Under Surveillance. Gayle Wilson

chest in an attempt to regain her balance.

      She was close enough now that she could smell him. Stale sweat and cigarette smoke. He put his other hand on her bare shoulder, dragging her to him so that her breasts brushed the stained T-shirt he wore.

      As they did, she finally realized why they hadn’t been tempted by the purse she’d thrown them. Apparently money had nothing to do with what they were after.

      Chapter Two

      Driven by panic and fury, Kelly ground the high heel of her sandal down on her assailant’s toes. Luckily, he was shod in sneakers rather than the boots the others favored.

      Hissing a profanity, he loosened his grip long enough to allow her to pull free. She started up the ramp again, intending to run to the next level, which she hoped would not be as deserted as this one.

      Before she’d taken two steps, she heard the sound of a car. She looked up in time to see headlights appear at the top of the ramp. She ran toward them, waving her arms to attract the driver’s attention. Surely he would take in the situation and stop to help her.

      And what if he did? Always assuming it was a “he.” It would still be four to one.

      Four to two, she amended, feeling a ridiculous sense of triumph in the victory she’d achieved with her high heel.

      Realistically she knew that the smart thing for whoever was in that car to do would be to drive past her. Just get the hell out of the parking deck. If she were lucky, he might stop somewhere and call the police. If the driver were another woman, that was almost certainly what would happen.

      If it were a man, maybe he would slow enough to let her jump into the car as he went by. That would probably depend on whether or not she could put enough distance between herself and the boy who’d grabbed her to make that maneuver safe for the driver. Right now that was doubtful.

      Even as she acknowledged the difficulty, the hand of the teen who had been hiding behind her car closed around the fabric of her skirt. She staggered forward, feeling the sheer material rip free from where it was attached to the bodice.

      Desperation lent her strength. Somehow she managed to pull away from him. Once she had, she looked up again, trying to gauge how far she was from the approaching car.

      She’d made almost no progress at all, she thought in despair. Then she realized the vehicle had stopped, its headlights shining down on the scene playing out below.

      Her heart sank. Either this was a confederate arriving with the getaway car or the driver was rethinking his route.

      Don’t leave, she pled silently as she ran. Please don’t leave me alone with them.

      The sound of a car door slamming at the top of the ramp put an end to any hope of rescue. No one in his right mind, if he were an innocent bystander, would get out of that car. He might drive by at full speed. He might even back up to a higher level and park somewhere in the darkness, hoping the boys wouldn’t come looking for him.

      Those were options a normal person might take. Getting out of the car wasn’t. Not in this situation.

      As she ran toward the top, she could hear the sound of the driver’s footsteps coming down the ramp. Slow, almost measured, they were suddenly the only noise on this level of the parking deck.

      She turned from the blinding glare of the headlights to glance behind her. The four attackers had stopped their pursuit. Just as she was, they were listening to the approaching footsteps with a wary intensity.

      Not a confederate then. This was something—someone—totally unexpected.

      She picked up speed as she ran toward the driver, hope reviving her flagging strength. She didn’t have breath enough to scream for help. She had to trust that he’d assessed the situation and figured out what was about to happen.

      “What’s going on here?”

      The voice was deep and unbelievably calm. Too calm. Maybe he hadn’t understood. Maybe he’d just seen people on the ramp and stopped to investigate.

      As the man posed his question, he stepped toward the center of the ramp. She could see him now, silhouetted against the twin beams of the headlights. Tall and broad-shouldered, he looked capable of holding his own in a fight.

      “Help me,” she gasped as she ran toward him.

      He didn’t look at her, focused instead on the teenagers who were still watching from below. “Are you hurt?”

      “No, but—”

      “Get in the car.”

      That had clearly been an order, given in a tone that brooked no argument. She didn’t even think of making one.

      She ran past him, her hand closing over the handle of the passenger door of the black SUV he was driving. Before she opened it, she looked back down the ramp.

      The four had apparently recovered from their shock. Or maybe they had finally realized there had been only one person in this car and that he wasn’t a cop or a security guard.

      They were advancing again. Slowly this time. From somewhere a long iron bar had appeared.

      Tire tool or crowbar, she guessed. The one who’d thrown her purse aside held the instrument in his right hand, slapping it against the palm of his left. The whole thing looked like something out of a bad production of West Side Story, but she didn’t feel the slightest inclination to laugh.

      “Get back into the car,” she said to the man standing in front of the headlights. “Let’s just get out of here.”

      There was no response. His stance, illuminated by the headlights, seemed completely relaxed.

      “Please,” she begged, beginning to be as afraid for him as she had been for herself. “We can lock the doors and drive by them. They can’t hurt us if we’re in the car.”

      No response. Maybe there was something wrong with him. Maybe he still hadn’t realized what was going on. Maybe—

      There was some sound from the group of teenagers. As if it had been a signal, they charged up the ramp in unison. The one holding the iron bar raised it high above his head, in full attack mode.

      Sick with fear, she watched as they closed the distance to the solitary figure standing in front of the vehicle. She released the door handle and started back around the SUV. She had no idea what she could do, but she wasn’t about to let him bear the brunt of that assault alone.

      “I told you to get in the car,” he said again, his voice as low and steady as it had been before.

      And then, suddenly, they were there. She saw the raised crowbar begin its descent and knew its target. Too horrified to look away, she watched as it began to slice downward and then seemed to stop in midair.

      The boy who wielded it staggered backward. With an agonized yell, he clutched his crotch with both hands. That’s when she realized he was no longer the one holding the weapon.

      It was being employed by the driver of the car instead. Although the headlights distorted the scene, so that it was almost like watching a flickering silent movie, she could still follow his movements. Shifting the weapon he’d taken from the first teen, he slammed the end of the bar into the ribs of a second, leaving him doubled over in agony.

      In the time it had taken him to dispatch those two, the second pair had decided on a concerted effort. They attacked in unison before the man could get the crowbar into position to repel them. The momentum of their forward motion carried all three backward to slam onto the hood of the SUV. Kelly flinched at the hollow thud of their impact.

      After that, given her position at the side of the car, she couldn’t tell what was happening. All she knew was that two of the original four were still down and that the others were engaged in a fierce struggle with the driver of the SUV for possession of the weapon he’d taken away from their leader.

      And