An Eye for Danger (5 page)

"If you're hurt, I can find—"

"Don't get so excited, I'll make it." He patted my knee.

"I'm hardly excited."

"Not so sure about that."

"Go to hell." I swallowed, conscious of his hand cupping my kneecap, and the additional words about to breach my lips.
Keep him calm, Jules
. "If you don't want my money or my help, what the hell do you want?"

"Me?" His hand fell from my knee, leaving a red imprint on my skin. "Just the poor dupe who wants to see another day." He squinted, inspecting me, and raised the Glock. "You a sunset or sunrise girl?"

Searching the ground, I stuttered over what seemed a trick question. I always hated when the sun faded; the sense of impending isolation haunted me, while the threat of nightmares kept me from falling asleep. "Sunrise, I guess."

"You're in luck." He nodded to a hole burning through the fog canopy above a wall of skyscrapers and lowered his weapon. "One big happy miracle. Every goddamn day."

We sat there, taking in the view. My shoulders quivered, the relief of his intentions settling in.

"So you're letting me go," I said.

He glared at me like I was crazy. "Ain't taking you to breakfast."

"Goddamn it." The heel of my shoe suddenly grew conscious of where Sam's body hurt most. Then I remembered his weapon and started to stand instead.

Sam yanked my arm. "Okay, okay. Christ, you're impatient."

"Impatient? You nearly shoot my dog, hold me hostage, and threaten to kill me."

He scoffed. "What kind of guy shoots a dog? I like Max. He's got balls." He winced and rubbed his forearm where Max had gnawed his sleeve. "He also has a piece of my arm."

Any second I prayed Stone would fly around the boulder and shoot this smart-ass bastard.
I love cops, I love cops, I love cops.

"Besides," he said, jerking his chin toward the buildings beyond the treetops, "you gotta move slow. By now, SWAT's sending sharpshooters. Any sudden movement and you'll be missing that pretty blond head of yours."

I resettled my butt on the cold ground and wound my arms around my knees, but I couldn't stop shaking. That head of mine was spinning. The rules of this game, knowing who to trust, were lost on me.

"And that detective back there," he added, struggling out of the peacoat and shifting the gun hand to hand. "Be careful with him." Sam's voice rose an octave with the ensuing pain his movements caused. "He likes to work the women. Especially blondes." Free of the coat, Sam flung the stinky heap at my feet, like he thought I was cold. "Go ahead, take it."

"No thanks." Like I'd accept chivalry, let alone advice, from a lippy fugitive.

"Wasn't a request." He scratched under his chin at his beard, watching me. "Cool customer, huh? Pretty calm for a hostage. Submissive posture. Gives her name. Offers money, a way out. Avoids eye contact, at least till you lost your temper. You've been trained."

"I said I'm not a cop."

"'Course not. Too good-looking for that." He cocked his brow when my head snapped toward him. "Not military either, unless you shake like that under fire. Or mouth off to your CO. No, too smug for a soldier. Medic training maybe, or one of those overseas Doctors Without Borders nuts."

"I'm not a nut," I snapped. I looked him up and down. "Pretty nosy for a fugitive."

A smile broke through his beard. "Lady, you have no idea."

My eyes turned back to the landscape, the distant hope of rescue from this cocky SOB. "Arson, murder, now kidnapping. You've had a fairly busy morning. I expect you'll be knocking over daycares for drug money next."

"And just think, you met me on one of my good days." He nudged my knee with his leg, and I could feel bold muscles underneath the stiff cotton of his pants. Despite his injuries, he probably had enough strength in one leg to snap me in two. "'Not a cop,' she says."

"I don't lie. The cops warned me of your rap sheet."

Sam grabbed my sleeve, closing the distance between us fast. "Everybody lies. Eventually. Especially—" His eyes flared and burned into me.

I swallowed, roughly, and waited for him to drop his hold. He looked askance, his brow contorting in pain, but not the physical kind. The guy seemed possessed. Hell, maybe he really was on drugs.

"Count to fifty," he said toward the dirt, refitting his cap over his long hair. "Then run back to the cops. Stay near the street. Give the coat to CSU. Nobody else, understand?"

Running sounded perfect about now, though he could still pull the trigger as soon as my back was turned. He'd emptied the chamber, but he could as quickly reload it. The man's moods were too erratic to set me at ease.

"No detours." He tapped my leg with his gun. "You listening? Ain't talking to the rock."

I nodded. "No detours." I snatched up the thick coat, bundled it at my gut, and prepared for a mad dash out of this nightmare.

"And try running away from trouble next time. Can't keep saving your ass." Gritting his teeth, Sam pushed with his legs. And failed to stand. Not exactly a dramatic exit. Or a believable killer.

"Go. Run." He slumped back into place, his panting shallower. He flicked his gun toward the horizon. "Get out of here."

My lower lip stung as my teeth dug in. Hesitating was the last thing I'd imagined doing at this point, but left alone in the open, with Bear Man on the prowl and SWAT sharpshooters searching for male targets, this guy didn't have a chance in hell of surviving.

"I said run," Sam whispered.

"Shut up and plant your heels." I set aside the coat and propped myself under his arm. Using the rock to buttress his weight, I got Sam on his feet. His breathing paused, his grasp on me wilted, his red, sweaty face bleached white.

Then two hundred pounds crashed down on my arm

My feet dug into the dirt for leverage, my arms fighting to hold him from ramming his cheek into sheer rock. He'd folded over my shoulder like a toddler fast asleep, only his weight was less childlike and more akin to twenty bags of cement mix flattening me against the boulder. With his chest glued to my chest, his every waking moan echoed into my bones. To hear a human in such pain stung my ears, but he was also suffocating me and I was on the verge of dropping him.

My biceps strained to push him off me and lean him against the boulder. I patted Sam's face until his eyes fully opened and he registered his new position. Under my palms his beard prickled, his skin grew clammy. Sweat beads trailed across his wide, tanned forehead. Though his nose had stopped bleeding, his split lip still seeped, and when he licked at the blood at the corner of his mouth he seemed surprised, disoriented. Yet what I noticed most were his blood-raked eyes, the dilated pupils signaling fear. Drugs or not, this guy was shit-deep in trouble and knew it.

My fingers contracted, withdrawing from his cheeks, as a dread swept over me, a terrible, terrible sense of responsibility for this man's life.

"There's a clinic nearby," I said. "I know the doctor. She won't ask questions."

He blinked then squinted as he looked at me like I wasn't speaking English. "No hospitals." His voice was reedy, tight, but sure of himself.

As I expected, he fought my attempts to hold him still and tried to carry his own weight. But with Sam's eyelids drooping and his breathing slowing, he wasn't in any condition to decide his own welfare. Faintness crept up on him, and I took the opportunity to yank up the layers of clothing and search for chest wounds.

Instead, I found a familiar, hard black shell of a vest.

Sam slapped his hand over mine, suddenly wide awake. He held my focus and shook his head, slow and silent. I didn't speak, just backed away till he released my hand to hold onto the boulder for balance.

"No questions, Jules. Just straight to the cops. And don't look back."

"You won't make it like this. I can't just leave you here to die." My fingers dug into my palms. I couldn't go through that kind of guilt ever again.

"Lady, I'm already a dead man."

Between his waning smile and the fading glimmer in his eyes, Sam reminded me of men I'd met in conflict zones, journalists and doctors and soldiers alike, men who'd drink you under the bar before admitting to the horrors they'd seen. They'd already lost their souls and were waiting for their bodies to follow. Just waiting.

With a jerk, Sam shoved off the rock, sheer determination holding him upright, fueling the stilted movement of his muscles. He clutched his ribs and staggered away till he slipped out of sight and, should he fall, out of reach.

For several heartbeats I stood there, dazed. I was free. From what, or whom?

Per Sam's directions, I started counting. "Twenty-five, thirty-nine, forty-two. Fifty." And then I ran north as fast as my feet could fly, his peacoat whipping at my hip.

For both our sakes, I prayed for safe passage, prayed that SWAT was stuck in traffic, that Bear Man got snared by a police line, and that Stone still waited for his damn canine unit.

Barking cut through the mist, and I recognized my little buddy's voice.

"Max, come!" I whistled my special call to him.

A second later Max leapt over a low hedgerow, bulleting toward me. I threw open my arms, ready to never let him go. Galloping in his rocking-horse style, he looked as happy for the reunion. Then his head jerked up with a sniff and he flew past me, following the fresh scent of his prey.

My voice hung uselessly on the damp air, my calls unheeded. Max was already out of sight. Yet I couldn't budge. Run after Max and find the thug, or run toward the cops and get home in one piece, I argued?

But I'd sacrificed myself for Max twice today already, and I didn't believe I'd get lucky a third time. At least, not on my own. For the first time in my life, I wanted to be the survivor.

"I love you, Max." Then I ran toward the cops.

CHAPTER 3

"He let you go, just like that." Stone snapped his fingers.

My shoulders bobbed in reply. I rested my hands on my knees, panting with glass bouncing around my lungs from the long sprint, sorting out the details in my own head.

"We'll need more information than that," he said, setting his hands on his hips.

What did this detective want, a slide show? My voice stuck in my throat as I fixated on the body, now fully uncovered of leaves. Same peacoat, orange pants, dark cap. Same desperate look in the dead man's eyes as Sam's. The body's arm was twisted and crooked, clearly broken.

The crime scene had been squared off with police tape, and men and women in blue CSU coats excitedly collected trace evidence, slipping scraps of garbage and twigs into baggies like school kids collecting bugs.

A rotund man in a coat marked Office of Chief Medical Examiner lifted a silver rod from his overstocked toolbox, rolled the body to one side, and cocked his arm to jab the body in the back.

I turned my head.

"You're shaking," Stone said. Then he hollered nearly in my ear, "Get a blanket over here."

Officer Houston was shoving the peacoat from Sam into a paper sack when another officer arrived with a thin fleece throw. Stone wrapped the cloth around my shoulders as voices mumbled over his radio. He twisted a knob on the unit till the voices hushed.

"Any extra details you remember." Stone opened his notepad. "Clothing, scars, tats."

"You saw the guy." I glared at him.
You're the professional here.

His notepad clamped shut, and a thin smile veiled his sharp words. "I saw a hunched man, Miss Larson, hidden behind you and your frenetic dog. So yes, I need details. Hopefully, you noted something useful to my investigation."

Past experiences with cops refuted their competence, and I'd no reason to expect differently from Stone just because he had a respectable title or displayed greater showmanship. But I didn't need to take out my prejudices on one detective trying to fulfill his due diligence.

I found myself chewing my lip, wrangling the thug's details away from my conscience. My captor's image lingered, his last message tearing at my soul. My camera had caught that look from soldiers, innocents and aggressors alike—desperate people doing desperate things to survive. In that moment Sam wasn't a thug, just a human being in trouble. A man who'd risked exposure to escort me to a safe, public street.

But no detective wanted to hear that sentiment from a hostage, and Stockholm syndrome was a label I didn't need added to my medical files.

"A small mole near his ear," I started. Stone's attention perked up. "Under the beige sweater he wore a gray sweatshirt backwards. The tag read
Official Tiger Gear
or something like that. He was wearing a lot of clothing under that coat."

"A lot of disguises, more likely." Stone nodded, delighted I'd finally said something worthwhile. "He's layered up to hide his body, which means he also has more outfits to shed during his escape. That means they had stop points to establish identification. No wonder they're in the wind so fast. This was well planned."

"They didn't seem very cooperative with one another, from what I saw."

"Today's job probably went south, judging from the body of their crew mate they left behind. Real creeps, these guys. They've been burning down warehouses and apartment buildings in poor neighborhoods. Papers dubbed them the East Harlem Arsonists, but we just call them scum. Who knows what's motivating them. Maybe someone got greedy. We've never gotten this close, let alone found any bodies before today. Maybe you're my lucky charm helping capture these bastards. Maybe not." Stone stared at me for effect, like he considered me one of their crew.

My memory of Sam's behavior and his vest prickled against Stone's interpretation. He was no more part of that crew than I was. Then again, Sam wasn't exactly a white knight either. Not that Stone was proving himself the sympathetic hero with all his insinuations.

"When the big thug came running toward us, my guy hid me from view," I said. "I don't think he intended to hurt me."

"What do you mean 'your guy'?" Stone stared, more calculating than concerned. This cop ran hot then cold. Hardly the lady-killer Sam had warned me about.