Catch a Shadow Read Free Page B

service, and that apparently had meant little.
    He swallowed the gall in his throat and waited. Maybe Cox saw him. Maybe not. He wanted Cox to come closer. Didn’t want him spooked. Not yet.
    Cox started across the street.
    Jake caught a movement out of the corner of his eye just as he heard the squeal of tires.
    He started to shout a warning. It was too late. A dark sedan careened into Cox, tossing him up in the air. Then it sped away with a screeching of tires, as the driver swerved to miss an oncoming car.
    A shout. Screams. People poured out of the bar.
    He started for the fallen man, then stopped.
    He couldn’t be seen here. His presence in Atlanta was a ticket back to prison if anyone discovered who he was.
    Still, he moved forward several steps. Cox had contacted him for a reason. Jake had little faith in God these days, but he prayed nonetheless that the man survived. Cox might be his last chance.
    Then he stopped. A tall man dressed in slacks and a long shirt that hung loose left the tavern and approached the fallen man. He reached him and started to kneel beside him. Jake’s blood ran cold. Another ghost. Gene Adams! He would bet his life on it.
    He didn’t recognize the face, but he knew the arrogant movements, the muscle flexing in the throat at being thwarted. Most of all, he noticed the clenching of his fist as he straightened when an ambulance screeched to a halt nearby.
    Jake started forward as a paramedic—a woman—jumped from the passenger’s side and rushed over to the victim. The man quickly moved away.
    Jake started after him just as someone appeared from the tavern, showed a badge, and asked everyone to step away.
    Jake moved back into the shadows. He didn’t think Gene Adams had seen him. He’d been too concerned with Cox. And his own appearance had changed as well. Jake doubted anyone who knew him from that last mission would recognize him today. His hair had been long then and tied back with a thong. He’d had a thick beard for his role as a terrorist. Now he was clean-shaven, his hair short, with gray running through the dark brown. He’d been far leaner then, too. Jake was still in fairly good shape, thanks to endless push-ups, but he had gained pounds. Prison food was fundamentally starch.
    He was forty, but he knew he looked fifty. Prison had aged him, and he’d worked to avoid habits that might identify him.
    Cox moved slightly, then Jake saw him try to say something as the woman paramedic performed a quick assessment. The woman shook her head, and the victim grabbed her arm, holding it. The woman took something from him and shoved it into her pocket. Jake glanced up to see other eyes following the movement as well, then step back as police cars arrived.
    Jake decided to try to follow him. His quarry slipped into the crowd, and Jake was blocked momentarily by police pushing back the onlookers. He couldn’t be obvious, couldn’t risk a cop stopping him. Still, he moved as quickly as he could. He looked ahead. No one. He took several running steps to the corner and turned just as the man he’d recognized as Adams stepped into the passenger’s side of a late-model luxury car, and it went roaring off, blowing through a light.
    He had a quick glance at the license plate and memorized the number, then returned to the crowd. Uniformed police arrived and moved among the crowd, asking for witnesses.
    He stayed on the fringe, watching as the paramedics—now two of them—loaded Cox into the ambulance. As they neared him, Jake backed away and darted into the bar. He wanted to follow the ambulance, but his rental car was still in front, not far from the crime scene, and he didn’t dare go after it. He did not want to be questioned by police.
    Everyone at the bar was talking. He found a spare seat at the bar and sat down.
    â€œWhat will you have?” the bartender asked.
    He glanced at the row of taps and chose one, then commented,