Hiding His Witness by C. J. Miller Page B

rest stop. Reilly stayed close, wanting her within arm’s reach. A healthy dose of paranoia could save her life, and the idea of her walking alone in the open, unprotected, didn’t sit well with him.
    The building was stark with whitewashed block walls and a cement floor, but it had the basics—a display of maps and points-of-interest brochures, a few vending and soda machines, and men’s and women’s bathrooms.
    “When you’re done, wait for me here,” he said, pointing to the vending machines. “Don’t go outside. I’ll be around the corner in the men’s room.” He hated for her to be alone, but he couldn’t go into the bathroom with her.
    Carey nodded. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
    Reilly watched her enter the women’s room and then hurried to the men’s room. The fewer seconds she was out of his sight, the better.
    * * *
    Carey glanced over her shoulder as she entered the women’s room. Reilly was waiting for her to go inside. The area wasn’t crowded and she didn’t see anyone she recognized—a good sign. Mark was looking for her, and while she’d known that since she’d run months ago, her picture on the news would give him plenty of clues about her whereabouts.
    How far had she and Reilly traveled from Denver? It had to be a least a hundred miles. Was the distance enough that Mark and his thugs would lose her trail?
    Carey hurried to finish in the bathroom and washed her hands at the sink. She splashed some water on her face and patted it dry with a paper towel. The mirror was smeared and dirty, speckled with chips and brown age spots, but from what she could see, she looked like something a cat threw up. She turned away. There was nothing she could do about her appearance now.
    Another woman entered and as the door swung open, Carey glanced out. Two men she recognized were waiting by the door, their arms crossed, serious expressions on their faces. The shorter man had a goatee and the taller, broader man was clean shaven. She struggled to place them in her memory and to recall their names. Bits and pieces fell into place. When she’d met them for the first time, what had struck her most were their cold, dead eyes. Mark’s associates. They weren’t friends of Mark. They were his hired muscle.
    How had they found her? Terror clutched at her chest. She had to warn Reilly. But how? She didn’t have a phone to call him and if she borrowed a phone, she didn’t know his number. If she walked out of the bathroom, even with her head down and her hood pulled up, they would see her. What if they saw Reilly coming out of the bathroom? Would they attempt to hurt him? Did they know to look for him?
    She scanned the room for a weapon to defend herself. Toilet paper, paper towels and a few deodorizers were useless. But there was a window. It was small and higher on the wall, but if she flipped over the trash can and used it as a stool, she could pop the window and climb out.
    The other woman in the bathroom shot her a strange look as she dragged the trash can toward the window. Carey didn’t care. She needed to hurry and get to Reilly before they did.
    Standing on the trash can, she unlocked the window. It was an old window, pivoting from the bottom and swinging out at the top. She gave it a firm push, but it didn’t budge. She shoved it again, wondering when it had last been opened. If the dust, cobwebs and grime were any indication, it had been months. Maybe years. The window groaned and she worked her fist around its edges like a hammer, loosening it. With a final swing, the window opened and cool air rushed in.
    It was a tight fit, but Carey was determined to squeeze through. Putting weight on her ribs burned, but she quelled the cry of pain that sprang to her lips. If Mark’s thugs heard a commotion in the bathroom, they might come to investigate and see her half-dangling out the window.
    Contorting her already bruised body, she managed to slide through the open window and fall to the ground