Sneak And Rescue. Shirl Henke

piece of junk probably wouldn’t work in the underground garage, but anything was worth a try.

      The old car’s brakes squealed in protest as her would-be killer tromped them, then fired several more shots. Sam was grateful he wasn’t an aficionado of the target range as she ducked and dodged. Chunks of concrete exploded around her like land mines in Tora Bora. He slammed his Olds into reverse. She could hear the transmission groan in protest, but didn’t take time to watch as its driver followed her. At least backing up in the confines of the dimly lit garage forced him to take his eyes off her.

      She made it to the cover of a heavy concrete support beam surrounded by cars. “Let’s see you ram this, sucker,” she said, crouching down behind the steel-reinforced barrier. She pressed 911 on the phone. Useless. She might have known. Resisting the urge to throw the cell at her attacker, she took a deep breath and held her .38 Smith &Wesson Chief’s Special with steady hands. She had only four shots left. Once those were gone, so was Sam.

      Her buddy didn’t disappoint. He pulled the Olds almost in line with the beam, then slipped out the driver’s side. She could hear the door creak as it opened and see the changing pattern of light through the broken window. Using an old trick she’d learned as a beat cop in one of the city’s less than secure neighborhoods, Sam knelt down and peered beneath the cars, watching for feet.

      Nothing like a broken ankle or leg to slow a guy down. She caught a blur of movement, but this one was smart enough to use the rear wheel as cover before she could line up her shot at the awkward angle. She heard some moans and curses from inside the car and recognized it as the distinct local blend known as Spanglish. The one she’d hit was still alive but not happy.

      “Looks as if we have what you might call a Cuban standoff, doesn’t it, pally?” she asked. “Better get your partner to an E.R. before somebody calls the cops.”

      Her suggestion was ignored. Then he put one foot outside the wheel. Sam took careful aim and fired a single shot at the weathered denim pant leg. Another string of hybrid oaths in a Spanish-English combo.

      “Bingo,” she muttered as he hopped back to the car. From the quick leap he made, she knew she’d only nicked him, but that was good enough. The door slammed shut and the Olds took off like a rocket, careening around the corner and vanishing up the exit ramp, a lot faster than the old geezer in the ’Vette. She still only made out the first four digits on the dirty plate. Deliberately covered with mud? Probably.

      Sam stood up and leaned against the cool concrete for a minute, collecting herself. Whoever had hired those gunsels meant business. Although she and Matt had made some nasty enemies in the local Russian Mafia, she doubted these two turkeys were connected. One or both of them might have .38 slugs in them—or at least a couple of real nasty gashes, maybe the first shooter a broken arm or hand. That meant they needed medical help of some kind.

      She replaced the gun in her handbag and took out the Via Spiga pumps. Shoving the shoes over her mangled stockings, she sprinted toward the elevator to the first floor where her cell would work, then placed a call to Patowski to explain what had just transpired.

      Pat was his usual gracious self. “Let me get this straight. You want me to run a check on all Miami E.R. s for a couple of Cubano shooters who you never even got a look at? Driving a rag wagon Olds, for which you only got a partial plate? These supposed Cubanos may have .38 bullet wounds? Hell, Sam, in the last hour you know how many shootings there’ve been in Little Havana alone? And how common .38s are? Talk about your needle in a haystack—why not ask me to pick fly crap out of black pepper?”

      Sam sighed, glancing at her watch. “You’re right, Pat. It’s a long shot, but the one in the car I may have hit pretty solid. He wasn’t shooting when the driver got out.”

      “What’s this all about? More mob stuff?” he asked.

      “I don’t know. Just run the plate and see what you come up with, okay?”

      After a martyred sigh, Patowski agreed. He owed her and they both knew it. She and Matt had helped him and his pals at the FBI break a case involving multiple homicides and stop a Russian mafia turf war extending from Miami to New York.

      When she ended the call, she could see some of the well-dressed executive types in the exclusive office building giving her the eye. Sam could imagine what she must look like, but one glance at her watch and she also knew she didn’t have time to repair the damage.

      She brushed at the dust and oil on her formerly immaculate suit with an oath. For once in her miserable life, couldn’t she look cool and professional? Muttering, “At least black doesn’t show grease stains,” she headed to the elevator and punched the up button.

      A woman in a designer suit with a matching briefcase entered the elevator with her, practically stepping sideways through the wide door. She deliberately stood at the opposite side of the car as it began its ascent. “If you think I’m Typhoid Mary, you could’ve waited for the next car,” Sam couldn’t resist saying. Then she sneezed. Her fellow traveler quickly punched a second button and got off at the next floor. Sam rode to the fifteenth.

      The elite offices of Winchester, Grayson & Kent were furnished in posh Danish modern, the redwood tones made more subtle by pale gray and mauve upholstery. Tall black urns filled with bamboo and those funny curlicues of decorative wood stood like sentinels flanking the massive reception desk. Abstract watercolors were strategically placed on the pearl-white walls, all of them by one artist, probably Scandinavian and most certainly expensive.

      Several men in custom tailored suits occupied chairs that overlooked a solid glass wall with a splendid view of the Intracoastal. One glanced up from his Barron’s long enough to give her a sniff of distaste, then went back to the stock market reports. A woman with glossy blond hair sleeked into a severe French twist sat behind the reception desk. She obviously didn’t like Sam’s appearance, either.

      “May I help you?” she said in a tone reserved for a vagrant who’d come to inquire if he could use the executive washroom.

      “Sam Ballanger to see Mr. Winchester. I have an appointment.”

      Looking highly dubious, the blonde checked the computer screen at her side to confirm. “That was for 4:00 p.m. It’s now—”

      “Look, Blondie, I can tell time. I was unavoidably detained by a couple of bozos who tried to run me down, then shoot me in your parking deck. Next time that happens to you, let’s see if that fancy ‘do’of yours doesn’t get a little messed up, okay?”

      Ms. Chandler, as the nameplate on the desk indicated, glared disbelievingly before she caught herself and forced a smile as genuine as the mauve silk floral arrangement beside her computer. “I’ll see if Mr. Winchester is still available. Please have a seat.”

      But only if I promise not to get grease on the upholstery. Sam walked over to the window and looked at the stunning vista, all blue skies, gold sand and green palm trees in the distance. Miami Beach with its Art Deco pastels beckoned from across the water, a faded diva ringed by garish new high-rise condos. Her kind of town. She’d known it since her first trip here when she was thirteen and stowed away in the sleeper of Uncle Dec’s rig. He’d been mad enough to chew nails when he’d discovered her at a rest stop in North Carolina. Turned the air blue with his cussing, she recalled fondly. By that time it had been too far to turn back without sacrificing a big payload in Miami, so he’d called her frantic parents and reassured them he’d take good care of his favorite niece. She’d been grounded for the rest of her freshman year, but it had been worth it.

      Her reminiscences were interrupted by Ms. Chandler. “Mr. Winchester will see you now,” she said. “Please follow me.”

      The snotty receptionist looked as if she was trying to digest a bamboo stalk from one of those urns out front and walked as if another stalk was jammed where the Florida sun never shines. They moved down a long hall, footsteps muffled by two-inch-thick Karastan carpeting in a shade Sam would’ve described as Attica gray. Winchester’s nameplate was inscribed in polished brass on the door of the corner office. Of course. He was the senior