Expired Getaway (Last Chance County #7) - Lisa Phillips Page 0,60

the door, then I pulled my gun from my ankle holster and shot them all. One got off a shot and then landed on me, so I shoved him onto the other guy.”

Bridget stared into the street. The rear garages, an alley between. All in a row. Crack. The sound of a shot fired reverberated through her and she flinched. It was only in her mind. Her gunshot wound, the graze on her outer arm, hurt. She covered her sleeve, under which was the bandage.

Clarke had shot her. Even if he hadn’t shot to kill, he had probably intentionally wounded her so he could take her. He had treated her like a trophy animal for his collection.

“You forgot the part where you were shot.” Zander’s hard tone rumbled over the sound of coffee percolating.

Bridget inhaled espresso-laced air. The calming scent that always seemed to make everything better.

“I wanted to draw him out.” Sasha huffed. “What else was I going to do? You got their phones from the van, right? Call Enrico yourself. Take him down.”

Zander still didn’t move even one muscle. “I’ll hand whatever information I obtain over to the authorities. They’re the ones who are going to take down Enrico.”

“Et tu, Brutus?”

Zander didn’t even raise an eyebrow. “That’s not how it goes.”

“You think I don’t know that, Brute?” Sasha raised hers. “I was being facetious. Do you even know what that means?”

“Nooo.” Zander drawled the word out in a sarcastic tone.

Bridget’s lips curled up. These two were incorrigible.

“But you did get the phones.” That was Sasha.

Zander came back. “My guy is taking care of it.”

Bridget turned back to the window to watch a huge, tan-colored dog wander around the corner of the end townhouse. No leash. She couldn’t make out the breed from this distance, but it seemed to be all alone. Like someone had let their dog out, not realizing it was out running loose. The dog looked so much like her dog, Butch, that she became homesick for him.

“So we have leads we didn’t have before.” Sasha was determined. “Thanks to me.”

“You got yourself shot.”

“Psh. You’re gonna tell me a shot to the shoulder would even slow you down?”

“It’s not me that got shot.” It sounded like Zander was moving around. Bridget heard a cupboard close and mugs being set on the counter. “So that point is moot.”

Bridget twisted to her friend, interrupting. “Do you need anything? Food? Medicine?”

Sasha lifted one hand and signed, using the other in her sling as best she could. Bridget wasn’t as well versed in sign language. Sasha had taught her enough she got the gist—most of which was her unique way of expressing concepts and definitely not any kind of official use of the language, apart from the basic phrasings most people knew.

Bridget shook her head and mouthed, “No.” She wasn’t going to get rid of Zander when he might be able to talk some sense into the woman.

You’re taking his side?

“Not likely. Considering I’d have done exactly the same thing.” Bridget sat on the arm of the recliner. “And you’re right, we’ve got leads we didn’t have before. Though, I’m more concerned about Clarke and what he has planned than about you purposely drawing out Capeira. By yourself.”

“So you agree with him.”

Bridget shook her head. “It’s not that simple. And I’m not an operator like you.”

“Yet you took out Benito.”

Bridget pressed her lips together. “You know what I mean.”

Sasha stared at her. “Tell me right now.”

Even Zander quit pouring coffee and came over. “Bridget?”

Great. She was never getting out from under their scrutiny. Not until she spilled. “He was attacking—” She nearly said the woman’s name. “—the client. I killed him.”

Sasha cut her off. “Explain better than that.”

“I don’t—”

Zander interrupted. “Start from the beginning.”

Bridget didn’t want to do that. With all the blood she’d seen recently, bringing up additional memories wasn’t going to help anyone. It would only make things worse, and she would be on edge instead of focused on their problem.

There was a scratch at the door to the garage. Bridget started for it, but was called back by Sasha’s yelling, “Don’t make me get up and drag you back in here.”

Bridget turned. “What?”

“Time to talk.”

“I was helping the client pack.”

She closed her eyes and imagined the scene. She’d been in the bedroom, gathering clothing from the closet and stuffing it into a suitcase so they could get out of there. The residence had been compromised. Instead of dropping off a new packet with a fresh ID, she’d