Maloney's Law by Anne Brooke Page B

understand are whispered.
    There’s more than one of them. I’m screwed. Got to get out. Before I’ve finished the thought, I’m up and running, I don’t even pause to see who’s after me. Instead, I slam open the nearest window — thank God for old-style Egyptian buildings — pull myself onto the ledge and drop out into plain air, feet searching for a hold. From the silence and emptiness of the building I’ve just exited two floors up, there’s a popping noise, then another, and I realise they’re shooting at me. And using a silencer. Bloody hell, they’re actually shooting at me, the bastards. Astonishingly, in all my time in this business, that’s never actually happened, though I’ve been threatened, beaten, and knifed. Perhaps I’ve just been lucky, or more to the point, perhaps I’ve just never done my job abroad.
    As I hang suspended, scrabbling for safety, my ears are thudding with the beat of my heart, and I realise I’ve peed myself.
    The next second my hands slip from the ledge, and I’m falling. A scream — mine — shouting — God knows whose — and the popping sound — a third time. A ripe red gash of agony roars through the flesh of my shoulder, and I’m drowning in muck and rustling, a bitter taste in my mouth. Whatever I’ve landed in with a thud, and another scream, has broken my fall. As I roll over and out of it, the noise of braying hits me and I see it’s a donkey cart, loaded with what might be hay, but at this point I don’t care what it is as my pursuers shoot again. Once only. They miss. The old man at the donkey’s head cowers and pulls the whole contraption away, yelling and waving a bony fist. I dip and swerve with him alongside the cart, though there’s no need as I don’t think they’ll try anything now, not in full view of the city.
    Three seconds later, I’m around the corner of the building and away.
    Fifteen seconds after that, I’ve stopped my wound with cloth torn from the bottom of my robe. There’s no bullet, not that I can see, not that my shaking fingers can feel. My second slice of luck tonight. But how long will it last?

Chapter Five
    ‘I think you’ve been lucky, that’s all I can say.’
    ‘I know.’ I open my eyes and smile at Jade. We’re sitting in the brightness of her living room, a place of flowers and soft corners, cotton and lace. Of course, being Jade, the colours of all these objects are red and green, yellow and blue, but somehow the delicacy hasn’t been lost. Just reinterpreted. The armchair, for instance, is shabby, and there’s a hint of lavender polish in the air. In the background, the radio is tuned to Classic FM and someone is requesting “The Lark Ascending”. Why do they always play that? After the Egyptian experience two days ago, it wouldn’t be the piece of music I’d choose, but it’s Saturday afternoon, I’m alive, and there’s nothing I have to do that can’t wait. Here is a good place to be.
    ‘It never used to be like this,’ she grumbles, collapsing into the sofa opposite me and readjusting one of her long, sapphire earrings. ‘You know, when I first started working for you, it was much more relaxed. None of these knife attacks, derring-do, and swinging from high-up ledges at dead of night. Why can’t you stick to insurance claims and divorce cases? At least then you wouldn’t be shot at, and I know I’ve said it before but I’ll say it now; I’d feel a lot happier if you had someone look at that arm.’
    ‘It’s fine. Flesh wound, that’s all.’
    ‘Yes, but—’
    ‘No. Really. The bullet passed through, there’s no danger. I’ve looked at it, and you’ve looked at it. I’m grateful you’re a genius with the iodine.’
    ‘And you’re a genius with the clenched teeth and gasping thing. I don’t mind if you swear. I’m a lapsed Baptist, remember?’
    ‘No way. Can’t have you fainting just when I need you.’
    The radio hums and soars its rhythm, and the taste of the Rioja we’ve