Page 34 of I'll Be There
Seth frowned, then headed off toward the entrance.
And that’s what happened when you hired a carpenter to do security work.
Conner slipped his tied hands under him and pulled them around front. Then he untied one of his boots, pulling the lace free just a few grommets down.
Weaving the lace through one of the cuffs, he held it in his mouth and began to saw, fast and hard. The lace cut through the nylon, and in a second he snapped free.
Retying his shoe, he glanced over his shoulder—no sign of Seth. Conner jumped off the cart and pulled out his phone. Strange. Not Liza, and the number didn’t list a name. So instead he called Micah.
“Where are you?”
“East side of the main parking lot.”
Conner hung up and jogged out to the lot.
And that’s when he spotted him. One arm hanging out the open window of a late model black Honda pickup, jammed like a log behind a tourist bus, in the lineup to leave the lot like he might be any other tourist just seeing the sights. Mr. Gray Shirt and Gimme Cap wore sunglasses, hidden in plain view.
Conner took off in a sprint across the grass. He cut through a couple sedans, dodged a Ford Escape that nearly took him out, zagged through the grassy median, and leaped at the truck.
He wrenched open the door, grabbed the man by the shirt, and threw him out into the lot.
Shooter rolled and found his feet, fast enough for Conner to do the math. He had training, probably the professional kind.
When Shooter rebounded with a couple quick jabs that had Conner sucking wind, Conner realized he’d have to reach back to a life he’d left behind.
Okay. He blocked a punch, jabbed hard, landed it in the ribs, then charged for a tackle.
Shooter sidestepped him, and Conner face-planted into the pavement. He fought to find his feet—a punch to his jaw hit him so hard that gray splotched his vision.
A kick to his gut. He collapsed, his knees buckling on the pavement.
He sucked wind.
Shooter scrambled back into his truck. He wasn’t waiting for the blue-hairs to move. Conner just barely rolled out of the way as the truck pulled out, cut through spaces to hit the grassy median, chewed up turf, and exited at the far end, squealing out onto the blacktop.
He scrambled to his feet and tried to pursue, but his insides churned, and he had to stop, grab his knees.
A truck screeched up next to him. “What was that, old man? Sheesh—get in!” Jim Micah at the wheel.
Romeo jumped out of the bed, hooked a hand under Conner’s arm. “Get up—he’s getting away!”
Conner circled the truck, his own grunts betraying him. But he threw himself into the front seat. Managed not to lose it.
Micah sent the pedal to the floor, taking Shooter’s route.
“Why exactly are we after this guy in the Honda?” he said as they ramrodded through the median grass, then out onto the drive.
“He’s the shooter!” Conner clutched the upper strap, his foot braced into the floorboards.
Romeo had made it into the back seat, squeezing Pete up next to Reuben into the passenger side door.
“Please tell me Blue is still alive.”
“I’d forgotten a lot of my battlefield medicine, but the EMTs came before I had to do CPR.”
Conner could just barely make out the black Honda, now driving in the ditch. “Don’t let him get away.”
“Really?” Micah pulled onto the side, gunning it. “Seatbelts!”
