No one was coming.
She ducked into the stairwell. As she let the door close gently, there was the distinct clap of two more gunshots. Something inside her shattered.
They were all dead. Massacred.
Tears hazed her vision, but she beat down the raging sorrow.
She ran to the stairs. Keeping her heels from touching the steps, she descended in silence. She pushed herself to hurry, faster and faster, trying not send her pulse soaring into triple time.
Her legs shook, knees turning to water as if they might buckle.
Kit risked a glance at the door behind her and lost her footing. Her ankle twisted, throwing off her balance.
In a whoosh, she slid down the steps. Her grip on the handrail was gone.
Pain blasted in her tailbone and head in the startling descent. She bit her lip, silencing the scream tearing up her chest as flesh and bone crashed against galvanized steel.
She snagged the railing and jerked to a halt near the bottom floor.
Oh God, had they heard? The noise had been earsplitting. Her gaze shot up to the door.
Terror held her captive, paralyzing her.
Move. You have to move!
Struggling to control her breathing, she used the railing to hoist herself up. Agony pounded everywhere. She stumbled down the last two steps and out the door.
Kit’s chest tightened, like a fist had seized her heart. Breath was snatched from her lungs. She staggered through the side alley and dug in her satchel for her meds.
Peeling open the Ziploc, she fumbled for her propranolol. White light dappled her eyesight, and she grew dizzy. She leaned against the overflowing dumpster behind the Grill.
She popped open the tan bottle and shook a pill into her palm. Crushing pain flared in her chest and her legs locked. She fell into the ripe pile of bagged garbage tucked in the corner pocket between the side of the dumpster and back of the restaurant. Throwing the small white pill under her tongue, she rested against the rancid mound of rubbish and battled for air.
On the other side of the dumpster, a door squeaked open. Metal slammed against brick. Footsteps pounded into the alley and down toward First Street.
The razor-like shards spearing her breastbone lightened. The tightness eased as the medication started to take effect, dilating her coronary arteries.
Heavy footsteps echoed again, coming back toward the alley.
She rolled onto her side and hauled bags of trash on top of herself. The footfalls drew closer. She curled into a ball, the smallest fetal position.
The footfalls stopped near the dumpster. She squeezed her lips together until her jaw hurt, channeling every shred of willpower not to move. Only taking the shallowest breaths, she was petrified to disturb the bags concealing her.
The man stepped around the dumpster, shoes striking the pavement with a dull clunk.
Foul air pressed in. Cool, gelatinous liquid trickled over her leg, tickling and taunting. But she stayed still as stone.
He kicked the dumpster. The ting of metal vibrated through her. Then the scuffle of shoes moved away. Footsteps thudded down the narrow alley. Quick. Heavy. The sound grew fainter.
Kit waited, listening for nearby movement. Each terrifying second ticked through her. Finally, she knocked the reeking bags off her and palmed her way up the wall.
Her rib cage loosened, her sternum relaxing with anxious breaths.
Three blocks to the NoMa–Gallaudet U Metro station, but they might look for her there. She’d have to push seven blocks to Union Station. The massive transportation center housed DC’s busiest Metro station, hubs for commuter rail lines, Amtrak, and Greyhound, and bristled round-the-clock with a sea of traffic. There, she could disappear.
Kit pushed off the wall and hurried down the alley. Her throat clogged with grief, pain, and a rage the likes of which she’d never known.
No matter what, she’d get justice for the Outliers. Some way, somehow, she’d stop whatever Bravo had in the works and see his crew behind bars or dead.
So help her God, even if she had to die trying.
02
Washington, DC
Sunday, 8:30 a.m. EDT
The bells of the Taft Memorial Tower pealed with deep, resonant tones, marking the half hour and fracturing the quiet of the early Sunday morning.
Castle Kinkade scanned his sector of the Upper Senate Park in the heart of DC across from the U.S. Capitol. His gaze combed over gnarled cherry trees, empty pathways flanking the long panel of lawn he occupied, the expansive paved plaza surrounding an elaborate fountain to the north, stone benches, and a vagrant huddled in the dense shade of mature trees to the east.
No sign of either target, although his team only had a physical description of one of the two. And he wasn’t even sure if this was the park where the meet was supposed to take place.
“I’ve got nothing,” Castle said into the mic concealed on the collar of his leather jacket.
His gaze trained on the homeless chick wrapped in a fleece blanket, sitting beside a tree. If not for a long swath of hair falling from the black hoodie pulled over her head and the shock of pale, porcelain skin from a partially exposed bare leg, he wouldn’t have been able to guess at the person’s gender. The brownish-gray color of the blanket blended so well with the bark, her small body almost looked like a natural extension of the tree.
Odd for a vagrant to camp out this close to the Senate buildings, since the Capitol Police did a sweep at sunrise and sunset. In this part of town, the homeless usually hunkered in Columbus Circle near Union Station.
“Dull as watching paint dry on my end.” Alistair Allen’s smooth Queen’s-English accent was loud and clear over Castle’s earpiece.
“I’ve got a vagrant concealed by a blanket near the trees on the—”
“East side. Yes, I have a visual,” Alistair said, sounding even more bored than Castle, as if that were possible. “Here’s a possibility—twentysomething female jogger. Rainbow Brite just jumped out of a Lululemon ad and is coming your way. You should have eyes on in three, two, one.”
The jogger crossed the plaza, wearing pants and a matching jacket with neon bands of pink, orange, purple, and blue. She ran by at a steady pace, eyes straight ahead, passed an elderly man feeding pigeons, and left the park.
The older gentleman hadn’t been there a moment ago. He must’ve come from the southwest side off the street. Maybe he was their mark, trying to appear casual while waiting for his contact.
Castle patted the dog he’d brought with him, keeping the potential suspect under surveillance. The white-bearded man took his time scattering grains of rice for the birds. Once his paper bag was empty, he glanced around as if looking for someone. Castle stayed loose and ready, but the man merely picked up a cane from a nearby bench and moseyed on without making contact with anyone.