it if Joe lives. Never thought that order was a good one. I do regret missing you and your soldier, though. Years out of the service and he still has the reflexes of a fucking cat.”
She eased forward and chanced another look. She could no longer see the river from where she stood tucked behind the thin outcropping, but she had a view of most of the canyon. Andthe hitman was nowhere to be seen. Taking another chance, she darted across the small space to the next outcropping. Like the one she’d left, it didn’t give her full coverage, but it protected the important parts.
She was rewarded with another shot, only this one missed by enough that the sandstone shrapnel fell short of reaching her.
“Your employer isn’t going to be happy,” she said, wiping a thin trail of blood from her cheek.
He chuckled. “You’re right about that. But a body doesn’t get into this line of business without having backup plans and plans to back up the backup plans.”
His employer would be pissed that he screwed up, pissed that she and Gabriel would be on notice now. But in all fairness, he wasn’t yet a liability. Other than the sound of his voice and the fact that he ran like a crab, she hadn’t seen any details that would allow her to identify him. His failures that night were a black mark against him for sure—you didn’t miss three hits (assuming Joe lived) without consequences—but it wouldn’t be career-, or life-, ending.
“Well, it’s been real, Special Agent in Charge Calypso Parks, but I have a boat to catch.”
The shot he fired had its intended effect, and she pressed herself hard against the sandstone at her back, its rough and uneven edges digging into her skin. Ignoring the pain, she darted forward. Just in time to see the man fall out of sight.
She hesitated. Was there a cliff that dropped into the river? Or would her quarry pop up again and take one more shot at finishing her off?
Then the boat engine roared to life and began moving downstream, answering her question.
Her toe dug into the earth, and, using it like a starting block, she surged forward. If she reached the riverbed in time, she might get a shot off—maybe disable their engine and draw theattention of whatever local law enforcement Gabriel had called. The hitman’s weapon had been all but silent. Hers was not.
With her focus on the end of the canyon, she missed a rock embedded in the packed earth right in her path. Her toe caught the edge, and momentum did the rest. No mere stumble, she plowed into the earth.
Pain reverberated through her knees and up her thighs. Her palms burned against the packed sand. The rest of her body followed, hitting the ground, the momentum pushing her forward a foot or two. Her sturdy shirt held, but grit and rocks dug through the material, scraping along her stomach. Her chin bounced once before she managed to bring her arms down and protect her face.
Her movements stopped as abruptly as they started, and she lay on the ground, too stunned to feel the full extent of the damage. She tried to take a steadying breath but couldn’t pull the air into her lungs. Panic clawed at her, insistent and powerful, and for a brief second, she considered what it would be like to die in the desert.
Only Gabriel wouldn’t let that happen.
Shewouldn’t let that happen. At that thought, her head cleared. She let the panic wash over her, not fighting it, not making it more than what it was—a feeling—and focused on one thing at a time.
Breathing first. She inhaled slowly, though not deeply, and air filled her lungs. She didn’t think she’d broken a rib, only that she’d had the wind knocked out of her. Once that truth settled, she calmed her body and continued breathing. By the fourth breath, she managed to push up on her hands and knees, then roll to a sitting position.
Silence greeted her. No sound of an engine drifted from the river. Her hitman had escaped.
Letting her head fall back, she looked up at the thin line of sky and stars visible between the sides of the canyon. An owl, maybe the same one as before, swooped overhead.
Defeat rolled through her body. She didn’t question whether it was warranted or not, she just let it settle on her shoulders.
Her aching shoulders.
With another deep breath, she curled her legs underneath her, then pushed herself up. And started the long walk back to the resort.
36
Callie limped back toward the entrance of the canyon, berating herself every step of the way for taking that fall. Every inch of her body hurt, and as far as she was concerned, she deserved it. She wouldn’t have caught the shooter, but maybe she could have identified the boat. Or glimpsed him or his accomplice.
