Free The Kill Shot by Nichole Christoff Page B

TV cameras had captured identifiable images of either man. In Philip’s car, on a slick tablet he pulled from some leather-appointed compartment, I saw the footage myself.
    “The Metropolitan Police first flagged this video last night,” he informed me. “When my office became involved, they compiled this composite. You’ll notice the elder Oujdad enters the alley in advance of the women by several seconds.”
    The night before, Katie and Ikaat had told me as much. As a result, Ikaat swore she hadn’t seen which way her father had gone. Now, here was proof.
    Grainy footage taken at a sharp angle captured all the romance of a narrow urban alley, a crooked downspout, and several dented trash cans. It also documented a door—presumably the back door of the bookstore—as it slammed open. Neither Katie nor Ikaat were anywhere to be seen as Armand rushed into the alley.
    But the alley wasn’t empty.
    A second man, in a baseball cap, loitered there.
    In the wash of light from the shop’s interior, Armand’s face was plainly visible. Especially when he turned with terse words for the younger fellow who clamped a hand on his shoulder. My heart lurched—because this second man was clearly Barrett.
    He and Ikaat’s father argued for a moment, but they must’ve reached some kind of compromise because, in the blink of an eye, they moved down the alley and into inky shadows so deep, I couldn’t tell what lay beyond.
    Interestingly, it was Armand who led the way. I wondered if he’d had a destination in mind. Or if he’d simply wanted to put some distance between himself and the paid assassin in front of the shop. In either case, one thing was sure. The crummy resolution of this particular camera would be no help at all to me in finding him.
    “Where is this camera positioned?” I asked.
    “You shall see for yourself,” Philip replied.
    And I did. But I felt like I’d lived three lifetimes before I got to do so. After an eternity, Philip’s car halted in front of the bookshop.
    I was out of the car and into the store in two steps. Employees jerked like marionettes on short strings when I set the bell over the shop door trembling. I imagine they’d seen all manner of cops cross their threshold since the shooting the previous evening and now, thanks to Philip, they saw four more push their way into the place behind me.
    I had no idea how Philip had managed to wrangle a quartet of uniformed bobbies to accompany us, but he had. And their presence lent my poking around London an authority I’d never have had on my own. Still, I’d rather have gone it alone.
    While Philip made nice with the manager and the coppers looked around, I did just that, bypassing shelves laden with books of every kind and brushing aside a heavy, velvet curtain. Ducking past it, I found myself in the must and dust of a storeroom. A fat orange cat arched its back and hissed at my intrusion, irritated that I’d disturbed it on its pile of crumbling leather-bound books.
    “Sorry, kitty.”
    But I wasn’t. Not when I saw a steel fire door, as gray as a battleship and probably as heavy, set into the far wall. I grabbed its slide-bolt and yanked. The thing was as big as a railroad spike, but it yielded to me. And so did the door.
    In an instant, I was in the alley behind the store.
    It smelled like every alley in urban London, which is to say it stank.
    Stale rainwater, slow drains, and moldering vegetation competed for my attention, but I tuned them out. The area looked like every alley in urban London, too. The trash cans I’d seen in the footage were here and so was the crooked downspout. I, however, only had eyes for the camera that had caught Oujdad and Barrett’s departure. Like some kind of malformed bat, it clung to the corner of the opposite building.
    “Ah, an older model,” Philip said, stepping into the alley with me. “You’ll note it remains stationary. The wide-angle lens is permanently fixed on the mouth of the alley.”
    “To