“Who is this?” he snaps. “How did you get this number?”
The roar of an engine makes both men whip around toward the open bay door as a black SUV comes hurtling into the warehouse. It screeches to a stop just inches from the men.
This is my chance. Maybe my only chance. I take it.
I’m blocked from fleeing through the bay door, so I slip around behind the Escalade and dart toward the cement truck.
“What the fuck?” yells the man.
I’m crouched behind the cement truck so I can’t see what’s going on, but I hear other tires screeching to a stop as more vehicles skid into the building. I hear shouts and the thud of boots landing on concrete.
And gunfire. Oh Jesus, it’s a mob execution. And I’m right in the middle of it.
I scramble further into the warehouse and dive underneath an earthmover. They’re too busy fighting for their own lives; maybe they’ll forget I’m here. And after they’ve finished shooting one another, after all the bodies have fallen, I can creep out and slip away. Escape the carnage. I curl into a tight ball, cover my head, and silently chant the mantra: They can’t see me. I’m invisible. I’m invisible.
My arms are so tightly wrapped around my head that it takes a moment for me to realize the shooting has stopped. That no one’s yelling anymore. Like a tortoise slowly emerging from its shell, I cautiously poke my head out and hear…
Silence.
No, it’s not entirely silent. Footsteps move closer. From beneath the earthmover, I see a pair of shoes halt right beside where I am hiding. Black ankle boots, narrow and scuffed and strangely familiar.
“Mom?”
Jane’s face suddenly peers at me beneath the earthmover. We stare at each other and for a moment I think I am hallucinating. How is this possible? My brilliant, relentless daughter has magically arrived. She’s come to rescue me.
“Hey, are you okay?” she says.
I crawl out from beneath the earthmover and haul her into my arms. I can’t remember the last time I hugged my daughter this hard. Not since years and years ago, when she was still a little girl, when I could sweep her up off her feet into my arms. She is too big for that now, but I can still try, and as her heels lift off the floor, I hear her laugh. “Whoa, Ma!”
I used to be the one who came to her rescue, who patched up skinned knees and brought down fevers. Now she’s the one who rescues me, and I have never been so grateful to have this girl, this daughter.
“Ma.” She pulls away and stares at my battered face. “What the fuck did they do to you?”
“Knocked me around a little. But I’m okay.”
She turns and yells: “Greeley! I found her!”
“Who’s Greeley?” I ask.
Then I see him striding toward us, the man I once knew as Matthew Green. He looks me up and down, coolly tallying up my damage. “You think you need an ambulance, Mrs. Rizzoli?” he asks.
“I just want to go home,” I say.
“That’s what I thought you’d say. Let’s have your daughter take you home and get you cleaned up. And then you and I need to have a chat.” He turns to leave.
“About Nina?” I ask.
He halts. Turns back to face me. “What do you know about her?”
“I know she’s going to testify against him. I know that if he ever finds her, she’s a dead woman. I know he has a snitch inside Revere PD feeding him information, so you better check into that. And one of his men is over at the Colonnade right now, looking for her.”
He regards me for a moment, as if seeing me—really seeing me—for the first time. The corner of his mouth tilts up. “I guess there’s more to you than meets the eye.” He turns to Jane. “Please take her home, Detective. And keep her out of my hair. If you can.”
“What about Nina?” I call out as he turns away.
“She’ll be fine now.”
“How do you know that?”
“Trust me.”
“Why should I? And is Greeley even your real name?”
He raises his hand in a careless wave and just keeps walking away.
“Come on, Ma,” says Jane. “I’ll take you home.”
Now that I’m no longer terrified, my cheekbone is really starting to ache. Maybe I do need an ambulance, but I’m too proud to admit it, so I just let Jane lead me away from the earthmover, toward the bay door, where a dozen officers wearing vests labeled U.S. Marshal are milling around.
“Don’t look, Ma,” Jane warns me.