Chapter 12

Emergency Room - 11:45 p.m.

The curtain at the foot of her stretcher snapped back. Paolo stood there, his eyes boring into her. His mouth was a grim line. The young Filipina nurse bandaging her arm spared him a glance, then did a double-take. A smile spread on her face. For some reason, Natalie did not like that.

Paolo flipped open his ID. "FBI. I need a statement from Mrs. Jernigan."

It was a moment before the nurse responded. She was too busy ogling Paolo. Who could blame her? He was the poster boy for "tall, dark, and handsome." Natalie rubbed her forehead with her right hand. She had a headache of epic proportions.

"Of course. I'm almost through." She wound the tape once more around the gauze pad on Natalie's left arm. Natalie winced. "Uh, that's a little tight."

"It'll be okay," said the nurse. She picked up her supplies and brushed by Paolo. "If you have any questions, I'll be at the desk."

Did she just flutter those fake eyelashes? Unbelieveable! Natalie sagged against the pillow, surprised the nurse didn't try to write her phone number on Paolo's hand.

"You okay? What the hell happened?" demanded Paolo.

"If one more person asks me that, I'm going to scream." Natalie leaned forward as her voice rose. "Do I look like I'm okay? My arm feels worse than a toothache, my head is pounding, and I chipped three nails. Oh yeah, and my ruined shirt was confiscated by the cops. Evidence, they said. So you tell me if I'm okay." She glanced down at the scrub top the nurse had given her to wear.

Paolo chuckled. "Anyone bellyaching like that is fine."

Natalie looked around for something to throw, but had to settle for a scowl. Too bad she didn't still have that trophy in her hand.

"It was a flesh wound. Sometime I'll tell you about this." He leaned over and pulled up his right pants leg. Besides his ankle holster, Natalie gawked at a long scar running up his muscular leg.

"What is this? 'My scar trumps your scar?'"

Paolo straightened and extended his hand. "Come on. We're getting out of here."

**

Paolo opened the passenger door of his car and helped Natalie in. He took a minute to check his messages before he went around to his side. He exhaled sharply and considered the terror he'd felt when he heard about the shooting. So her wound was not that serious, but the fact that the punks let her see their faces was unsettling. They very well might come back to silence her.

The passenger side window slid down. "Anything wrong?" asked Natalie.

He closed the phone. "Nothing I can't take care of." He went around to the driver's side and got in. Natalie was struggling to get the seat belt fastened.

Without a word, he reached across her to secure it. He caught a whiff of something floral. Shampoo? Perfume? He had no idea, but he liked it. A light scent that he would always associate with Natalie.

"Uh, thanks," said Natalie as she massaged her bandaged arm.

**

Jeff awoke with a start. He'd dozed off with the TV remote in his hand. An old Sylvester Stallone movie, dubbed into German, was playing. He grabbed his cell phone from the bedside table. No messages. Dammit. Where's Kurt?

The first contact time had come and gone. Now it was almost time for the back-up meet. If Kurt didn't show up with the money, then what? Jeff had only one phone number to reach him and an e-mail address that was probably routed through multiple servers.

He already had enough money to disappear for a long time. But a little more wouldn't hurt. He put on his jacket and stuffed his laptop in its case. He checked the time. Too early for the owners of this charming little bed-and-breakfast to be up. The date on his watch puzzled him for a moment. Was there something significant about today?

Of course. Wedding anniversary. Natalie must be freaking out. Better for her to think I'm dead. Then she can start over.

He considered his wife. She was pretty enough and they'd had some good times together. But she'd starting making noises about having kids. Jeff couldn't see himself going that route. Suburbia was insanely boring. And his stupid job at the bank. He should have been president of the whole damn place by now.

The movie and his thoughts were interrupted by a news bulletin. Jeff's German was rusty, but the picture of his crime scene at Tempelhof and Monika's driver's license picture needed no translation.

"Shit!" Jeff threw some Euros on the bed and grabbed his stuff. It was still dark and no traffic passed the bed-and-breakfast. He got into his small rental car and eased out onto the road, constantly checking the rear-view mirror.

He'd gone maybe five kilometers without encountering any traffic. Suddenly, a car he recognized as the German Federal Police screamed by him headed in the direction of the bed-and-breakfast.