Star Witness - By Mallory Kane Page 0,55

the concrete stoop into the ankle-deep water that covered the pockmarked and cracked asphalt. Immediately, the cold water seeped through her already damp sneakers to soak her feet. Grimacing, she ignored it and followed him.

Just as they reached the center of the alley and Harte pointed to the left side of the building in front of them, Dani heard a noise. She couldn’t tell what direction it had come from.

Harte’s head snapped to the right. He’d heard it too.

Before she could even begin to decide how to react, he’d grabbed her upper arm and pulled her forward and down behind a stack of tires.

A loud pop echoed in her ears as she dropped to her knees, her fall partially broken by Harte’s body. Her brain clicked into instant-replay mode and she realized that just prior to the pop, she’d heard a zinging sound near her ear—way too near.

“Are you hit?” Harte demanded, his hand still on her arm in a punishing grip.

“No,” she panted. “You?”

He gave a negative jerk of his head. “Go!” he said. “Run to that alley and keep running.”

“Not without you.”

Another bullet whistled past them, then another.

“Dani, go! I’m right behind you.”

She met his gaze and saw his steely determination.

“I swear!”

With a horrible sense of foreboding, she ran. Behind her, Harte fired three quick shots, covering her.

“Harte, run!” she cried. She reached the building and ducked behind it, pressing her back against the wall. If she angled her head, she could see Harte.

He was inching up from behind the tires to check the shooter’s position. When he did, a shot rang out, but to Dani’s surprise, it ricocheted off the wall close to her head, sending shards of plaster flying. She ducked back.

“Bastard,” she heard Harte growl; then he vaulted up and ran, firing rapidly.

Dani backed up as Harte rounded the corner of the building and slammed back against the wall. “You okay?” he panted.

“Yes.”

“I know where we are. Through this alley is Tchoupitoulas Street,” he said, pressing the back of his head against the wall and angling around to fire off another couple of rounds, then ducking back. “Did you see the words painted on this building? This is the back of La Maisson Restaurant. La Maisson fronts onto Tchoupitoulas and it’s only about three blocks from my great-aunt Claire’s house.”

Gunshots peppered the corner where he’d just leaned out.

“Go through there. At the end of the alley, go left. Don’t look back. I’ll catch up.” He leaned out and fired again.

Dani ran as fast as she could, her sneakers squeaking on the asphalt. She heard footsteps behind her and prayed it was Harte and not one of the goons who were trying to kill them.

The air was filled with gunfire. Her neck prickled, her scalp burned and her lungs felt strained to the point of bursting, but she didn’t dare stop.

She heard a short, pained groan behind her and the footsteps stumbled unevenly. She dared a glance backward in time to see Harte regain his footing. “Harte—” she gasped.

“Don’t stop!” he shouted.

Sirens suddenly wailed behind them, and then Harte caught up with her. He passed her, pointing at a blue building. “Through that alley,” he shouted, and slowed down. “Go!”

She ran past him and into the alley, but she had no idea which way to turn out the other end, so she slowed to a stop.

The siren changed to short blasts. Maybe they’d caught the men.

Harte ran around the corner a few seconds later. He leaned against the wall, his chest heaving and sweat dripping in rivulets down his face. “Aunt Claire’s house is right behind here. White with green shutters. Come on.”

Dani frowned at him. Something was wrong. “Harte—?”

“Move! No time to talk.” He took off down the alley and she followed.

Then she saw it—the blood on his shirt. “You’re bleeding!” she cried.

He didn’t acknowledge her. He just kept on across the street, dodging tree limbs and trash and torn roofing shingles, then bounded up a set of stone steps to ornate double doors with stained-glass sidelights and transom.

He turned the handle and pushed against the door, but it didn’t open. He hammered on the wood with the gun. “Paul!” he cried in a strained voice. “Open up! It’s Harte.”

Chapter Fourteen

Harte pounded on the door again. “Paul!”

Before the word was out of his mouth, the door flew open and Harte’s cousin on his grandmother Lilibelle’s side, Paul Guillame, stood there, surprise and anger on his face. “Harte? What the—? Do you know what time it