The motel was only a couple of minutes away, which was good—because, as she emerged from the Sultan Kebab, she saw the shiny black car, or thought she did. It was parked about a hundred feet away in a rank of other cars, facing in the opposite direction. What caught her attention was not so much the car itself, as the fact that its brake lights were on. Noticing that, she then saw a thin column of vapor rising from the car’s exhaust, even as a hand reached out from the front seat to adjust the mirror on the passenger’s side.

She saw this as she walked, and in her peripheral vision, she noticed that there were two men in the car. She could feel their eyes upon her in the side view mirrors. Or so she imagined.

Then she was at her own car, the rented Dodge. Fumbling for the key, she unlocked the door, got in and tried the engine. For the second time that night, it was slow to start. But start it did and, when it did, she took off like a teenaged psycho, accelerating through the parking lot, eyes on the mirror. For a second, she thought she saw the headlights flash on the shiny black car, but then she turned, and there was no one behind her.

At least, she didn’t think there was anyone behind her.

The Springfield mixing bowl was a tangle of converging highways, half of which were under construction, and it would have been death to take her eyes off the road.

Then, again…

If she was being followed, Adrienne thought, they must have had a change of mind. About Duran, that is. Because the only reason they would follow her—when they could have grabbed her outside work—would be to find him. Which was strange, because Duran wasn’t their target. At least, he hadn’t been their target the day before. Then, the big man—the Bear—had gone out of his way not to kill him, turning the gun on Adrienne. So something had changed… but why? Was it the break-in? The 911 call? Maybe. Or maybe she wasn’t being followed at all.

Soon, she pulled into the parking lot of the Comfort Inn, a vast expanse of concrete that glowed pinkly from the mercury street lamps overhead. Hurrying into the motel, she went straight to the elevator and up to the room, where Duran greeted her from his chair behind the desk.

“You’re right on time,” he told her, looking up from the Post. “I’m starving.” Brushing by him without a word, she put the boxes of kebabs on the desk, flicked off the lights, and crossed to the windows—where she pulled the curtains shut, and peeped outside.

“I think I was followed,” she told him.

“What!?”

She nodded. “I wasn’t sure, but… yeah.”

He went to her side, and peered out through the parted curtain. “What am I looking for?”

“The car behind mine. Next to the jeep. Shiny black car.”

He looked, and saw a Mercury Cougar parked in a space about fifteen feet behind the Dodge. The car was empty, or seemed to be, until he saw the lighted end of a cigarette flare in the darkness of the front seat. Duran took a deep breath.

“Now what?” Adrienne asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He paused. “How many people were in the car?”

She thought about it. “Two… I think.”

He sighed. “Give me the keys.”

She handed them over with a frown. “They don’t know which room we’re in—or even that we’re together.”

He stood beside the curtain, looking out. Finally, he told her, “Here’s what I think: that guy’s friend is at the front desk, right now, asking about us. And if it’s the same guy we met yesterday—the big guy?—I think the clerk will tell him what he wants to know.”

“So what do we do?”

“That’s the really hard part,” he replied. “I have no fucking idea.”

Adrienne groaned.

“Get your things together,” he suggested. “If we get outta here, you’ll need something to wear.”

“‘If’!?”

His look was incredulous, but what he actually said was: “Yeah—‘if.’”

She pulled the shopping bag out of the wastepaper basket, and went into the bathroom, where she cleared the counter of everything it held. Then she tossed her clothes on top of that, and stood beside the door, waiting for Duran to give the word. Or have an idea. Or whatever it was he was waiting for.

Finally, Duran said, “There he is.”

“Who?”

“The big guy,” he replied, eyes on the parking lot. “He just came out the door.”

“What’s he doing?” she asked.

“He’s getting the other guy.” Suddenly, he turned to her. “We have to go.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re on the way up.”

Lunging from the room, Adrienne turned instinctively toward the elevator, but Duran caught her by the sleeve and pulled her toward the emergency exit at the end of the corridor. Yanking open the door to the stairs, they heard the elevator ping and dove into the stairwell, taking the concrete steps two at a time.

Until Adrienne crashed with a yelp into someone a lot bigger, someone who was coming up the stairs as fast as they were going down.

“Bitch!” The Big Guy grabbed her by the collar with both hands, brought her close, then made a sort of no look pass, tossing her into the wall. She hit the cinderblock flat and square, the back of her head smacking against the rock. A gasp fell from her mouth as she sank to the floor—even as Duran came down the stairs, throwing a roundhouse that caught the Big Guy behind the ear. No ooof this time, but a bellow of pain and rage as the Big Man bounced off the wall and, with a feral growl, plowed into the therapist as if he were a tackling dummy, slamming him into the iron balustrade. The impact sent a shock wave up and down his spine, but the real agony was in his mouth, where Duran’s teeth slammed shut on his tongue. He could taste the blood—but only for a moment, as the Big Guy hit him flush in the forehead, setting off a series of clicks and pops inside his head.

Rolling to the left, Duran counterpunched reflexively, but not to much use. In an instant, his adversary was behind him, looping his meathook arms under Duran’s own, then clasping his hands at the back of his neck, pushing him down. Duran was in shape, but it felt as if his arms were going to snap like twigs—and there was nothing that he could do about it. The man he was fighting was fifty pounds heavier, a lot stronger, and just as quick.

Then something strange happened. Without thinking about it, Duran jackknifed, plunging his head toward his knees so quickly that the Big Man sommersaulted over his shoulders. It was a wrestling move, and its fluency surprised Duran almost as much as it did its victim. Where did that come from? he wondered, as the Big Man’s tailbone smacked into the rock hard floor.

He lay there for a moment, stunned, as Duran glanced frantically around for something to hit him with—something to put him out. But there was nothing. Then the Big Guy was on his hands and knees, struggling to his feet. Terrified, Duran took a step back, then drove his instep into the other man’s chin as if he were kicking an extra point, snapping his neck with a crack so loud it could have been a gunshot.

Then the night was still, and the only noise was Duran gasping for air—he was still lit up with adrenaline, still in pain—and a soft, whimpering sound from where Adrienne lay in the corner of the stairwell.

Kneeling by her side, Duran coaxed her to wakefulness. Putting his hand behind her head, he could feel the blood from an open wound, matting her hair. “C’mon,” he said, lifting her gently into a sitting position. “We’ve got to go.”

Reluctantly, she let him drag her to her feet, where she stood, swaying, holding his arm as if it were a life preserver.

“Where are the keys?” he asked.

She nodded to the shopping bag, which held her purse and other things.

He reached in, opened the purse, and fumbled through it until he found the keys. Then he took her by the arm, and led her down the stairs to the mezzanine, just off the lobby. There was no one at the front desk, and no security guard.