Hadley & Grace(38)

Carjacked by a woman on crutches. It might have been better had she shot him. If he survives this, it’s going to follow him to his grave.

She sneaked up on him like a burglar from somewhere off to the side and popped up beside him waving a gun in his face before he could even react. She stood on one foot, no crutches, and he realized she must have crawled there.

From where? He has no idea. Not from the motel rooms. They must have been standing watch, taking shifts. These women are a hell of a lot more savvy than he’s given them credit for.

“Hands where I can see them,” she said, sounding like a bad actress in a poorly scripted movie.

And what choice did he have? She was waving that gun at him, and his gun was in his holster, clipped in tight, safety on.

Get shot? Thinking back on it, it might have been the better option.

Uuuuugh! he screams in his head; then he yelps out loud when his knees slam hard against the front wall of the trunk.

The backup agents were minutes away. They’d called half an hour earlier to confirm their ETA. The agent in charge had sent two cars, each with two agents. Double backup. No one wanted a repeat of what had happened at the hospital or in Barstow. Five agents to pick up two women in a motel in the desert was overkill, or so they thought.

The hotel was dark except for the light on in the office. He was foolishly relaxed, not a care in the world as he watched the rooms.

He keeps his arms clasped tight around his head and tries not to think how mortifying this is, focusing instead on the fact that at least it will be over quickly. The backup agents will arrive, figure out what happened, and set up roadblocks on the 15, the only artery into Las Vegas. A few more minutes of bouncing around and a lifetime of humiliation, and the women will be in custody and it will be over.

They go around a bend, and he’s thrown sideways, his damaged shoulder hitting hard against the wheel well. He grunts with the impact as pain radiates to his spine. He curls tighter, bracing for the next blow; then suddenly the car slows, bumps from the asphalt onto dirt or gravel, then drives a few more feet before stopping.

Through the barrier of the seats, he hears the women arguing, a baby crying, and a boy hollering something about not having his uniform.

“He’s getting knocked around back there like a set of bowling pins.” The voice sounds like Torelli’s, husky and deep. “You’re going to kill him.”

“Yeah, well, what do you suggest?”

“I suggest not killing him.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe you should have thought about that before you decided to pull a gun on an FBI agent.”

“What was I supposed to do, let him arrest us?”

A door opens, then slams. The baby still cries. The boy still hollers.

“Champ, we’ll get you a new uniform. I promise,” Torelli says.

“I left it at the pool. We need to go back.”

“No, buddy. I’m sorry, but we can’t go back.”

The baby screams.

“I need my uniform,” the boy sobs.

“Mattie, hand me the baby. Champ, we’ll get you a new uniform. Mattie, also a bottle and a can of formula.”

“I want to go back.” A thumping starts, the whole car bucking with the pounding, and Mark imagines the boy kicking the seat.

“Hey, Champ,” the girl says. “What do you think about getting a Rockies uniform instead? I think we’re driving through Denver.”

“No. No. No.”

The pounding continues, and the baby cries louder, and Mark grits his teeth against it.

“I need to go back. I left it by the pool—”

“What if we also go to a game?” Torelli says. “Mattie, check if the Rockies are playing at home this week.”

A pause. The kicking suspended. The baby no longer wailing.

“Are they?” the boy says, his voice quaking.

“They are,” the girl says brightly, making Mark wonder how she’s looked it up. Fitz traced all their phones, along with Torelli’s iPad and laptop, and they’d all been abandoned when they’d fled the hospital.

“Number forty-four?” the boy asks.

Forty-four, the great Hank Aaron, one of Mark’s favorite players of all time.

“We’ll try,” Torelli says. “Mattie, hand me a burp rag.”

Another door opens and closes, this one on the right.

“Should we check out the roster?” the girl says.

“Wolters. I like Wolters,” the boy mutters, still sounding distressed.

“That’s the catcher?” the girl says, and Mark is impressed she knows this.

“Yeah. He’s really good.”

Arguing outside the trunk distracts him from the kids’ conversation. Muffled voices that sound like Torelli and Herrick bickering, the words too garbled for him to make out.

The trunk opens, and he blinks his eyes to see Herrick standing over him, his Glock in her right hand. “Get out.”

He unfurls himself, his muscles creaking and his shoulder pulsing.

“What are you doing?” Torelli says from beside her, the baby slumped over her shoulder, her injured leg held up behind her.

“I said get out,” Herrick says. “Unless you’d rather continue riding in the trunk?”

Mark watches a thin smile break on Torelli’s face, and he knows that’s what they were arguing about: Torelli’s worries about him banging around in the trunk.