Flawless. Heather Graham

of Flawless.

      Mike produced his badge and said, “FBI. Anyone go in yet?”

      “Just got here,” one of the cops said.

      “We’ll take it easy—there could be people in there,” Mike said. “If two of you will cover me on the left, I’ll take the door. Craig, what are you thinking?”

      Craig had been studying the building and thinking about the best way in.

      Space had been at a premium in NYC for decades, if not centuries. Buildings tended to be flush against each other, but there were exceptions. In this instance, there was a café at the end of the block, with tables spilling out on a throughway that led to the back of the building. An old archway suggested another narrow alley at the back of the building that fronted the block, an alley that presumably ran between the buildings that faced one street and those that faced the next.

      “Going around—there’s bound to be a back door,” he told Mike briefly and pulled his gun.

      He didn’t wait for a go-ahead or a reply but moved as soon as he was done speaking.

      He heard Mike’s voice in his ear. “Hey, watch what you’re doing. You need backup, you say the word.”

      “I’m good, no problem yet,” he said in return.

      He moved as quickly as he could and rounded the corner. He saw that there was an actual archway on the end of the alley, space enough for some outdoor seating for a chain luncheonette.

      There were people at the tables.

      “Move!” he shouted, threading his way through them. “Move!”

      “What the fuck—” someone said.

      “We’re moving in,” Mike said over Craig’s earpiece.

      “You take care.”

      “I have backup.”

      Craig swore softly, running into a chair a man had pushed back.

      “Dickhead!” the man said.

      “Move—”

      “You dickhead!”

      “Move. FBI!” Craig roared.

      The man moved and then someone screamed and everyone got out of his way.

      Craig realized then that he was wielding his Glock.

      “What’s going on, Craig?” Mike demanded.

      “I’m running!” Craig panted.

      He tore down the pedestrian alley as fast as he could move.

      As he reached the rear of the jewelry shop he could see that the back door was open.

      He heard Mike’s voice again in his ear. “I’m inside. Two people in here, both okay. One is old man Krakowsky. He said they went out the back and they have a hostage.”

      “I’m on it,” Craig said.

      Dammit. The thieves had been there—and they were a step ahead.

      He could see people running at the other end of the alley.

      Men in black hoodies. And they weren’t alone.

      Mike had been right. They had a hostage. A woman was being dragged along with them.

      At least she wasn’t dead on the ground in the alley.

      Swearing, Craig cranked up his pace.

      As the thieves neared the street, he saw that they were heading to a van that was waiting at the end of the alley, a commonplace white van.

      The sliding door was open, the driver obviously waiting for his companions to jump in.

      One of the thieves drew the woman out of the way as they reached the sidewalk. Another brandished his gun.

      People were screaming everywhere. Some were running; others, too startled to move, stood where they were.

      Right in the way of the thieves.

      And in his mind’s eye, all Craig could picture was the video of the thieves shooting the manager. And of the dead woman lying in an alley.

      “Craig, what the hell are you doing?” Mike demanded.

      “I’m on them.”

      “You’re on them how? Wait for backup.”

      “I can’t—I’ll lose them.”

      He could hear Mike cursing.

      “Can’t talk—running!” Craig said.

      The thief holding the woman turned and saw—in the midst of the chaos—that they were being followed. He shoved her into the van and jumped in after her.

      Craig practically flew toward the street. The last of the thieves was entering the van, and the door hadn’t closed yet. He couldn’t fire, though; he could too easily hit the woman or an innocent bystander.

      He was going to need both hands, he thought, and shoved his Glock back into the holster nestled into the small of his back. Then he launched himself through the open door.

      He pitched headfirst into one of the thieves and heard a cracking sound—the guy’s head hitting the far wall.

      The driver screeched into traffic, rounding the corner onto the avenue and yelling, “What the hell...?”

      His entry had been something like a bowling ball striking the pins at the end of the lane. All three thieves went sprawling. The woman was facedown, and he was somehow entangled with her legs.

      “Craig, what the hell’s going on?” Mike demanded.

      “White van going south on Fifth,” he said.

      The thief he’d catapulted into was out cold. That left two more, plus the driver.

      He heard a cacophony of shouting in the van. And through his earpiece, he could hear Mike cursing Craig beneath his breath between giving orders to stop every white van on Fifth.

      Then Craig saw that one of the men was rising and that he had a gun. Craig reacted, rolling the woman onto her back as he struck out with his left foot. He caught the guy right in the jaw, and he stumbled back awkwardly, then fell flat on his rear.

      Craig barely missed getting whacked across the head by the third man. But he ducked in time and head butted the man in the gut.

      By then the second man was moving again. He lifted his gun and aimed at Craig’s head.

      He never got the chance to fire.

      Craig was astonished—and incredibly grateful—to see that the woman had not only moved, she’d found a tire iron and cracked the thief hard over the head with it. He went down like a brick.

      The panel door suddenly slid open. The last of the thieves hopped from the moving vehicle.

      The driver suddenly stepped on the gas. Craig looked out the windshield and realized that they’d miraculously hit a clear patch of Fifth Avenue.

      Craig knew he couldn’t have gone after the thief anyway. The woman was still in the van, and the driver was alive and well.

      Now his lead foot on the gas sent both Craig and the woman flying. He landed half on top of the unconscious man she’d hit and half on top of her.

      For a moment he got a good look at her face. Mid to late twenties, brilliant blue eyes, deep red hair, fine bone structure and porcelain skin.

      He got moving again quickly, staggering to the front, pulling the Glock out of its holster as he went, then pressing the muzzle against the driver’s head.

      “Pull over. Now.”

      “Ah, hell,” the driver muttered. He added a few colorful expletives, but, as ordered, he pulled over to the side. Craig