Last Man Standing. Julie Miller

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СКАЧАТЬ cream with chocolate sauce. It was almost as rewarding as bringing down the bad guys. After wrapping up her most recent investigation and providing the key evidence to indict a gang of drug smugglers who’d used shipments of paintings to transport cocaine across the country, she should be feeling pretty good about herself.

      If…

      She sprinted her last lap at her high school alma mater, the Pembroke Hill School, slowed her pace and turned for home.

      Maybe if she had a new case to dive into right now, her mother’s biannual chat wouldn’t bother her so much. Maybe if her date the night before hadn’t been such a dead end, her mother’s insinuation that Tori wasn’t as pretty or perfect as she could be might not have a ring of truth. Ken Burford had told her that her greatest asset was her red hair. But she’d read between the lines of his tedious conversation—her greatest asset had always been her grandfather’s bank account.

      Tori jogged north, up along Rockhill Road, toward the art museum and her renovated condo. Traffic was getting heavy with Kansas City’s lunchtime rush, and the sun had popped through the clouds to warm the bare skin of her arms and the pavement beneath her feet. She stopped at the red light and jogged in place, pressing two fingers against her pulse and checking the second hand on her sports watch to monitor her heart rate. As cars and pedestrians gathered at the intersection around her, she ignored curious glances and…something else.

      One particular look she couldn’t ignore.

      Though she couldn’t immediately place the source, Tori felt the thorough, personal scrutiny like a tap on the shoulder. She curled her fingers into fists and slowly dropped them to her side. Someone wasn’t just scanning the crowd, giving a second look to the tall, slender jogger. He was watching her. Intently.

      Professional training, which she trusted more than personal intuition, kicked in. The light changed to green, the flow of traffic switched, and Tori jogged out ahead of the slower walkers. She inhaled deeply through her nose and lengthened her stride, her face fixed straight ahead, her eyes scanning the street from curb to curb.

      Black car. Four o’clock position. Approaching from the rear. Local plates. She slowed her pace and watched it pass by. Two men. Unknown to her. She paused beneath the shade of a tree as she reached the parklike area of the museum grounds. Unzipping her fanny pack, she pulled out a bottle of water and took a long, quenching drink, using the opportunity to verify her impressions of the vehicle.

      She’d seen it parked at the school. The men inside just happened to be leaving at the same time and taking the same route as she? When the teak-skinned driver pulled into the museum parking lot, she was certain they’d been following her.

      Amateurs.

      Tori replaced the bottle and tucked the wisps of her straight copper hair back into her inch-long ponytail. She jogged in place until the driver and passenger climbed out. Both men wore suits and ties and gloves. Driving gloves she could excuse without alarm. But gloves on the passenger? In another couple of weeks it’d be summer, for crying out loud. He’d better be doctoring a rash inside those things.

      She waited a few seconds longer, until Rash-man glanced her way and the two men nodded to each other. Time to go. She cut out across the museum’s thick, green lawn. The detour around the building would add an extra half mile to her run, but she had a feeling she was going to get a thorough workout no matter what route she took.

      She grinned as the two men gave chase.

      Tori didn’t take chances when it came to her own personal safety, but she wasn’t afraid to confront danger when it ran into her path—or, in this case, ran after her. She doubted they wanted to rob her. She’d allowed them to see the contents of her fanny pack. And a rape in broad daylight wasn’t unheard of, but these guys had had a better chance of nabbing her at the school.

      She had a feeling this pursuit was related to work. Or family. At least the danger she faced on the job served a useful purpose. The family connection could be a little trickier. But whether these two Lethal Weapon wanna-bes were the good guys or the bad guys remained to be seen. Wearing them out in a footrace would give her the advantage, either way.

      When she neared the copse of trees and low wall surrounding the modern statue of a giant shuttlecock, she seized her opportunity. Tori jumped once, up onto the wall. Then she jumped to the ground on the other side, crouched low behind the statue and stilled her breathing. The would-be Riggs and Murtaugh came scrambling over the wall, the dark-skinned one puffing from the exertion. The shorter one with the blue eyes reached inside his jacket. “Lady?”

      Fat chance.

      Without waiting to see what kind of weapon he’d pull out, Tori sprang to her feet and charged. With her hands fisted, her leg braced, she kicked out and knocked the weapon from his hand.

      “Son of a—” He grabbed his wrist and shook his hand as if his fingers had gone numb.

      “Lady, wait!” The driver wanted his turn. “Miss Westin, we’re—” She spun and kicked, forcing him back into the wall. He plopped down on his rump and threw his hands up in the air in surrender. “We just wanted—”

      “How do you know my name?” she demanded. She was guessing family business now—of the worst kind. Only she couldn’t imagine any of her grandfather’s enemies hiring two bad-boy wanna-bes like these guys to come after her. And if they were with the Bureau, they needed to revisit basic training. When he started to get up, she thrust her palm toward his face and he scrambled back to his seat to avoid the blow. “Why are you following me?”

      “Victoria Westin, right?” he confirmed. “FBI undercover task force? You’re Frank Westin’s granddaughter?”

      She kept him pinned with the proximity of her fist. “Who are you?”

      Feeling had apparently returned to the shorter man’s hand. He was adjusting his gloves now. “We don’t have to deal with this kind of crap, Brady. Let’s take care of this ourselves.”

      “Backer!”

      Take care of this? Ignoring his partner’s warning, he advanced on Tori from behind. She shot her elbow back into his solar plexus. “Stay away from me,” she warned.

      “Hey, lady.” The shorter man stooped over, holding his gut. His words were barely a whisper as he struggled to find his breath. “We know you know martial arts, already. Give it a rest. I swear, we just want to talk.”

      “Talk?” She moved aside, keeping both men in her sights. “You chased me.”

      “You ran.”

      “I was out jogging—”

      “This should help.” The dark-skinned one named Brady interrupted the debate and unbuttoned his suit jacket, showing her the interior lining.

      “Stay away from that gun.” She recognized the Sig-Sauer, government issue, strapped to his belt.

      “It’s okay.” With a silent warning for his partner, Backer, to stay put, he used his thumb and forefinger to pull a slim leather wallet from his inside pocket. He closed his jacket and flipped the wallet open to reveal a badge and ID. “We’re with the Customs Department. I’m Agent Bill Brady. My hotheaded partner here is Agent Bill Backer.”

      “Let me see your badge.” She silently nodded to Backer, who picked up his wallet from the ground СКАЧАТЬ