She stood in the shadows, the gun clenched tightly in her hand. The heavy .44 Magnum felt like a block of ice through her thin glove. Across the parking lot, a light snapped on, illuminating the door she'd watched for over an hour. It cast a yellow glow on the snowdrifts and the cars parked along the building. A couple came out and she relaxed, huffing a bit of white air.
"C'mon, c'mon, it's cold out here," she whispered fervently, tapping her feet. Her toes had been numb for so long, she couldn't remember them ever being warm. The couple scurried to their car, hopped in, and left in a flash of red taillights on wet pavement.
The apartment building, set in one of Chicago's more posh neighborhoods, was surprisingly devoid of security. The one guard, asleep in his white shack at the entrance, didn't pose a threat. She'd slipped past him-his rounded belly rising with each audible snort.
Two cars remained in the parking lot, an immaculate red 57' Chevy, and his. She stared at it with disgust. The dark blue Lincoln Mark VIII suited him, expensive, sleek, and completely arrogant. The heavy door opened again and she lifted the muzzle of the gun. A man backed out, arms full. It was him.
Her heart beat faster as her mouth went dry. Like a rock thrown into a placid lake, adrenalin rippled through her body, making it tremble with awful anticipation. From beneath the hood of her dark coat, she followed him with her eyes.
Robert Carson moved with the stealth of a man used to watching his back. His strides, lengthened from years playing racket ball and tennis at the country club, took him to the back of his car in seconds. As he juggled a briefcase and a file box, trying to hold them and insert his key, she stepped from the shadows.
The car alarm blared into the enclosed lot. Startled, she paused, her breath steaming the air. He cursed, and raised his arm, using his knee to keep his burden from falling into the slush near his Italian leather shoes. The alarm silenced with a beep from his keys. She swallowed hard and marched purposefully forward.
He settled the box and briefcase in the trunk as she shoved the barrel of the gun into his back. He stiffened and started to turn. She wet her lips, unsure of her voice, or her motive, for the first time in weeks.
"Don't move. This isn't a lipstick pressed against your spine." To emphasize her point, she cocked the hammer back, the unmistakable clacking loud in the stillness.
His hands moved up slowly, but stopped at waist height. "You can have my wallet..."
She snorted. "Do you think it's money I want?"
"I have no idea what you want," he said gruffly and moved his dark head.
"Don't turn around," she ordered, then nudged him with her free hand toward the passenger side. "Move."
He stepped forward and she grabbed the keys from the trunk lid, slamming it shut. She could smell his cologne and had a fleeting thought of leather and green outdoors. He was so cocksure of himself; he didn't even wear a hat or scarf, as if he believed the cold wouldn't dare intrude on his comfort.
"Tell me what you want."
Not a question, but a command. Oh! He was so full of himself. The familiar rage ignited into flames. "You are in no place to demand anything from me."
She prodded him with the gun and flipped the keys in her hand; though loathe to take her eyes off him while she unlocked the passenger door. "Get in."
He paused and glanced at her face. The surprise in the depth of his cold blue eyes set her on edge. Did he recognize her? No, he couldn't, he'd never met her before. She pushed him with her free hand, moving the gun to his neck-steel against skin. "Over. Move over to the driver's seat."
She slid in beside him, keeping the gun level. The sense of power, like none she'd ever had before, felt both wonderful and horrible at the same time. It was an evil enjoyment and she worried how long her anger would fuel her quest for answers.
"No funny stuff." The sound of those words from some long forgotten movie popped out of her mouth and sparked a momentary urge to release a nervous giggle. The surrealistic moment passed and she glared at him. "I want you to drive to your cabin on the lake, Mr. Carson. I want you to get us there without gaining the attention of the police. Drive as you normally would. Do you understand?"
He nodded and accepted the keys from her. To her chagrin, he looked neither frightened nor worried, just that curious surprise on his face. The engine revved on the first try and she thought of her own car parked three blocks away. The two door Chevette, brown and battered, took major pumping of the gas, a stream of curses, and sometimes a good-luck rub on the dashboard to coax the engine to life. Fury erupted again and she thanked God for it.
She expected him to back out of the spot, but he just sat there, headlights on, illuminating sporadic flakes of snow. The Magnum grew heavy and she balanced her elbow on one knee, lowering the gun, but never allowing its aim to stray. She waggled it as she spoke. "What? Get moving."
"Answer one question first." At her narrowed eyes he softened, and said, "Please."
The please, coming from such a hotshot like him, sent a guilty thrill through her and she decided to humor him. "What?"
"Who are you?"
That at least, was something she could tell him. "I'm Mina Jackson and you killed my father."
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