51
The silver Volkswagen sedan that belonged to Lisa’s sister was stored in the parking garage on the building’s third level. Lisa wrapped her head in the scarf Anthony had given her, put on a pair of sunglasses, and got behind the wheel.
In the back of the car, knees pressed to the floor, Anthony kept his torso as flat as a sheet of wood across the seats. He’d covered himself with a windbreaker jacket that had been lying on the leather cushions.
“Does your sister have GPS, Lojack, satellite radio, or anything like that on this ride?” he asked.
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
She pulled out of the parking spot and began to drive, tires humming across concrete. He pressed his head against the seats, one hand clenching a Glock, the other gripping the .45.
If they were stopped, he was prepared to pop up like a jack-in-the-box and start firing.
“The Suburban’s parked outside the garage,” she said in a soft voice, as if worried the fanatics had eavesdropping technology, too. “I can’t tell who’s inside. The windows are tinted.”
Probably, the woman, Valdez, was in the SUV on watch. Cutty would have gone inside the building to get them. The guy would not have forfeited a chance to spill blood.
“Keep driving,” he said. “Don’t slow or deviate at all. Act normal.”
“Okay.”
Sweat drenched his brow, trickled onto the leather against which his face lay.
Although he was well-hidden, he felt as vulnerable as if he were lying on the hood of the car.
A few seconds later, he was jostled in the seat as the car kissed the street outside the garage. The tires sang against the wet pavement.
“We’re clear,” she said. “They’re not following us.”
Underneath the jacket, he closed his eyes and released a sigh that seemed to come from the bottom of his soul.
Finally, they were free.
He hoped.