Silent Run

back.
    â€œRun, Sarah,” he urged.
    His words turned his attacker’s attention on Sarah. The man fired a shot at her just as she ducked past him, running down the stairs.
    Taking advantage of the man’s momentary distraction, Jake hit him from behind, this time knocking the gun out of his hand. They wrestled on the landing, both trying to get control of the gun, which had slid against the opposite wall.
    The man was strong and knew how to fight. Jake battled back. He had to give Sarah time to get away.
    Their bodies rolled over and over as they each struggled for dominance. They were close to the stairs now. If he could just shove the guy down the stairs, he might still get out of this alive.
    The smoke was getting thicker. Jake could feel the heat of the fire emanating from the walls. His lungs were burning.
    Suddenly a blast of cool air hit him in the face. There were men coming up the stairs. Firemen. Thank God!
    His attacker jerked away. He gave Jake one last push as he ran down the stairs, nearly knocking over one of the firemen on his way down.
    â€œAre you all right?” a fireman asked him, grabbing him by the arm.
    Jake stumbled to his feet. He couldn’t speak. His lungs were filled with smoke. The fireman helped him out of the building. He prayed that Sarah had gotten away, that she wasn’t still waiting outside, and that their attacker hadn’t caught up to her.
    Finally they reached the street. He gulped in deep breaths of the cool, fresh air. Dozens of people were milling around in front of a fire truck that blazed with red and blue strobe lights.
    â€œI’m okay,” he said as a paramedic came up to him. But his gasp only led the paramedic to slap an oxygen mask over his nose.
    â€œBreathe,” the paramedic instructed. “Sit down."
    He sat down on the grass, taking in much-needed air. All the while his gaze raked the area. He couldn’t see Sarah anywhere. He needed to find her. He pulled the mask off his nose. “I’m all right,” he repeated.
    â€œYou’re bleeding,” the paramedic said. “And the oxygen will do you good."
    Jake put his hand to his head, and his fingers came away wet with blood. He must have cut himself on something in the stairwell.
    â€œLet me take a look at that cut."
    Jake pushed the paramedic’s hand away from his face. “I’m fine. I have to find someone. My... my wife,” he said, the words coming out before he could stop them. He didn’t bother to correct himself. “She came out of the building right before me. Did you see her? Long, curly brown hair, blue eyes?"
    â€œSorry, buddy, I just got here, but I think everyone is out. Come on, sit down. You need treatment."
    â€œNo, I have to find her.” He jogged down the sidewalk, looking for Sarah or the guy who had attacked them. When he got to the spot where the car was parked, his heart sank.
    The car was empty. He glanced around him. Where the hell was Sarah?
    * * *
    A storm was coming, Dylan realized as he got out of his car. Dark black clouds were blowing in off the ocean. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees, and he shivered as he made his way up to Catherine Hilliard’s front door. It was half past five. He hoped she was home and ready to go. He was impatient to get down to LA.
    After she’d left for her class, he’d settled in at a coffee shop down the road. In addition to swilling down three cups of strong coffee, he’d gotten on the Internet and begun researching Jessica’s disappearance. He’d also done a little digging into tattoos, specifically of the tiger variety. It hadn’t surprised him to learn that tattoos could be linked to various gang organizations as a symbol of their fidelity. In fact, the tiger tattoo, which many believed to stand for fierceness, power, and loyalty, could also be traced back to specific groups linked to the Russian Mafia. Dylan sincerely hoped that Sarah’s would-be killer was not part of that organization, but at the moment he couldn’t discount any possibility.
    Knocking again, he wondered what was taking Catherine so long to answer. Her yellow VW Bug was parked in front of her garage. She had to be home. And her house was small. He could go from one end to the other in about thirty steps. Trying the knob, he turned it in his hand. He’d never been one to ignore an open door, so he walked into the cottage, calling out for Catherine. There