On the Line [Run Cold Book Two]

9: Runner

The Baker probably hadn't anticipated how fast a girl could run in a good pair of flat-soled boots or even considered that one might chase him down. He took wide corners, raced like a moron in front of braking cars, looked over his shoulder for several seconds at a time. His head missed a Stop sign by only a couple inches.

I charged after him, gaining ground with his every fumble. We'd run past at least three taxis he could've pitched himself inside, but he sprinted in a panic, and it cost him as we hit the far side of the road and crossed into one of Boston's smaller parks. At the entrance I ducked behind the stone wall, giving him a chance to feel safe.

Next time he looked back, he didn't see me in the dark. His steps slowed to a jog and then a heavy walk, narrowing his options to unmowed grass and a narrow path. I took to the grass to quiet the sound of my heels and slowed, controlling my breath. A certain calmness washed over me; an anticipatory thrill that focus and patience would win this hunt.

He panted like a motor as branches closed overhead.  In hindsight, resting his hands on his knees while trying to decide which way to go was a bad idea.

For him.

When his head bobbed toward earth I tackled him around the waist. We tumbled over and again, a collision of limbs and his screams. In the fray I jerked an arm hard behind his shoulders and straddled his back at the waist.

"Bitch!" he gasped, chin smashed into damp soil. Beneath those starched sleeves were thin biceps and a submissive attitude, or he'd have knocked me senseless.

"Some gentleman you are," I snorted, licking blood from my mouth. "You try hiding a fat lip from an overprotective mother."

"You're not a cop?"

Pressing his fist firm against his spine, I relaxed my breath into heavy pants. Without telling him what I was doing, I made a discreet stretch for the clutch I'd dropped in the take-down. "Here's the deal. You have information I need. I don't care how I get it."

"Th-that's not a deal."

"Fine. It's an expression," I grunted, snaring a finger in the wrist loop to drag the silk bag close. My phone was still intact. Missed call. Dad. I stared into the trees, trying to remember what time it was in London. He and Mom had scheduled a flight into Logan Airport a couple hours after her award dinner. This was probably his "we're landing at 9AM so make sure the house is spotless before your mother sees" alert.

Making a note to call him back because "oh hey, dad, I'm just chilling in a deserted park with a heroin dealer" made me a dead daughter walking, I texted Becky our location.

The Baker craned his neck back. One dark eye glimmered in the glow of my cell. "Who the fuck are you?"

I increased the tension in his arm until that eye watered. "You want to talk to me like a scum bag or a human being?"

"A human," he gasped. "Sorry."

"Sorry, Dorothy," I lied. "No- I don't need your name. You're not the target. When my friend arrives, she's going to question you about a woman you know. Please answer her." Careful not to lean too close to his face, I presented my arm with the thin, pink seam left by Kasper's knife. A few more scars and I wouldn't need a Halloween costume, although tonight was giving me a fantastic idea for next year. "I've tussled with a few flying monkeys in my day. It didn't end well for them"

Footsteps. Hurried.

"That you?" I asked, turning my head slightly; the Baker wasn't the rebellious sort, at least not as far as I could tell, but I wasn't about to take my chances.