Page 63 of The Girl Who Knew Too Much

She dropped her gun into her handbag, leaped to her feet, and ran for the wedge of moonlight that marked the freight door.

She heard the heart-stopping thud behind her and knew instantly what had happened. She stopped and whirled around.

In the blazing light she saw Oliver sprawled on the floor.

“Oliver.”

“Go.” The order was ice-cold and infused with savage determination. “Get the hell out of here.”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

She rushed back to him and grabbed his arm.

“Damn it, Irene—”

She crouched and got her shoulder under his arm. Calling on every ounce of strength she possessed, she straightened.

Somehow, between her desperation and the leverage he was able to apply with his undamaged leg, he was able to regain his feet. She grabbed his cane and handed it to him.

Together they made their way toward the freight door. Oliver’s limp was worse than ever—he was staggering now, forced to lean on her to keep himself upright. She knew he must have been in agony but he did not say another word. Neither did she. There was no point. Either they both made it out of the inferno or they didn’t.

They passed the crate where Jennings’s handbag sat.

“Get it if you can,” Oliver said, his voice harsh.

She snagged the strap of the handbag with the same hand she was using to grip her own bag.

Oliver regained some ability to keep his balance. He no longer needed so much support from her. They got through the loading dock doorway and kept going. Irene knew they had to get as far away as possible before the warehouse collapsed in flames.

They made their way around to the front of the burning building and into the clearing.

The fiery light revealed a man in a leather jacket crumpled on theground. At first Irene thought he was dead. But when they got closer, she heard him groan.

“Help me,” he gasped. He levered himself into a sitting position and clutched his shoulder with one hand. “You can’t leave me here.”

“Sorry,” Irene said. “You created the problem. You’re stuck with it.”

“Please,” he gritted out. “Never meant to kill you, just scare you. Didn’t know the place would go up like a torch. You gotta help me.”

“Let’s get him into the front seat of the car,” Oliver said.

Irene stared at him, astonished. “Why? He just tried to murder both of us.”

“No,” the man yelped. “Didn’t mean to kill anyone.”

“We’ve got questions, and at the moment this bastard is the only one available with answers,” Oliver said. “I’ll keep an eye on him from the back seat.”

“Bad idea,” Irene said. “He has a gun.”

“No gun,” the man assured her. “Dropped it when you shot me. Name’s Springer. I’ll tell you anything you wanna know. Just get me to a hospital. Please.”

“There’s the gun,” Oliver said. He steadied himself on his cane and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. “Use this to pick it up. The cops might be able to get some prints off of it.”

Irene used the handkerchief to scoop up the gun. It was still warm. She wrapped it in the square of white linen.

“Got it,” she said.

“Search him,” Oliver said.

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