Love Spell (10 page)

“Why good morning, young man,” the wannabe CEO said. “Don’t
you
look sharp?” She shot a spear-tipped sidelong glance at Sullivan, and then turned a smile back to Clint. “And how may I help you this morning?”

“Well, madame,” he said, rolling “madame” off his tongue with a hint of a posh accent. The mature lady giggled like a teen girl. “I’m new to this part of town. I’m seeking an address in, I believe, this neighborhood. I know I’m on California Street but I’m hoping you can help me refine my search?” He fished the scrap of paper from his wallet that he’d written Sullivan’s office address on when he’d first hunted for her, and proffered it.

The woman examined it, while Sullivan glared at Clint in naked disbelief. Clint met her eyes for a moment, and tossed her a wink as the other lady peered at the paper. Sullivan’s face darkened, and she turned away with a harrumph and unlocked the Audi’s passenger door. She set her belongings—looked like a purse, a legal pad, and a couple of hardbound books—on the empty seat, and leaned across it to put the key in the ignition.

Wow. She rides nice
, Clint thought.
Wouldn’t expect someone so obviously starving for work to roll in an Audi.

Somewhere nearby—maybe the next block over?—more horns screamed at a traffic offender, and rubber squealed across asphalt. Clint ignored the sound, but rolled his eyes. Too many idiots on the road. Maybe it was better that Clint had given up his car; you rarely heard of bus accidents.

“Yes, yes,” the lady happily exclaimed at last. “You’ve found the building you’re looking for,” and she waved at the tan structure next to them.

Clint feigned surprise as he scanned the building, and, upon finding the address on the side, actually jumped back a half step and pretended to nearly drop his portfolio. “Why, you’re right!” He shared a guilty look with his new hostess, and shrugged. “I wouldn’t be able to find my head in the morning if it weren’t attached.”

She laughed.

“Thank you
so
much for your assistance. I owe you,” Clint said, and tipped in a generous bow.

“Oh, stop,” the woman said, blushing.

“No, really,” he said. Sullivan huffed at the interruption. “You’ve saved me who knows how much time in finding this place. Are you very familiar with the Financial District?”

Sullivan opened her mouth to say something, but Clint quickly dropped to “tie his shoe.”

“Why, yes, actually,” the fifty-something said. “I’ve worked here for at least thirty years.”

Clint adopted a disbelieving face. “No! Surely you can’t be a day over thirty-five!”

She giggled again. Clint was privately amazed that such easy-to-manipulate people actually existed.

“Would you care for some breakfast as a token of thanks, perhaps?” he asked. “Cup of coffee and a pastry at least? My treat?”

The crimson in her face deepened, and she sputtered something about a husband, and about “needing to be somewhere rather soon,” but Clint could see in her eyes that she had already made the decision to go with him.

“Perhaps you could recommend a place,” he said.

The floodgates of praise for a café Clint had never heard of opened at once. He glanced up at his recently-hired investigator with a knowing grin. Sullivan was beside her… Self (Clint chuckled inside at his pun), and with a final shake of her head spun away, and stalked toward the driver’s side of her car, muttering furiously. As he languidly moved to follow Sullivan, the P.I.’s murmurs caught the matronly woman’s ears, whereupon she shouted for Sullivan to stop.

“You
will
be at Jehr Schiavo’s this morning,” she exclaimed at Sullivan’s back. “Do you have
any
idea how difficult it is to get an appointment there overnight?”

Sullivan picked up her pace, but Clint sprinted for the driver’s door, and snatched the handle with his free hand the instant before she could grip it. She jerked her hand back as though Clint were a poisonous snake striking, and shot venom back at him through her eyes. He smiled grandiosely in return, and opened her door with a flourish and a bow, silently grateful that his near-miss with her hand hadn’t been actual contact. The P.I.’s face blanked, but there was no mistaking the slight hardening of her eyes, nor the flaring of the nostrils.

Clint’s smile widened.

“Your father talked Stearns, Smith and Associates into overlooking your… reputation,” the stout executive continued, growing frantic now, “and I will
not
have you looking like a string-haired mutt when you meet them this afternoon! How dare you even
begin
to think you can throw that away? After all we’ve done for you, you just—”

The roar of an engine, the shriek of brakes, and tires on tarmac interrupted her sentence. Clint and his ladies looked up to see a flat-black Bentley parked sideways in the middle of the intersection not fifteen yards from where they stood, smoke rising from its rear wheels. The dark tint on the windows reflected Clint’s image like the eyes of a predator staring at a deer in that endless moment before the chase.

And then the chase began.

The passenger’s side window dropped, and so did Clint’s stomach. He didn’t take time to confirm that Jane was behind the silver pistol that leapt from the window and barked fire in his direction. He ducked instinctively, cringing at the sound of ricochets, covering his ears too late to save them from ringing.

This is the absolute
worst
déjà vu I’ve ever had!

Reflexively, Clint whipped his portfolio around in front of him like a shield and used it to shove Sullivan into the car. She cried out in surprised protest and tumbled heavily into the passenger’s seat, her arms and legs sprawled akimbo. Clint dove in behind her, praying his leather carrying case would be enough to prevent contact with her; not that he had the luxury of an option in the first place.

Grateful for Sullivan’s impatience, Clint triggered the ignition, and put the car in gear without bothering to close his door. The pedal hit the floor and the Audi growled forcefully as it lurched away from the curb. The door slammed shut from the momentum, and Clint mashed the horn repeatedly, startling pedestrians while hauling the wheel over to avoid plowing into the one-way traffic from behind; he noted he could barely hear the horn through the ringing in his ear.

“
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
” Sullivan screamed.

“Just buckle up!” he exclaimed in reply, groping desperately for his own seat belt.

How did Jane find me?

Miniature bursts of glass peppered the front seat as bullets punched through the rear windshield in rapid succession. Sullivan screamed and curled into a ball. Clint glanced at her to see if she’d taken a round, but didn’t have time to assess the situation before having to dodge a taxi that suddenly pulled over to disgorge a passenger. Clint swerved across a lane, and felt the impact against a car in the adjacent lane. The front of the Audi was shoved back to the right. The shrill of metal-on-metal didn’t help his poor ears. From the corner of his eye, he noted the loss of the passenger’s side wing mirror. His training told him to brake. Instead, he downshifted, eased off the gas for a moment, and then punched it again.

Sullivan’s Audi tore past the car on its left, sending it swerving into the other lane to meet a coupe coming up quickly from behind. Clint’s heart went out to the driver; at least it was a rear-ender, instead of head-on.

Sullivan screamed again, and Clint read naked terror on her face. He honestly felt terrible for her—this was not her fault, and she never should have been involved on this level. But when bullets start flying…

The Audi bounced through a pothole, forcing Clint to deathgrip the wheel and fight to stay in his lane. More gunfire sounded from behind, but Clint was no longer able to see the Bentley; that worried him almost more than having it right on his tail.

Outside, the world blew by like a colored tornado. Clint raced under a pedestrian bridge, past a building under construction, past various restaurants, and across a rapid-fire series of crosswalks. He pumped the horn as he drove, and was met with horn blasts in reply. Up ahead, he noticed traffic bottlenecking as a construction zone narrowed the one-way street down to two lanes. Too late to turn, Clint braked hard. He was almost disappointed that he stopped a full three feet from the car in front of him; it was always supposed to be a near miss of bare inches, right?

I must not be right in the head if I’m upset I didn’t escape by the skin of my teeth.

The light on the one-way cross street was red for now. A quick glance in his rear view mirror showed he had just enough space to try something. Maybe.

Slamming the car into reverse, he floored the pedal, wincing as Sullivan nearly faceplanted into the dashboard. Ignoring the press of cars coming up behind, Clint cranked the wheel hard right and lined himself up with Washington Street. Unfortunately, Washington Street took him away from the Embarcadero—away from the freedom of the freeway.

The driver’s side headlight popped, and more sparks flew as bullets skipped across the Audi’s polished hood.

“
My car!
” Sullivan cried. “What are they doing to
my car
?”

Clint wasted no time in launching them forward, and the car responded beautifully. The cramped quarters of Washington left him no room to maneuver, especially when an unwary driver opened her door not thirty feet in front of him. He dodged awkwardly and cut off a car pulling up along his left side. The car’s horn blared as the vehicle bounced over the curb and plowed into a garbage can. Clint managed to dovetail the unintentional stunt into a left turn on the next side street, where he had to brake hard again to avoid hitting the cross traffic. Panting and praying, he willed a gap in traffic that would allow a left turn. The Force was not with him.

Behind him, he saw a black Bentley screaming up Washington. For a breath, he hoped they hadn’t seen his unplanned diversion. Then the brake lights lit angrily, and the tires smoked again as it stopped hard. Fortune smiled on Clint as a stream of cars trundled up Washington Street in the wake of the Bentley, cutting it off from reversing or turning onto his street. The driver’s window dropped, and a sheen of metal appeared.

“
Duck!
” he yelled.

Sullivan did as she was told, but surprisingly, nothing happened. The light changed, and Clint urged the car forward, wishing the other cars waiting the light would get a clue. Maybe if Jane
had
shot at him just now, the rest of these people would get the message.

Clint—count your blessings, idiot. You should be
glad
when she’s not shooting.

He turned left, not bothering to look at the name of the street. He knew enough to know that it was headed east, back toward the Embarcadero and the Bay Bridge.

“W-where are we
going
?” Sullivan asked, shakily. “And why are people
shooting at me
?” Tears ran down her face, and Clint’s heart melted. He fought the urge to reach over and wipe her eyes dry.

“Back over the Bay Bridge and to somewhere safe, hopefully. And they’re not shooting at you. They’re shooting at me.” He glanced behind him to see whether Jane had made the turn onto his side street. Nothing yet.

“W-why are they… why… shooting…?”

In the mirror, a dark shape careened around a corner half a block behind him. “Tell you later. Bay Bridge?”

She said nothing, and Clint ground his teeth in frustration. He’d have to make his own way. He spurred Sullivan’s mount forward, vainly begging the drivers in front of him to speed up. Cars lined either side of the road, leaving him no way around the small pick-up truck puttering along at twenty-five. Thankfully, he noticed Jane wasn’t gaining ground either.

“Sullivan—quickest way to the freeway.” Maybe she’d answer this time.

“Freeway?” she squeaked.

“Yeah. You know, the big road without stop lights and pedestrians?”

“I know what a freeway is,” she replied, obviously incensed.

“Fantastic. Now how do we get there?”

“Which d-direction?”

“I don’t really care at the moment. Quick!”

She flinched, but composed herself quickly. “Turn right at Kearny,” she said hurriedly. “We’ll take that to Market, and then right again on Market. Then—”

“One at time, please,” he growled. The sign for Kearny Street was ahead, but they were practically crawling now. And then the light in front of them went red. Clint stopped, and honked several times from sheer frustration. More honking sounded behind him, along with the keen wail of an engine in low gear and a cacophony of screams. Clint shot a look over his shoulder.

“Oh, joy…”

“What?” Sullivan asked, frantic.

He answered by yanking the wheel left and thrusting the car up and onto the sidewalk with a hard bounce. Sullivan yelped again. Wide-eyed tourists and a cluster of Asians leapt aside as the Audi cut past the line of traffic waiting at the light, the Bentley a mere second behind.

“You said right on Kearny?” he asked hastily.

“Right.”

“Right?”

“Yes!”

“Kearny is a one-way street!”

She recoiled, and then blushed. “Oh… yeah.”

It was too late to turn right, and Clint cringed at the glaring fact that the stream of cross traffic left no openings large enough to admit a bicycle, let alone a sports car.

“Brace yourself,” Clint murmured fervently, releasing the wheel, and doing his best to bury himself sideways in his seat.

“What? Wait…,” she said. Clint only hoped she understood.

His feet pounded the brakes into the floor and he threw the car into first gear with his good hand. The squeal of tires echoed off the buildings to their right, and smoke wafted angrily from the pavement around the Audi.

Then the Bentley hit.

Clint had heard about how painful airbags could be. All the stories were right. The shock of impact went all the way through his body. He was certain he’d jarred loose whatever had healed since his fall from his bathroom window. Not bothering to check on his passenger, he fought the airbag down, wincing every time his left arm moved. The traffic light was green now, and he accelerated into the intersection even before the offending balloon of safety was out of his way. The Bentley nipped at his bumper as he careened down the narrow lane, but he made the next street in moments. He hauled the wheel to the right and simply made an opening in the traffic. Behind him he heard at least two collisions. Jane’s ride drifted hard into the turn, and slammed sideways into one of the vehicles Clint had forced off the road. The black luxury car paused like a dazed grizzly, and then took up pursuit, snarling through its crumpled snout. It wasn’t much, but it had bought Clint time.