Rarities Unlimited 04 - The Color of Death

plain sight.
    “I’m FBI!” he yelled at the agents. “There’s a man down by the black Mercedes!”
    Two agents broke away toward the Mercedes.
    Three more came at a run toward Sam, weapons drawn.
    “Stay down,” he said to Kate. “They’re feeling edgy.”
    “ They’re feeling edgy. We’re the ones who were shot at!”
    “They don’t know that yet. Did you get a look at the license plate?”
    “Oh, sure. Would that be when you slammed me up against a car or while you held my face to the pavement?”
    “You okay?” Sam asked, but he didn’t take his eyes off the men who were closing in on them.
    “How the hell would I know?”
    “I’ll ask you again when the adrenaline wears off. Stay down until I tell you otherwise.”
    Whatever Kate said was lost when one of the agents yelled, “Sam? Is that you under the cowboy hat?”
    “It’s me, Doug.”
    Immediately, Doug signaled for the agents with him to head for the black Mercedes.
    “I’ve got a civilian here,” Sam said, “so don’t be surprised when she stands up.”
    “She armed?”
    “No.”
    “You both okay?”
    “We’re working on it.” Sam holstered his weapon, anchored his badge holder in his front jeans pocket so that the shield still showed, and hauled Kate to her feet.
    She didn’t thank him. She was too loaded with adrenaline and aftershocks to worry about being polite. She wanted to scream. Hit something. Shake. Hide. Scream some more.
    So she forced herself to lean against the car and act like she spent part of every day almost getting killed.
    “The other civilian looked like he was hit,” Sam said to Doug.
    “By you?” Doug asked.
    “No.”
    “We only heard two shots, evenly spaced. They sounded like they came from a thirty-eight.”
    “Those were mine. The cowboy had a silencer. I wasn’t close enough to see make or model of the gun, but even muffled, it had enough punch to knock down a man at ten feet, minimum.”
    Doug holstered his gun and looked toward the Mercedes. Someone over there was yelling for the paramedics. Somebody else had a cell phone to his ear, probably talking to the cops.
    Kate started forward to see if she could help with the wounded man. Her knees wouldn’t cooperate.
    Without looking away from his supervisor, Sam casually propped her up against the car. She didn’t know whether to thank him or hit him.
    Breathe, she told herself. Slow and deep. You can do it. Hell, even a baby can do it.
    Sam gave her a worried look.
    She bared her teeth at him.
    “What’d you see?” Doug asked Sam.
    He turned away from Kate. “White Subaru Forrester, this year’s model, heavily tinted windows, clean except for the wheel wells and license plate, which were muddy.”
    “Convenient,” Doug said, not surprised.
    “Yeah. No plate in front. Dirty plate in back was Arizona. I’m betting it’s a rental. One man in a cowboy hat and boots, surgical gloves, jeans and a medium-blue work shirt, a stocking pulled over his face, dark, short beard underneath. Caucasian, Hispanic, possibly Eurasian. I couldn’t see the eyes. An inch or two shorter than me, slim build. Shot right-handed. Had a boot holster.”
    “He say anything?”
    “No.”
    “Impression?”
    “A pro. He’ll dump the car wherever his own is parked, throw his hat and boots in his own trunk, and vanish.”
    “Shit. Just what we needed.” Doug looked at Kate for the first time. “Who are you?”
    Sam stepped in front of her, blocking Doug’s view.
    “She isn’t here,” Sam said.
    “Mother,” Doug muttered. “Get her out of here. Then get your ass over to my office. One hour, max.”

Chapter 42
    Scottsdale
    Friday
    6:30 P.M .
    “That’s the best you can do?” Sizemore asked harshly as he opened another beer. High-test beer in a classy, ice-dripping bottle. A snap of his thumb and forefinger sent the cap sailing toward the trash can. The cap fell in and rattled over empty bottles and cans.
    It had been a long day.
    Ignoring her own tightly drawn nerves, Sharon took a deep breath and tried one more time. “If you dialed back on the beer and—”
    “If you did as you’re told rather than getting in my face,” he cut in savagely, “none of this would happen.”
    She put her hands on her hips even as she gauged his alcohol level and temper. By the color of his face, both were high. He’d loosened his collar and tie, but otherwise was dressed exactly as he’d been every workday since he joined the Bureau.
    Maybe she should