LITMIR.BIZ

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man spun around and their gazes connected. Recognition dawned in the demonic doctor’s beady eyes before he shoved Chuck into Darin and took off.

      Pushing the drunk aside, Darin gave chase, adrenaline pumping through his veins, his heart pounding with every step as he closed in on the criminal, but not before Birkenfeld disappeared around the back of the building.

      Flattening himself against the brick wall, Darin moved into the dimly lit alley, his gun drawn, and came upon two figures struggling on the ground. He saw the shock of red hair then the silver glint of a knife poised above the woman’s chest as she fought to hold Birkenfeld’s arm at bay, shouting, “Get off me, you jackass!” Memories of another place, another time, another woman assaulted him.

      Sheer instinct drove him forward to grab Birkenfeld by the arm. In a split second of stupidity, Darin took his attention from the fugitive in order to make certain the woman was not injured, allowing Birkenfeld the opportunity to strike.

      The knife hit home, slashing first across Darin’s left thigh, then his side. Anger overrode the pain but he couldn’t see well enough to take a clean shot without risking shooting the agent who’d entered the fray, pummeling the back of Birkenfeld’s neck but doing little to hinder the criminal’s knife-wielding. Darin kicked out, landing the toe of his boot in Birkenfeld’s ribs, and at the same time the blade cut across the back of his right ankle. The blow proved to be too much, dropping Darin to the gravel surface. The gun, wrenched from his grasp at the impact, skittered across the pitted pavement, leaving them both vulnerable.

      Darin heard the sound of harried footsteps and rolled to his belly, fumbling for and finding the gun, but not soon enough to prevent Birkenfeld from escaping into the night before he could fire off a round.

      He eased onto his back, his chest heaving from labored breaths, his head swimming from the wounds and the tactical errors he had committed. The mistakes of his past seemed bent on recurring whenever a woman’s safety was involved.

      Turning his head to his right, he found the agent on her knees next to him. At least she was alive. “Are you hurt?” he managed.

      “I’m fine.” She gave him a visual once-over, pausing at his thigh. “Oh, God, you’re bleeding!”

      Darin worked his way into a sitting position to assess the damage. The guard light above them provided enough illumination to see the slit in the T-shirt on his right side below his ribs. Fortunately, the jacket had provided enough protection against severe damage to his flesh. His thigh injury was worse, a dark stain fanning from the perimeter of the gash in his pants, indicating blood. But his ankle ached more and he suspected Birkenfeld’s knife had done the most damage there. Nothing that would not heal, but it would hinder his pursuit, at least tonight.

      He muttered several oaths in Arabic directed at his carelessness.

      “I’ll call an ambulance,” the agent said, her voice surprisingly calm.

      Darin clasped her wrist before she could stand. “No hospitals. No doctors.”

      Her eyes widened. “Are you nuts?”

      “I’ve had worse injury, I assure you. Did you not have your gun drawn when you encountered Birkenfeld?”

      “Birkenfeld?”

      Obviously she was somewhat in shock. “The fugitive whom you were engaging in hand-to-hand combat.”

      She frowned. “First, I don’t own a gun. Second, he ran into me when I was coming out the back with the garbage. Third, I don’t know any Birkenfeld.”

      Darin scowled. “Did they not inform you that he was the man we would be apprehending?”

      “Who are they? And who are you?”

      Darin suddenly realized he had made two grave errors. “You are not FBI?”

      She attempted a weak smile. “You have the F and B right, but that would be for Fiona the Bartender.”

      He gritted his teeth, braced his elbows on bent knees and lowered his head. Ben had been correct in assuming he was not the right man for this mission. Yet, now more than ever, Darin wanted Birkenfeld to pay.

      She came to her feet and wiped her hands over her jean-covered thighs. “Let me get the bartender who just came in to relieve me. He can help me get you inside.”

      “No.”

      “Why not?”

      Because the bartender was more than likely the real FBI agent, and Darin did not want the man to know what a fool he’d been. Letting Birkenfeld escape had been Darin’s mistake, and he would correct it. But how? He was injured. He could not do this alone. He would need help, something he hated to admit.

      Darin leveled his gaze on Fiona, her expression a mixture of confusion and concern. Even if she was not FBI, she was his only ally at the moment. He would be forced to rely on her assistance, if she was willing to give it. “Do you live nearby?”

      “I have an apartment a couple of miles away.”

      “Take me there.”

      She braced her hands on her waist and stared down on him. “First, you have to tell me who you are and what this is all about.”

      He would only tell her what he must to reassure her. He would not subject her to more danger by revealing everything. “If you will see me to your apartment, I will give you details. I will say that I am working for law enforcement. The man named Birkenfeld is very dangerous. I’m here to apprehend him.”

      Fiona’s expression brightened. “So you’re one of the good guys?”

      “Yes.”

      She frowned. “How do I know that?”

      Darin lifted his arms from his sides. “In the right pocket of my pants, you will find my credentials.”

      She crouched down and rifled in his pocket for a few moments. Had he not been in such pain, he might have enjoyed the activity. After she withdrew the black folder, she looked at the fabricated license, looked back at him, then back at the license. “Frank Scorpio? Texas Peace Officer?”

      “That is correct.” He shifted his leg and winced from the pain in his ankle. “Could we possibly leave soon?”

      “I have to call a cab. My car’s in the shop.”

      “I have a rental in the lot.”

      “Okay, but I’m driving.” She rose to her feet again. “I’ll have the new guy lock up. It’ll only take a sec, so don’t go anywhere.”

      “I promise I will be here when you return. And do not tell him I am here. The fewer people who know, the better.”

      “Okay.” She pointed to the gun still in his grip. “Could you put that thing away? It makes me nervous.”

      Darin holstered the Beretta for now, but he would take it out again in case Birkenfeld returned. “Anything else I might do for you before I bleed to death?”

      She gave him a self-conscious smile. “I’ll hurry.”

      Fiona sprinted back into the building, leaving Darin alone in the alley with his pain and the strong sense that getting involved with this woman could be the third mistake he’d made since his arrival in Vegas.

      But he had no choice.

      Roman Birkenfeld ran into the night. Ran until his lungs burned and his eyes teared. Ran aimlessly through the darkened streets. His throbbing side slowed his progress somewhat and he paused behind an odious commercial trash bin to feel along his ribs where Shakir had kicked him. Nothing broken, only bruised, he suspected. No punctured lung, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to breathe at all.

      Damn the woman who’d run into him. He should’ve killed her. He would have, had it not been for that bastard, Shakir. The recollection of his knife slicing through the man’s skin gave him added strength and a good deal of

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