Silenced by the Yams - By Karen Cantwell Page 0,47
he was ordered to.”
Before I could digest the words, Andy had jerked his elbow from my grasp and was into the street, chugging full-steam ahead, shouting Jorge’s name. At the same moment, and sleek stretch limo slid to the curb in front of the ACL building. Cars were honking and skidding to sudden stops to avoid hitting Andy, who wasn’t paying attention to anyone except Jorge.
Without a second thought, I followed Andy into the street, intent on stopping him. Then, from my peripheral vision, two men appeared. They wore black jeans and black t-shirts and something about the uniformity of it triggered my this-isn’t-good alarm. Sadly, I didn’t pay enough attention to the inner Barb that knew something bad was about to go down; I just kept following Andy Baugh. And when the third man in black appeared, I heard Colt hollering for me to stop. The terror in his voice hit home, but not soon enough.
Unfortunately, I’ve experienced the deafening sound of gunfire way too many times, so when the first shot was fired, I started looking for cover. Andy had already reached the sidewalk when a second pop fired and Jorge fell. A third bullet dropped Andy right in front of me. I could hear Colt’s screams through the mayhem that had ensued on the street and on the surrounding sidewalks. My legs went numb and I couldn’t move. A part of me wondered if I’d been shot and didn’t know it.
Suddenly, a car sped from around the corner and slowed just enough for doors to open and the three men to jump in. It peeled off, burning rubber. Something about the car was familiar, but my head was spinning and nausea was setting in. That’s when I looked into the street and saw Colt face down, and Clarence kneeling over him.
Not two seconds after the mystery car sped away, a black SUV with flashing blue and red lights followed in hot pursuit with sirens blaring. My knees finally gave way and I crumpled to the ground just as I spied a vision that made my heart sing.
No, it wasn’t Steven Spielberg floating in from a camera crane, shouting “Cut! That’s a wrap!” Although that would have been really cool.
It was Howard, gun drawn, face full of concern, dodging cars, running my way. I smiled, content that I was about to be saved from this horror. Agents Smith and Price had their fire power focused on the doors of the limousine.
With the promise of salvation on the horizon, I felt sensation in my legs again. I sat up enough to wriggle them with my hands. I wanted to be ready for Howard to walk me away to a quiet place where I could pass out peacefully.
Andy Baugh was moaning just in front of me. Blood oozed from his left leg and pooled on the concrete. I told him help was on the way and prayed that his leg was the only place he’d been hit.
Colt was too far away for me to see, and a crowd had converged around him.
A tingling on my neck caused me to reach and rub, but when I did, my hand touched the cold steel of a handgun barrel. At the same time, I felt my wrist wrenched hard behind my back and a voice whisper in my ear. “Up on your feet fast, lady.”
It was the man of many hair plugs, Randolph Rutter. And me, without my mace.
Chapter Twenty
Howard had stopped on the far side of the road when he saw Randolph.
I didn’t dare turn my head to see if anyone was closer.
“Get up,” said Randolph. When my legs didn’t move, he applied pressure to the gun. “Now. I’m running out of time.”
Trying my best to obey, I pushed up on my legs, while he pulled with the strength of his other arm. “Please don’t hurt me.” I fought back tears. “I have three daughters. I’m not the greatest cook in the world, but I try to be a good mother. I promise I’ll attend more PTA meetings and learn to sew and take them all to Disney World like they’ve begged for years.”
“Are you talking to me or to God?”
“Anyone who will listen.”
Half crouched and with his gun lowered, Howard made short, careful steps in our direction. “Randolph Rutter, we promise you fair treatment. Just put the gun down and release the hostage.”
The bit about “releasing the hostage” annoyed me. “Howard, I’m not a hostage, I’m your wife! Can’t you be