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The cabbie slowed and rolled down his window to yell, “Hey, buddy. I’ve got a fare, but I’ll radio for another cab to head over here!”

Alex nodded his thanks and kept moving. Mustn’t stop. Mustn’t make himself and Katie any easier targets than they already were. God, he felt naked out here like this. Every cell in his body screamed for him to take cover. To go into full stealth mode.

But Katie was shot and unconscious, and he had no choice but to run along a damned city street for all the world to see.

That fucker had shot Katie.

Why in bloody hell wasshethe target and not him?

As desperate as he was to get the hell away from her, his gut told him it was vital to answer to that question before he disappeared for good. Goddamnit.

Katie woke up slowly. Her left shoulder felt like it had been smashed with a baseball bat. It throbbed horribly and felt stiff and swollen. She reached for it but her right hand encountered tape…

…her eyes flew open and she craned to look down at herself.A bandage?

She looked around. She was lying in a double bed in a plainly furnished room. It didn’t look like a hospital room. For that matter, it didn’t look much like a hotel room. Where was she?

Someone moved beyond the doorway and she sat up carefully. Crap. The room spun around her for several unpleasant seconds. It finally settled down and she stood up cautiously. No more whirligig, thank God.

She felt strangely weak and lightheaded as she shuffled to the doorway and peered out. A plain living room furnished with only a sofa, coffee table, and television on a stand unfolded before her. There was no carpet on the dirty wood floor, and plastic roller blinds on the windows were pulled down.

Off to one side a small, dingy kitchen was visible. She spied movement in there and headed for it.

Alex looked up from a glass of orange juice he’d just poured. “How do you feel?” he asked emotionlessly. Professionally. Like a doctor talking to a patient.

“Like crap.”

“Drink this. You lost a fair bit of blood.”

“What happened?”

“Sniper took a shot at you. An inch lower and he’d have killed you. Must’ve been a long-range shot for him to have missed. You should be dead.”

That last sentence was delivered with all the sympathy of a robot. Which was almost more upsetting than the news that she’d been shot. She took the juice and downed it all.

“More?” he asked.

“Yes, please.”

“How’s the pain on a scale of one to ten? Can you function?”

She paused to consider it. “A six. It hurts a lot, but if I had to walk or run, I probably could for a little ways. Where are we?”

“Safe house.”

“Still in Washington?”

“Close by.”

“You have a safe house in Washington in addition to your penthouse fortress?” she asked, startled.

“Never can be too careful.”

“Or paranoid.”

“It’s not paranoia if people are actually shooting at you.”

She rolled her eyes at him.