Attorney's Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) by R.J. Jagger, Jack Rain Page B
Authors: R.J. Jagger, Jack Rain
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so you can see he’s still alive.”
Jekker considered it.
He’d need to be sure it wasn’t a charade, but felt confident that he’d be able to tell.
“You do that,” he said.
“Expect the call,” the voice said. “In the meantime, like I said, we have a situation.”
17
Day Three—June 13
Wednesday Night
IT WAS ALMOST DARK when London’s shift at Cactus Dan’s ended, not a minute too soon. The manager’s philosophy today seemed to be that the beatings would continue until morale improved. London peddled the Trek over to the Colfax bus stop and sat on the bench next to a young Hispanic woman who didn’t answer her cell phone even though it rang every thirty seconds. London sensed a boyfriend on the other end, one who just got dumped, probably a cheater.
London looked at the woman and said, “Screw him.”
“Exactly.”
When the RTD bus finally showed up, London put the Trek in the bike rack, flashed her pass to the driver and took a seat near the front. The vehicle shuddered and shook with protest as it pulled into traffic and the pungent smell of diesel intensified. She was anxious to get home to work the net and find out what she could on Vesper & Bennett, plus Bob Copeland.
She got off at the Union/Simms stop, which still left her a two-mile peddle to her Lakewood apartment. Twilight had given way to darkness, causing the streetlights to kick on ten minutes ago.
She flicked the switch for the Trek’s rear light.
Nothing happened.
She jiggled it.
Still nothing.
The batteries must be dead.
SIMMS WAS A FAIRLY MAJOR LAKEWOOD ROAD, two lanes in each direction, and well lit. She hugged the edge, like always, and kept a good lookout for idiots armed with cars as she got the bike going as fast as she could. Unfortunately, she seemed outnumbered tonight.
Then, damn!
Headlights were right behind her, coming fast, not giving her space.
She sensed an impact. Some primitive survival gene from a deep part of her brain made her twist the handlebars to the right. The front tire hit the curb and sent her flying over the side of the bike. A white-hot pain immediately exploded from her kneecap and her forearm scraped against something jagged.
She focused on the car as soon as she stopped tumbling. There was no good reason for it to come so close. It was the only one heading this direction. There were no vehicles in the lane next to it. Either the driver completely didn’t see her or didn’t give a rat’s ass.
“Idiot!” she shouted.
The vehicle suddenly decelerated at a dangerous rate, squealed around the corner, and disappeared down a side street.
Her forearm, raw and bloody, throbbed with pain. She brushed dirt and gravel out of the wound and knew that it would need a serious cleaning once she got home.
Her kneecap felt like someone had taken a hammer to it.
It didn’t want to bend, but it had been banged plenty of times in the past and she recognized it as a temporary injury in spite of the pain.
The front tire of the bike was flat.
Home was a mile down the road.
She started to walk it home, limping, keeping her right leg stiff at the knee.
When she got to the side street, the vehicle was thirty yards down, sitting there with the lights on, almost as if it was waiting for her. She hurried across the street and kept going as fast as she could.
When she looked behind her, the vehicle was at the corner.
It paused as if watching her.
Then it squealed to the left and disappeared in the opposite direction.
WHEN SHE GOT BACK TO HER APARTMENT she called Venta and said, “Remember when I said first blood this morning?”
Venta remembered.
“Well now we have second blood.”
Then she told Venta the story.
“It could have just been some drunk,” Venta said. “Hell, I almost get run over three times a day.”
“Maybe,” London said, “but watch your back tonight. If they’re after me then they’re after you too.”
“Nothing strange has happened at my end,” Venta
Jekker considered it.
He’d need to be sure it wasn’t a charade, but felt confident that he’d be able to tell.
“You do that,” he said.
“Expect the call,” the voice said. “In the meantime, like I said, we have a situation.”
17
Day Three—June 13
Wednesday Night
IT WAS ALMOST DARK when London’s shift at Cactus Dan’s ended, not a minute too soon. The manager’s philosophy today seemed to be that the beatings would continue until morale improved. London peddled the Trek over to the Colfax bus stop and sat on the bench next to a young Hispanic woman who didn’t answer her cell phone even though it rang every thirty seconds. London sensed a boyfriend on the other end, one who just got dumped, probably a cheater.
London looked at the woman and said, “Screw him.”
“Exactly.”
When the RTD bus finally showed up, London put the Trek in the bike rack, flashed her pass to the driver and took a seat near the front. The vehicle shuddered and shook with protest as it pulled into traffic and the pungent smell of diesel intensified. She was anxious to get home to work the net and find out what she could on Vesper & Bennett, plus Bob Copeland.
She got off at the Union/Simms stop, which still left her a two-mile peddle to her Lakewood apartment. Twilight had given way to darkness, causing the streetlights to kick on ten minutes ago.
She flicked the switch for the Trek’s rear light.
Nothing happened.
She jiggled it.
Still nothing.
The batteries must be dead.
SIMMS WAS A FAIRLY MAJOR LAKEWOOD ROAD, two lanes in each direction, and well lit. She hugged the edge, like always, and kept a good lookout for idiots armed with cars as she got the bike going as fast as she could. Unfortunately, she seemed outnumbered tonight.
Then, damn!
Headlights were right behind her, coming fast, not giving her space.
She sensed an impact. Some primitive survival gene from a deep part of her brain made her twist the handlebars to the right. The front tire hit the curb and sent her flying over the side of the bike. A white-hot pain immediately exploded from her kneecap and her forearm scraped against something jagged.
She focused on the car as soon as she stopped tumbling. There was no good reason for it to come so close. It was the only one heading this direction. There were no vehicles in the lane next to it. Either the driver completely didn’t see her or didn’t give a rat’s ass.
“Idiot!” she shouted.
The vehicle suddenly decelerated at a dangerous rate, squealed around the corner, and disappeared down a side street.
Her forearm, raw and bloody, throbbed with pain. She brushed dirt and gravel out of the wound and knew that it would need a serious cleaning once she got home.
Her kneecap felt like someone had taken a hammer to it.
It didn’t want to bend, but it had been banged plenty of times in the past and she recognized it as a temporary injury in spite of the pain.
The front tire of the bike was flat.
Home was a mile down the road.
She started to walk it home, limping, keeping her right leg stiff at the knee.
When she got to the side street, the vehicle was thirty yards down, sitting there with the lights on, almost as if it was waiting for her. She hurried across the street and kept going as fast as she could.
When she looked behind her, the vehicle was at the corner.
It paused as if watching her.
Then it squealed to the left and disappeared in the opposite direction.
WHEN SHE GOT BACK TO HER APARTMENT she called Venta and said, “Remember when I said first blood this morning?”
Venta remembered.
“Well now we have second blood.”
Then she told Venta the story.
“It could have just been some drunk,” Venta said. “Hell, I almost get run over three times a day.”
“Maybe,” London said, “but watch your back tonight. If they’re after me then they’re after you too.”
“Nothing strange has happened at my end,” Venta
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