she swore, stalking after him. From this angle her bullets would punch right through him and into his hostage.
Weaving around couples too stunned to run, stepping over a downed body, Raine reached the doorway—then yelped as an arm hooked around her waist. It yanked her back against muscled resilience, a delectable fragrance of bay rum and overheated male. She jabbed an elbow into a stomach soft as a chunk of granite. “Le’go, dammit, that’s a friend of mine!”
“Not so fast, Ashaway. You spoiled Clinton’s party. The man may hold a grudge.” Amber Eyes released her and sank to a crouch. He reached for an elegant red Prada pump that some woman had lost, held it around the corner—a shot sang out of the dark. He stood and showed her the sole, neatly drilled. “And he can shoot. Any idea where they’re headed?”
“The terrace!” she guessed. “Twenty yards to the right down this corridor, then he’ll turn left.”
“Give him a minute to limp to the corner. And then?”
“About eighty yards down another hallway, they’ll come to the northwest entrance.” Then out across a raised terrace, down some steps to the level of the park that surrounded the museum—and then whoever knew? Could a getaway car be waiting at the rear of the building?
“You winged him good. If we don’t push him, he might just bleed himself stupid and sleepy. Lie down for a nap.”
“Or he might keep moving, then shoot Trenton out of spite! Or keep him for a consolation prize.” The linebacker earned millions every year. If Clinton held him for ransom…“No way I’m risking that.” Raine gathered her gown up to midthigh and knotted the silk to keep it there.
“Umm…no?” Amber Eyes looked up from her legs. “Then give them thirty seconds more.” He switched his gun to his left hand and held out his right. “Meanwhile, it’s Kincade. Or Cade if you like things simple.”
“Who doesn’t?” She ducked under his arm and out, darting across the darkened hallway. If he thought owning a penis automatically put him in charge, he’d better think again. Flattened against the opposite wall, she peered toward the distant corner. “Damn, they’re moving fast!” she muttered as Cade flattened himself gallantly in front of her. “And don’t block my gun hand!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he laughed, as they jogged shoulder to shoulder for the turn. They charged around it together—two targets halved the risk—just as a gun roared. Glass shattered somewhere ahead. “Guess the exit was locked.”
At the far end of this cross corridor, the plate-glass doors burst open. By the time they reached them, Trenton and his captor were staggering across the terrace, disappearing down the first set of stairs that led to the park. Clinton was using his hostage for support; he’d yanked the tails of the linebacker’s tie over his shoulders, then wrapped them around a forearm. No wonder they were making such time; Trenton moved like a runaway freight train, towing his tormentor toward an unseen goalpost.
“Dammit, he’ll wreck his poor knee again!” she panted as they clattered down stairs, across a stone landing, then more stairs. Down another flight. Sirens wailed and whooped through the night; the lights in the penthouses on West 81st Street gleamed above the swaying treetops.
“Least of his worries and—hey—’bout time. Here comes the cavalry!” With a thunder of hooves across the grass, a mounted policeman came riding, circling around from the front of the museum.
“Gun!” Raine cried. “He’s got a—!”
Locked on his fleeing target, the rider wasn’t listening. “Police!” he yelled. “Halt or I’ll—”
The fugitives stopped, swung obediently toward the command. Clinton raised his arm.
Blam!
As his rider yanked on the reins, the horse reared—then settled back to earth, snorting and sidestepping. With a befuddled frown, the cop slipped gradually from his saddle. Just as Raine reached him, he hit the ground.
“Put some pressure on that,” Cade growled, jogging past.
“Jeez, you’re bossy!” Raine glared after him, then beyond, where Trenton and the gunman were staggering out through the park’s iron fence onto Columbus Avenue. Traffic screeched to a halt as they lumbered across.
“What happened? What happened? Is he all right?” Dragged by a leashed and yapping poodle, an elderly couple hurried across the park.
“Put pressure on anything that bleeds! You’ll find an ambulance out front.” Raine rose and walked toward the snorting horse, fingers outstretched. “Good fella, good boy. Come here, sweetheart.”
The bay rolled his eyes and leaned back on his haunches, but he’d been trained to stand when the reins were dropped. He shook his black mane as she rubbed his neck.
“Easy, sweetie.” Raine gathered the reins, glanced down at her gown. Ought to just rip some legroom, but this was Shoba’s best yet, a keeper. She scrunched its hem up to her crotch, then stepped into the stirrup. “Okay, big boy, wanna collect some payback?”
They plunged through a gap in the avenue traffic, then clattered up onto the far sidewalk. Cade stood, his raised gun by his lean cheek as he peered around the corner of a coffee shop and up West 80th Street. “Where’s he headed?” she called.
“Beats me! The subway stop at Broadway?”
“Okay, whatever. Just distract him.”
Cade stared after her as she cantered south down the Columbus Ave. sidewalk, indignant yells marking her progress as pedestrians bolted for the doorways or gutter. “Me, distract him!” Cade wasn’t the one wearing a red silk thong with red high heels. “And where the heck are you off to?” He shrugged, glanced west around the corner—and winced as another bullet smacked the stone just above his head. That was, what, Clinton’s fifth shot? But did he have a nine-round automatic like the SIG-Sauer that Cade had taken off Jimmy—or a fifteen?
“Whatever.” He dashed for the nearest parked car.
A third of the way up the one-way street, Clinton had stopped an oncoming SUV.
“Great.” If he hijacked some wheels they hadn’t a prayer of catching—But no; the driver took one look at the gesturing gunman and jammed it into reverse. “Good for you!” Cade sprinted up the sidewalk, then ducked down. Both curbs were lined with parked cars, providing plenty of cover.
Meanwhile, midstreet, Clinton was losing his cool. “You gas-guzzling son of a bitch, get back here!” he screamed, wasting a shot that blew out a headlight.
The SUV sideswiped a van—screeched and scraped along the car behind it, then crunched to a glass-tinkling halt. Its far door slammed open and the driver bolted west.
Ripping his mask off, Clinton drew down on the runner, but Ten-ton dropped to his knees—which yanked on the tails of the tie the gunman had wrapped around his forearm. He staggered; the shot struck sparks off a brownstone, half a block away.
“Son of a bitch, you want me to shoot you?” Clinton jammed the bore of his pistol in the player’s ear. “Get up!”
“I’ve had enough, thanks,” the linebacker said in a soothing baritone. “So how ’bout we all just settle down and take a deep breath?”
“How ’bout I blow your brains out? On your feet! NOW!”
Peering around the front end of a Toyota, Cade lined up his sight. Okay, he could cap Clinton from here, but should he? If the creep squeezed his trigger as he died—Better to draw the heat instead, Cade decided. He shaved a bullet past Clinton’s cheek. “Drop your gun, bozo!”
A hail of bullets slammed into the Toyota. Cade retreated to the curb, then crab-walked along the car. A shot punched through its back window, then the side glass above his head. The guy packed a fifteen-round automatic as well as a temper!
“I’m