Page 89 of Captive Lies

“I agree, but let’s get the people out of herefirst.”

We heard screeching tires and what sounded like gunshots in the back alley. There were gasps, small sobs, and cursing from the people in thegallery.

More gunshots echoed fromoutside.

The customers started running for the entrance while Sofia and Jeff sprung into action to lead themout.

Tyler dragged me down the hallway. His gun-hand doing a sweep between the back alley exit and the gallery entrance. When we reached the ladies’ room, he pushed me inside, put me in a stall, and ordered me to lockit.

“We don’t know if someone’s waiting outside to grab you,” Tyler told me. “We wait for helphere.”

“You need to help Bobby and Drew!” I slapped my palm against the closeddoor.

“No, Blaire,” Tyler said, his voice resolute. “My responsibility is toyou.”

“ButBobby—”

“Is doing his job.” The gutturalness of Tyler’s tone told me what it was costing him not to help hiscolleague.

“This is bullshit!” I whisper-yelled. “We need to helpthem!”

“Shut-up,” Tylerhissed.

I was fuming. I wasn’t helpless. I could fight. I could shoot, but I couldn’t distract Tyler if he wouldn’t let me help him, so I keptquiet.

The gunshots hadstopped.

Voices filtered from the hallway. They were a bit muffled, but I could decipher theirwords.

“Let’s get the paintings andgo.”

“How about thegirl?”

I watched through the space between the stall’s door and frame. Tyler was flat against the wall beside the entrance, his chest rising and falling heavily with both hands on the gun. The door to the bathroom opened a crack and I stepped up onto the rim of the porcelaintoilet.

Sirens wailed in thedistance.

“Shit!Cops!”

“We need to go. Paintings arepriority.”

“What about thegirl?”

“He may not needher.”

The restroom door closed and Tyler’s shoulders relaxed a tad as I slowly lowered my feet to the floor. I hadn’t said a word and neither had Tyler, but I was sure his mind was busy figuring out what had justhappened.

As for me, I had one thought:Will this mess everend?

* * *

Grant

As waswith every rush hour in New York, traffic was at standstill. The race from lower Manhattan to SoHo took on a snail’s pace and each passing second wasagony.

“Did you check Church Street?” he demanded of their driver, Zed, while Jake checked the police scanners forinformation.

“Yes, sir. West Street is the fastestroute.”

---