An Eye for Danger (59 page)

"You have ten seconds to explain your little deal with the mayor," said Reynolds.

"The mayor?" Stone glanced from Reynolds to Sam.

"The phone recording you held back from the evidence locker."

"You've been holding back on me, Sam. Not a good plan." Stone spoke to Sam, but shifted his body to glare at me, his forearm unsnapping his gun harness as he turned. His Glock sat in his holster, the weapon Burke had discarded in the ditch.

Whether he was threatening me or Sam, or signaling us, I didn't care. My patience was waning. I didn't have time to watch these two asswipes dance around each other's egos.

"Don't bluff me, Stone," snapped Reynolds. "I see now why you feigned ignorance about that file; you knew the audio would implicate you. No one double-crosses me."

"Like you said," Sam mumbled to Stone, smiling. "Never know what to expect with me."

Sam's curse was his unpredictability. A curse and a blessing I could still learn from.

I ducked behind Stone's back and ripped the gun from his holster, shooting wildly in Reynolds' direction. Neither man had expected the move, so they both hesitated.

My aim was off, but Stone guided my hand and squeezed, crushing my finger on the trigger, so I couldn't stop firing.

Stone's body slammed against me as Reynolds returned fire, and we staggered backwards. He'd survived Burke's attack thanks to the thick Kevlar vest I could feel him wearing, and now he was serving as my shield. Luckily for Stone, those .22 caliber shots to his center mass weren't dropping him at this distance, let alone breaking any of his ribs.

Sequential shots from Stone's automatic had Reynolds running for cover, which from his angle consisted of a few trees behind his cabin. For an ace shot, the man acted like a coward in face-to-face combat.

A round clipped Reynolds' ankle, sprawling him into the woods. He got off another two shots as he rolled over. One hit my truck, the other grazed Stone's shoulder and made him jerk to the left while his right arm kept firing.

Stone walked us forward, continuing the shooting spree while Reynolds was down. Bullets pelted the man's body, making him buck with each hit. Finally, Stone stopped squeezing.

By then, Reynolds's body settled at the base of the tree, his wide arms welcoming the snowfall, his Wall Street coat looking disjointed against the cradle of snow-laced branches.

"No, asshole. Nobody double-crosses me," said Stone.

Wheezing like a blown-out tire, he pulled his weapon away, leaving my hand throbbing, and bent over to catch his breath. Maybe he'd pass out from so many shots to his ribs in one night. Then Sam and I could escape. Or maybe I couldn't count on luck to save my ass anymore.

Sam lay unconscious at my feet. Stone was off-guard and vulnerable. Yet I just stood there, staring at Reynolds' body. My throat constricted, so I couldn't swallow. The gun had burned an imprint into my hand, the report still rang in my ears, and cordite filled my nostrils. I'd killed a man. Not Luke, not Raul or Petosa, or even Burke. But this man I had killed. And intended to kill.

Time was on pause. Snow blurred the edges around me, as I couldn't take my eyes off my victim. He'd never hurt Sam again. I'd sacrificed to make sure. Finally, I walked toward the body and waited for a word, a breath, a twitch from the proud, undefeatable Reynolds. His chest was a colander of oozing holes, his blood shimmering under the cabin's skim of light. The bastard was so arrogant he hadn't worn a vest.

"Trust me, you got him," said Stone.

Bending over the body, I retrieved my keys from Reynolds' pocket and released the alarm on my truck.

"Leave the truck," Stone called, checking Sam's pulse. "I'll call a bus for Sam, but you and I are exiting now."

"I'm not leaving without my dog," I answered.

"Unless you want me to shoot that mutt, don't open that door." While Stone busied himself planting his Glock, the murder weapon, on Sam, I found Sam's .22, which Reynolds had dropped in the ferns. Small caliber. Just like a woman would use.

 Stone turned, registered his new opponent. Not even a tick of fear crossed his face. Rather, he looked bemused for a man who no longer held a weapon.

"I don't take orders from you," I said, aiming the gun at his chest. The vest, I remembered, and lowered my aim. "And no one shoots my dog."

"Jules." Sam's voice was only a whisper, but I was so cold, so numb I couldn't listen.

The trees cracked.

Stone lurched backwards into the bumper of his Crown Vic. I'd aimed for his crotch but hit somewhere near his kneecap. Another buried itself somewhere into the engine. One sent his arm swinging outward, though I'd aimed for his head.  A couple more, then one hit his thigh. At ten feet and closing, my aim much improved.

His body slid down the hood of his car till his crotch caught on the front hitch and he froze there, like embedded roadkill.

Shadows emerged from behind Burke's SUV. Tall shadows with big sticks.

I aimed the .22, though I was out of bullets.

James stepped into the light, a rifle crossing his arms. "We heard gunfire. Whoa." He noted Stone's body spread eagle on the hood. More swearing when they spotted Reynolds near the trees.

Malta came up behind him and jerked to a halt. "Holy shit. I definitely miss all the good fights."

By then I'd retrieved Stone's weapon from Sam's hand. Sam was out cold. Hopefully he'd missed the grand finale. "Sam, wake up." I slapped his face, but he was listless. "Get him in my truck. Now."

As James hoisted Sam over his shoulder, I told Malta where to find Stone's hidden revolver.

Then I raised Stone's Glock, aimed for the gasoline can. "Fire to cleanse." And pulled the trigger. Gasoline sprayed onto the porch.

I found the lighter in the back seat of Stone's car, grabbed a handful of dry pine needles and lit up the porch.
Whooomph
. The flame inhaled the gasoline and spread up the walls like a genie set free.

"Let's go." I tossed James the keys. "Drive. And don't stop for anyone." My nerves were shot, and I assumed James could drive a getaway car in his business.

I climbed into the back seat of my truck, taking Sam onto my lap. "Don't even think of dying on me."

Malta jumped into the passenger seat. "What the hell happened here?"

"Little family reunion." I stuffed Max's blanket into Sam's hip, wrapping his body in the rest of the cloth. "Find me something to stop the bleeding." Malta handed me her jacket, and I pressed that into Sam's shoulder. "Turn the heat on high. And find me the nearest hospital."

Sam came to, grumbling from the pressure. "Hey, brother," he said in surprise.

"Hey, yourself." James smiled in the rearview mirror on hearing the vote of redemption. "Cool your heels. Gonna get bumpy."

"No worries," Sam slurred. "Got the best driver."

James raced up the winding road, clipping Stone's car and then the deputy's SUV. Already the fire lit up the forest and snow behind us, as if hell's jaws chomped at our heels. James hit the main road and ripped through every town stop sign, slowing long enough for Malta to yell "clear," then surging forward again.

Max whined and Sam's head drooped.

"Wake up, Sam. Damn it, wake up." I clutched him against my chest.

"Glen Falls Hospital," yelled Malta, working the GPS.

"Shit, that's twenty minutes. He won't make it."

Malta looked over her seat. "That's our only choice."

***

James launched my truck into the hospital parking lot like a Navy Seal boat scraping ashore, and we ground to a stop in front of the Urgent Care doors. We'd flown down the interstate without getting pulled over by cops, fortunately. According to police radio, all the locals were at Burke's murder scene.

"Move, move, move," I yelled, kicking the door.

I'd emptied Sam's pockets: phone, wallet, keys, federal ID, the photograph of him and James. His Glocks and knife were already gone. Anything that could identify him. John Doe was safer than an abandoned Federal Agent.

A second later, James grabbed fistfuls of Sam's coat and yanked him out of the car.

A man dressed in scrubs ran toward us. He grabbed a stretcher when he saw the body.

"Bullet wound to the left shoulder, another to the right hip," I said.

James unfolded Sam onto the stretcher. As they wheeled Sam inside, the male nurse checked his pulse, and then pulled back his shirt to examine the wound. The nurse shook his head.

"I can give blood." I ran behind, ready to brave the police, the questioning, the brotherhood... anything to spend Sam's last minutes holding his hand.

"Are you his blood type?" asked the nurse.

I ran my fingers through my hair. "I don't know. God, I don't know." Two sugars, no cream. What the hell good was that now?

They rolled Sam into a room with aqua tiles and shocking white lights. I pushed my way into the room. And got pushed out.

"Stand back," said the first man as more staff in scrubs came running.

James held me aside. "Let them do their jobs."

Everyone was moving, ordering, doing something. And I just stood there.

"Someone will come and take your information." The voice in my ear was female, but my eyes were on Sam's body as they sliced off his shirt and pants. I could feel my hands running those scissors up his arm. A voice called "clear" and then the whirr of a crash cart gearing up. I could feel the blood drain from my body.

James gently squeezed my shoulders. "He'll make it. He's Sam."

I turned and pushed him away. "Go. Don't ask questions, just go get your truck and run. Get rid of the guns, the IDs, everything." I swallowed, regretting losing the box with the photos that Sam had given me. "And keep your mouths shut if you want to live."

My prints were already on the .22 with Sam's and Reynolds', as well as on the Glock 19 with Stone and Burke's. No one would ever sort out the mess, let alone believe I killed an ace marksman like Reynolds. Hell, I still didn't believe it.

"He's my brother," said James. "I stay."

"We all stay," said Malta, a hand to her brother's back. She'd influenced him before when it came to Sam, and I needed her to be smart now.

Fisting the sleeve of her shirt, I said, "The last thing Sam needs is to be responsible for your deaths. Now get your brother the hell out of here."

Malta sucked in her cheeks, looked at the door to Sam's room.

"I'll take care of him," I said, releasing her. "You take care of Max."

She slowly nodded and yanked James toward the parking lot.

The male nurse came out of Sam's room, found me alone and frowned at the exit. "He's going into surgery. We call in all bullet wounds. The police will want to ask you questions."

"Whatever he needs." I swiped a hand over my face. My cheeks felt wet with tears and snow and... I looked down. My hands were covered in Sam's blood. "I think I'm going to be sick."

I ran down the hall and locked myself into a bathroom. I scrubbed my hands, my face, my neck. Washing, drying, repeating. Soon I'd emptied the towel dispenser and overwhelmed the garbage bin, but when I looked into the mirror my blond hair was still streaked crimson. A chill slipped down my spine. His past, his former bed companions—even Sam claimed he'd experienced blackouts during his last days on the force. Maybe he had participated with prostitutes, unaware. Either way, I'd been exposed completely now. Sam was a part of me, for better or for worse.

I rushed to the toilet and vomited.

On my wrist the gold bracelet sparkled with water droplets. His niece had stood for his heart, the least I could do was stand for his body. So I shook off doubt, got my head in the fight. The photo of Sam and James I ripped into tiny pieces and flushed. Then I headed toward the Urgent Care desk to check on Sam's progress and his blood type.

A security guard exited the elevator in front of me, so I veered into the lounge, pretending to examine the vending machine selection while I watched the guard's reflection in the glass. I couldn't risk meeting anyone tied to Goliath. But I couldn't protect Sam alone.

Sam's phone casing was scraped and scarred, like both of us. I scrolled through initials I didn't recognize with New York and D.C. area codes, either of which could be Feds. I skipped the name Ray, the devil known as Stone, then came to the final name:
Wife
.

My finger hovered over the button. Whoever this was, Sam had trusted them when we were on the run.

The line rang several times. At five in the morning, the person was likely asleep.

"Hey, baby. I was just looking for you at our favorite hangout. Lotta action down here." Her voice sounded affected but husky.
A hooker?

I couldn't be sure the line wasn't tapped, nor could I guess Sam's code with her, so I cut to the chase. "Are you really his wife?"
And would I have to give her the bad news?

"This is a private line. Identify yourself." Mystery wife's voice was stern now. People yelled in the background over what sounded like a helicopter. With a thud, the sounds stopped, like she'd moved inside and shut a door. "Identify yourself or get off this line."

Down the hall, the security guard stepped to the nurse's desk and thumbed at the entrance. He was expecting someone, and it wasn't the pope. The nurse stood and pointed in my direction. The security guard caught my eye.

"I'm ending this call if you don't start talking. Now who the hell are you?"

"Shit." I whipped back around to face the machine stocked with sugarless gum and candy bars and watched the security guard talking into his handset

"Identify, damn it."

My voice cracked. "I'm the rabbit."

CHAPTER 42

"I'm not asking again. Where's my husband?" demanded Mystery Wife.

My mind hiccupped.
Her
husband. "Uh, getting a new suit." I couldn't think of a better code phrase for "he's surgery in surgery bleeding to death."

She groaned. "Can you maintain?"

I watched the security guard's approach in the vending machine reflection, as my hands smeared the buttons with blood. Sam's blood, everywhere. I'd been clutching my soaked dress.