Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
The even more confusing part was that the man was leaving behind a duffel bag on the floor, not because he was forgetting about it. I’d just watched him glance at it. Gina couldn’t see it due to the front desk blocking the view.
“The bag—”
Coach cut me off with a hand signal, just a subtle halt, and it catapulted me into another mind-set. Something was wrong.
“His accent,” Coach said under his breath. “If he doesn’t pick up his bag within two seconds—” That wasn’t going to happen, and Coach realized it. The man spun around and stalked toward the exit, duffel abandoned, and it set Coach off. He tossed his food container aside and started running.
I followed on autopilot. I threw my fruit and vegetables on the floor, and I automatically unfastened the top strap of my holster.
Coach swooped in and grabbed the duffel, at which point the man by the revolving door spotted him and widened his eyes.
I picked up the pace and sprinted across the lobby.
Considering the man was suddenly in a rush, I couldn’t help but wonder if the contents of that bag were about to blow the fuck up.
I pushed my way through the revolving door and saw Coach dart after the man.
“Everybody away from the plaza!” he yelled. Thankfully, there were only three suits walking across, and they acted fast.
A beat later, Coach flung the bag like a discus halfway across the plaza, and it thumped down mere feet away from the man running.
Holy shit, what was happ—
A deafening roar blasted me backward several feet; I landed on my ass, and a large ball of fire erupted skyward. All the air was knocked out of my lungs, but instead of registering pain and being consumed by worry or panic, a familiar surge of adrenaline kept my mind sharp and focused. Coach was okay; he was out of the explosion zone. Same couldn’t be said for the owner of the bag. A couple of cars had crashed in Hobbs Circle, and people were taking out their phones. Fucking idiots.
I swallowed dryly, ears ringing, and scanned our surroundings.
It took me two seconds to see another man running toward the DoubleTree, and I didn’t hesitate.
“Coach!” I shouted, jumping to my feet.
He turned to me as I started running after. The man wasn’t out for a leisurely jog; he was wearing a leather jacket and jeans, and he ran as if his life depended on it. He also looked back over his shoulder every now and then, so I decided he was involved somehow. It was too suspect.
I had to push it. He was a solid hundred feet ahead of me, and I couldn’t allow myself to lose sight of him.
Coach was surprisingly fast for his age, ’cause he ran up next to me and inserted an earbud. “Seven-two-zero-four-four-one, this is Coach. Recruit Leighton Watts and I are in pursuit of a lone male, brown leather jacket, blue jeans, shaved head.” He started panting. “He’s running up South Eads toward the DoubleTree hotel, and we request immediate backup, over.”
The street was heavily trafficked, and judging by how the man kept looking for a way to cross, it was clear he had a destination in mind.
I sucked in a breath and pushed myself further, and Coach and I shifted closer to the edge of the sidewalk to prevent collisions with oblivious pedestrians.
Now.
I pointed as the man sprinted right into traffic, and we crossed at the same time farther down the road. But we were catching up. I estimated we had about fifty feet to go.
A truck honked at us, and we kept running.
“The dark blue van parked over there,” he panted, pointing toward a loading zone near the hotel. “Back doors are open—you see the guy?”
I saw the guy. He was in the back of the van, holding the doors open, and he wasn’t wearing any kind of worker’s clothes, uniform or whatever.
“We gotta go faster,” I said, my breathing becoming labored. “Any orders?”
“Just stay behind me when we get there.”
“Wilco.”
Our suspicions were confirmed when the guy in the van yelled for the runner, so they clearly knew each other. Additionally, he’d yelled in German, and it couldn’t be a coincidence. This was connected to Beckett’s case.
“They’re gonna give up on him,” Coach grunted. “Few more seconds. We go after the vehicle anyway.”
I didn’t have to ask what his plans were for the runner. He took out his gun and aimed without slowing down, and he fired three shots in quick succession. People around us screamed and scattered, and some cars skidded to a halt near the median of the road.
The runner went down with a loud cry, and blood poured from two wounds in his right leg.
I saw the gun tucked into his jeans, and I bent down and grabbed it as we ran past.