They were in a pinch, to put it mildly. Juanita, her hair flowing down her shoulders, pressed up against the brick wall. She turned to look at her boss, the collar of his trench coat pulled up against his face, worn hat low on his head. She could only make out the glimmer of his one remaining eye. She couldn't even guess at his expression. "What's the play?" she asked him, her voice low.
Drake Hargate, private eye and regular thorn-in-the-side of the city's criminal underworld shrugged. "How many gunmen?" Juanita began to move, he steadied her with a hand. "Careful now. How many?"
She tilted her head, her long eyelashes illuminated by the street light. "Four. I think. One on the roof, two in the alley, and one behind the car."
Drake pushed back the thought of their deaths, gristly and untimely. His hands were just about steady, and without thinking he traced the scar along his temple in thought. How had it come to this? He'd been approached by one of the detectives at the city police station, pulled into their office. It wasn't often that law enforcement actually sought him out, unless they were trying to pin something on him. This had been different, though.
The detective was young, an upstart from the same area he'd grew up in. He could hear it in her accent, he could almost see a cloud of ash coming up from her lungs as she cleared her throat, hear the clockwork ticking in her joints. Perhaps he should have been looking for the ruse, but seeing her, well, it was like stepping back into his youth. She reminded him of every girl-next-door he'd ever grown up with. A plain face, and honest eyes staring their green way right through him. God damn green eyes, like watching light filter through leaves, and freckles too. How could he refuse? Drake had always been a sucker for a pretty face, and this one seemed to have more problems than most.
Even worse, he knew her family. The Campbells. Good people, really good people. So, when she said she was in over her head, that she was getting pressure from people so far above her she didn't even know how she was supposed to address them, when she said she was frightened. Well, he just had to hero it up, didn't he? Slipped the file right off her desk, and then out into the afternoon sunshine. One quick call to Juanita later and they were on their way.
The girl was thorough. He'd give her that. There was a reason she was springing through the ranks faster than a jack rabbit with its tail on fire. Her thoroughness was also going to bring her trouble. She'd seen something she didn't like in the face of a local politician, a hunch that turned out good, and she'd traced his money right to where it shouldn't belong.
Drake couldn't help but wonder if her cleverness was going to get them killed. "Do what you have to. If you can keep one of them alive enough for me to question, then aces. If not." He shrugged. "Careful. There's something fishy about this whole damn mess."
"Fishier than four guns pointed at our heads?" Her handgun was drawn, the safety off.
"I'll say." He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, it felt like it was fixing to break something.
Juanita was perfectly steady as she looked at him. She gestured, her plan: first the two in the alleyway, then the car, then the roof. She'd have to be quick, but Juanita Santana never missed.
She stepped out from behind the wall in one fluid movement, two shots ringing out as she did so. She turned on the spot and fired again and there was a yelp as she hit her mark. Then, the roof and before she could manage to fire again a flurry of shots rang out. She fired on instinct, and then again, and again.
She looked down at herself to assess the damage, expecting to find blood somewhere she didn't feel it yet. Nothing. She looked for where the bullets must have hit the wall behind her and froze.
Drake curled over in a ball, blood spreading out beneath him. She made a noise that might have been his name, or a shriek of horror, or fury or denial. "Boss!" She reached him in an instant, carefully flipping him over. "Drake. Talk to me. Please."
It was bad. Oh gods above it was bad. Chest wound. She could only hope it hadn't reached one of his lungs. His breathing was laboured. She pressed her hand over it, trying to stem the bleeding. In her panic it seemed as if she could feel him slipping away, in the warmth under her palms. "Help!" she called. "Anyone! Please! Call an ambulance!"
This was her fault. She'd been hired to protect him. This was her fault.