Blood drifted over the curb on its way to the gutter as Chloe England tried to shift her gaze for a better look. Her eyes wouldn’t respond. Not even a blink. Her vision was fixed on the chemist’s across the narrow lane. Closed. And for a long time judging by the dirty windows.
Her arms and legs wouldn’t move either. The blood felt warm on her cheek. Chloe had the strangest feeling it was her blood. After all, she was lying on her side with her face pressed to the cement, but she wasn’t sure why. When she tried to think, all that came to mind was TS Eliot from a boring literature class long ago:
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker;
And in short, I was afraid.
She’d rather have been on the pitch playing football than stuck in a classroom reading that drivel.
Chloe sensed a presence lean down over her. Maybe it was a good Samaritan who could help her up. Her muscles weren’t responding. Someone reached over her shoulder and plucked the phone out of her hand. The person disconnected her call.
So, not a good Samaritan.
Chloe felt embarrassed. The stalker just cutoff the voicemail to Pia Sabel before she’d finished. What would Sabel think of the poorly worded message? Rambled on like a fool, she did. To top it off, she’d blanked before telling Sabel what she wanted. Such bad form.
A throbbing pain came from the back of her head. Along with the throb came a dim memory of the previous few seconds. She’d been chattering on about the woman in the hospital and her ridiculous story about people who could kill your enemies through their dreams. For a fee. Had she told Sabel that part? It’s what she’d intended to say. Now that she thought about it, she’d prattled on about their rivalry on the soccer pitch. Was that all the further she’d got?
Hardly a rivalry, though. Chloe did her best to defend for England in every game—but who could stop Sabel? Chloe remembered their first encounter. The young phenom was sixteen and out to prove herself in a friendly. Chloe had twenty-five caps by then. She’d considered the teenager a trifle. Young Sabel came straight at her, no fear. Charging in like a freight train. But she was ready. She herded the kid to the sidelines, making the only option to go out of bounds. Sabel played into it, dribbling into a rapidly narrowing lane with nowhere to go. Rookie mistake. Then Sabel popped the ball between them, waist high, smacked it with her knee, sending it over Chloe’s head. Using her height advantage, Sabel jumped in the air like a rocket and headed a perfect cross to the American forward flying up the middle. It happened so fast Chloe could only laugh. What the hell was that? Thank god the game didn’t count for anything.
Sabel was a thorn in her side for the next four years. The Mexicans called her La Tigresa—the tigress—for good reason. And the international press adopted the nickname. But in the privacy of England’s locker room, especially among the defenders, she was known as that cunt. When Chloe retired, she rejoiced that her endless nightmares of Sabel hurtling toward her would finally end.
Now they were both out of the beautiful game. Chloe had bounced around until she found her calling: police constable. Who would’ve thought? All those years leaving your blood, sweat, and tears on the pitch for your country and what career options await you? Sportscaster? A crowded field. Coach? Underpaid profession. Talent scout? Too many rows with desperate parents—whose children didn’t know the difference between a football and a cheese loaf—kept Chloe out of that one. Then Dad suggested she follow him into the Greater Manchester Police, the illustrious GMP. It wasn’t the bright lights and big stage she’d hoped for. It had even caused her some embarrassment when dialing Sabel. How you doing, old frenemy? Running a huge company these days, I hear. Chilling with presidents and prime ministers, are we? Me? Oh, you know, constable. Still. Working on becoming a DI like Dad, though. So, what’s new?
Yeah. That was a tough call.
She hoped she hadn’t botched it. It was important. Sabel’s name was on the nutter’s list. Even if La Tigresa had been hell to defend, she did deserve to know someone had her on a list. It might be nothing, but some of the names on the list were dead. And Chloe hoped Sabel would help her figure it out. Reconnect for some laughs. Maybe.
A warm hand touched Chloe’s neck. Not in a kind way. The person who’d taken her phone feeling for a pulse? She tried to check her heartbeat, too. She wasn’t feeling it. Or was she? Not strong, anyway. Was she dying?
Once, she’d run to the scene of a man hit by a car. It was obvious to everyone around him that he was a dead man with a few seconds of life left, yet he had no idea. He kept apologizing for being a bother.
That’s when Chloe remembered the loud crack. The sound of metal connecting with bone. Big bone. Hollow. Like her skull. Is that where the blood was coming from?
She felt it now. Sliding down the back of her head, into her hair, onto the sidewalk. Someone had smacked her a good one with a baton. They could fix that in casualty, right?
The hand withdrew. Chloe heard someone walk away. The street was empty. Thick dark clouds obscured the remnants of twilight. The heavy sky closed in on her. It would rain soon.
It was her own fault, Chloe realized. She’d been so preoccupied with the call to Sabel—trying not to sound like one of those barking-mad fans—that she hadn’t noticed where she was going. It was a mistake. She’d taken the shortcut. A short, dark lane lined with defunct businesses. Now she wouldn’t have a chance to save Pia Sabel’s life. She wouldn’t be the heroic constable who solved the dreamland-assassins mystery.
Worst of all, there would be no security video of who killed Chloe England.
