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675 15th Street NW
Washington, DC
"So the dick says to the woman, 'I got nothing.'"
Karen Vail burst out laughing. Here she was, out on the town with Detective Mandisa Manette—just about the unlikeliest of acquaintances she'd socialize with—and she was guffawing at another of Manette's crass jokes. But she noticed Manette was not enjoying her own punch line. In fact, Manette's face was hard, her gaze fixed. And her hand was slowly reaching inside her jacket. For her weapon.
"Don't wanna ruin your evening," Manette said, "but there's a guy packing, and he looks real nervous. Over your left shoulder."
Vail turned slowly and casually snatched a glimpse of the man. Six foot, broad, and as Manette noted, under duress. Sweating, eyes darting around the street. In a minute, his gaze would land on Vail and Manette. The guy looks familiar. Why? She watched his mannerisms and then, as his head turned three quarters toward them, she got a better look at him and—
Oh, crap. I know who he is. In a few seconds, he'd probably make them as cops, and then the shit would hit the fan. The image conjured up a mess—and that's what would no doubt result.
Vail quickly turned away. "Don't look at him. Definitely bad news, and stressed as hell. With good reason. That's Danny Michael Yates."
Manette's eyes widened. "No way. The goddamn cop killer? You sure?"
Vail slid her hand down to her Velcro pouch. "Damn sure. What do you want to do?"
Manette moved her hand behind her back, no doubt resting it on her pistol. "Make a call, DC Metro, let 'em know what we got here. I'm gonna circle around behind him."
Vail pulled out her phone and made the call. With her back to Yates, she watched him in the reflection of the Old Ebbitt Grill storefront. Meantime, she assessed the situation. The sidewalk was knotted with people waiting for tables, enjoying a drink with friends, spouses, and business associates. She wished she could yell, "Everyone down!" so they wouldn't get hurt. Because she had an intense feeling that this was going to get very ugly, very fast.
Vail ended the call and slipped the BlackBerry into her pocket, her right hand firmly on the Glock 23 that was buried in the pouch below her abdomen.
She made eye contact with Manette's reflection in the window and nodded, then stole a glance at Yates. He looked at Vail at precisely that moment, and Fuck—he made me—
ates turned and pushed through the clot of people standing behind him. Vail followed, doing her best to navigate the tumbled bodies with her still-sore postsurgical knee. Manette, she figured, was also in pursuit. Manette was tall and thin, and she looked athletic—whether she was or not, Vail could only guess—but she had to be faster than Vail and her recently repaired leg.
She caught a glimpse of Yates as he turned left on H Street—and, yup, there was Manette, pumping away, in close proximity. Christ, this was not what she had in mind when she suggested they have a girls' night out.
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