Hot Pursuit by Christina Skye Page A

mind noted that he seemed unnaturally calm.
    Center of gravity low. Weight perfectly balanced.
    A martial arts stance, Taylor realized. But even if she was right, what could one man do against three armed thugs?
    At that moment Jack turned. His cool gray eyes raked her face. “Going somewhere?”
    â€œTo the ladies’ room,” Sweatshirt cut in. “This is not your concern.”
    Her neighbor shrugged, tossing the beer can casually between his hands. “Anything wrong, ma’am?”
    Taylor swallowed as the gun muzzle dug into her ribs. “No, I’m fine. Just looking for the ladies’ room, the way my friend said.”
    The beer can snapped back and forth in a lazy rhythm. “Sure. No problem.”
    Sweatshirt twitched angrily. “One more word and she will get a bullet.” He pulled Taylor down the small corridor leading to the rest rooms. As she rounded the corner, Taylor heard the sound of voices somewhere out on the sales floor, followed by cans crashing noisily.
    â€œAleksandr?” Sweatshirt yelled. “What is happening?”
    There was no answer.
    Cursing, Taylor’s captor shoved her through the open door to the manager’s office, just as Jack moved to the edge of the corridor with weapon leveled. He looked entirely cold, entirely professional.
    Sweatshirt jerked Taylor in front of him, holding her as a shield while he slammed the office door and threw the lock with his free hand. “If he comes looking for you, he will soon be dead.” He gave her an angry shove. “Up there. Now.”
    High on the wall a single window overlooked what Taylor guessed was the back parking lot. “But that’s too high. I can’t possibly—”
    Her captor hooked a chair with one foot, dragging it closer. “Shut up.”
    Stall.
“What if it’s locked?”
    His gun spat, and the window disappeared in a rain of gray glass. “So much for locked. Start climbing.”
    Taylor felt fury battle with fear. She wanted to kick him, but what would that accomplish, except getting herself shot by the gun pointed at her head?
    She climbed onto the chair, trying to avoid scattered glass fragments, then stood up. Tugging off her leather jacket, she wedged it over the jagged shards in the window frame. If this misfit made her ruin her
favorite
Michael Kors jacket, she was going to rip his eyes out.
    Assuming she was still alive.
    One leg went up. She winced as glass cut through her pants. Ignoring a trickle of blood, she worked her way up until she was poised in the window frame with a view of the parking lot below her.
    A police cruiser was parked twenty feet away. An officer in black tactical gear crouched near the back tire, his rifle leveled on her chest.
    Thinking desperately, Taylor signed
help
, using sign language she’d researched for her seventh book.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Sweatshirt was climbing up behind her.
    â€œI—I cut my hand. It hurts.”
    He gripped her arm, balanced on the chair, where he was still too low to see through the window. “Is someone there?”
    Taylor stared down at the rifle fixed on her chest. “Just a woman walking a dog.”
    â€œNo police?”
    â€œNone that I can see.” She shifted, blocking his view.
    â€œLie to me and you too will be dead. How far to the ground?”
    Taylor leaned forward and winced. “At least eight feet. And I’m bleeding here.” That was no lie either. She continued to sign
help
, then added
behind me
.
    Sweatshirt’s gun jabbed hard in the small of her back. “You will jump when I tell you. We go out together, you understand me?” He was on the chair now, trying to force her to one side. Any second he’d see the police car and the SWAT officer.
    â€œBut there’s only cement and blacktop down there. I can’t—”
    â€œYou will
jump
when I tell you.” The gun jabbed her again, and her