Midnight Hero (6 page)

She scooted to the edge of the trampoline. “Be careful.” She blew him a kiss.

He pretended to tuck the kiss into his jacket pocket. “For later.” He gave her a roguish wink, turned and strode out.

Bailey lay spread-eagled on the trampoline and waited. Waited. And waited. Eerie silence smothered the room. How long did a recon take? She mentally skulked up the dark mall with Con, picturing every cautious step, every heart-shaking pause. Fear thrummed inside her.
Stop it.

Seeking a diversion, she glanced around the store. A tiny pair of ice skates caught her gaze. She smiled. The mall held a lot of good memories. She and Con had gone ice-skating at the mall's rink on their third date. On a weekday, the rink was sparsely populated. She'd stroked the ice to pop songs blaring from the loudspeakers. A natural-born athlete, Con had tossed cinnamon gum into his mouth, skated backward and teased her to go faster. His joie de vivre was contagious. They'd danced across the ice, engaged in a breathless, daring one-upmanship that he'd won by executing a back flip.

She'd jokingly called him a show-off and pushed him down on his backside. Laughing, he'd tugged her on top of him, and
kissed her for the first time. The instant their lips touched, she'd felt as if she'd belonged to him forever. Lost in the kiss, all awareness had faded. Until he'd gently reminded her they were in a public arena. He'd helped her up, wiggled his eyebrows and offered to kiss her thoroughly later, in a more private place. She'd blushed crimson from forehead to toenails.

More flushed and breathless from the kiss than the exercise, they'd sat at a cozy table in the back of the concession area and sipped cocoa dotted with marshmallows. Later, at her front door, when his hard body had brushed hers and he'd kissed her goodbye, he'd tasted of sweet, dark chocolate and cinnamon…and oh-so-tempting sin.

The desire to take their relationship to the next level both physically and emotionally had grown each time they were together. Each touch, each kiss, every beat of his heart had made her long to be his. Until her doubts and fears had begun to choke off her feelings.

Tingling in her fingers tugged her back to the present. Her hand was going numb from inactivity, and she shook it. How long had it been? She retrieved a flashlight from her pack and checked her watch. Twenty-two minutes. Twenty-two minutes was plenty of time. Waiting turned into worrying. What if he'd been caught? What if—?

No.
She wouldn't wander down that horrifying road.

Con was smart, tough and capable. He'd be back. She rested her cheek against the trampoline's textured surface. The pebbled rubber smelled like new sneakers. Strange how insignificant details sharpened when every sense was on edge. Worrying turned into praying.
Please, keep him safe.

She again consulted her watch. Thirty-five minutes. Praying turned into planning. Stay put and don't budge, my Aunt Fanny. In fifteen minutes, she'd go looking for him.

Ten more of the longest minutes of her life ticked by. Six hundred endless seconds before Con crept into the store. Relief made her giddy as she slithered to the edge of the trampoline, hung from the rim and dropped. She met him at the doorway. “Thank goodness! I was nearly frantic—”

Relief morphed into confusion. His face was sickly pale, his forehead and upper lip beaded with sweat. “What's wrong?”

He looked at her, his eyes stunned, bewildered.

Her anxious gaze spun over him. No blood. But in the gloom, she couldn't be sure. “Are you hurt?”

He blinked, as if he could not process her question.

She grabbed his shoulders. He was shaking. Her confusion blasted into fear. Steady, reliable, unshakable Con was trembling. “Con? What happened out there?”

A horrifying possibility speared into her. “Is it the hostages?” Even as her appalled mind rejected the thought, she blurted out, “My God, did the robbers kill Nan, Mike and Letty?”

3:00 p.m.

B
ailey was waiting for him. Depending on him. The thought had speared the painful haze clouding Con's vision and forced him to keep moving. He couldn't remember finding his way back. Now that he'd reached her, his legs collapsed, and he slid down the wall.

“Con, are you hurt?” She dropped to her knees in front of him. Her hands reached inside his jacket, gingerly feeling along his ribs and over his abdomen.
“Answer me!”

It hurts like a bitch.
He nodded, then shook his head
no.

“Which is it, yes or no?” she demanded.

He shook his head no again.

She left and he heard rummaging noises before she returned. “Open.” Her fingers pressed his jaw and his mouth opened. Liquid poured over his tongue. He swallowed. Sticky, and far too sweet. “Gack!” He shuddered and the fog receded.

“Do you want more?”

He coughed. “Hell, no. What
was
that?”

“Instant glucose. Toy stores don't sell brandy.”

“Huh?” He swiped his hand across his mouth and shuddered again.

“Candy syrup in a miniature wax bottle. Little kids drink it all the time with no ill effects. Well, except maybe excess energy. Better now?”

“Yeah.” His reply emerged graveled and raw, like his insides.

She cupped his face in her chilled hands, her eyes wide with fear. “Con, is it the hostages? Are they—”

“No. They're okay, for now.”

“Tell me what happened.”

He still couldn't believe what he'd seen. The past thirty minutes were a disjointed nightmare. “The head honcho, the robber giving all the orders—” He swallowed again, the sweet aftertaste turning bitter in his mouth. “He's wearing my father's watch.”

She gasped. “What? Con…he's been dead for nine years. How can you be sure?”

“My brothers and I gave the watch to Pop for Father's Day, the year I was ten. Liam and Grady did chores to buy the face from a thrift store, and Aidan and I tooled a leather band with Celtic symbols and attached a new buckle in shop class. It's one of a kind. Unmistakable. And that criminal is wearing it.”

She gripped his shoulders and held his gaze, her expression troubled. “Did you see his face?”

“No, he still has on the Kevlar hood.”

She frowned. “He couldn't possibly be your father?”

For a few horrible, sick moments, he'd wondered. The ugly rumors had sunk their claws into his chest and ripped out his memories…held them up, torn and bleeding for examination. Uncertainty had shredded his confidence. Doubt had lacerated his faith. The O'Rourke boys had endured scorn for nearly nine years, along with whispered speculation, not-so-subtle innuendos and outright insults.

Ever since their father had been investigated by Internal Affairs for being dirty. A cop on the take.

Not everyone swallowed the accusations. Veteran cops who had known Brian O'Rourke defended his integrity to this day. His wife and four sons believed in his innocence. Internal Affairs had never proven he'd taken the half million dollars missing from the armored car robbery.

Unfortunately, Brian O'Rourke had never proven he hadn't.

He'd been quietly shuffled off to ride a desk. Bitterly unhappy, he'd accepted the undeserved punishment with stoic fortitude inherited from ancestors who emigrated from famine-riddled Ireland. Maintained his dignity with tenacious Celtic warrior's blood that never gave up the fight, that enabled him to hang on to hope for future exoneration.

The same fighter's blood that flowed in Con's veins. That gave him the determination not to give up on Bailey and their future. Con swiped the back of his hand over the moisture trickling into his eyes. He wasn't getting teary-eyed, dammit. It was sweat from the exertion.

Their dad had died before he could clear his name. Assumed dead during the invasion robbery of his own house.

They'd never found his body. Or his killer.

The resulting court hearing had declared him legally dead. Murdered. There were still hard-line cops who thought he'd faked the crime scene. Rumor had him living the high life on a remote tropical island with his hot half million and a hot mistress.

Nobody who'd known Brian bought that garbage any more than they believed he'd stolen the money. But it hurt like hell.

Con cleared his throat. “Is the man in the bank my dad? No. No way.”

“No wonder you're upset. It must have been an awful shock.”

The understatement of the millennium. “You believe me, don't you—the man holding up the bank is not my dad?” Because he'd wavered, it seemed very, very important she did not.

She held him tight. “Absolutely. Your mom is too intelligent and principled to marry a dirty cop. And an unscrupulous man could never have raised four sons with such deeply rooted integrity.”

He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her silky curls. If he hadn't known before she was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, her loyalty would have sealed the deal. He breathed in her flowery fragrance. “Thank you.”

She drew away to look at him. “How did a criminal get your father's watch? Why would he wear it? It has no monetary value.”

“One possibility.” When the first stunned, frozen moments had passed, and he'd assured himself the man wearing the watch was not his father, the answer had wrenched his guts. “Pop died when robbers invaded our home. Those men are robbers. The math adds up.”

“You think the criminal in the bank is responsible for your father's murder, and the watch is a…sick souvenir?”

“Yes. And I intend to prove it.” He leaned his head against the
wall. “The day he died, we'd been to a soccer game, did I tell you that?”

“No.” She stroked his hair. “Go ahead. Talking will help.”

“Grady was a senior in high school. It was the state championship. We'd planned a family outing, but Dad caught the flu. He was really torqued about missing out. He insisted on going, but Mom wouldn't let him. You know Mom, she prevailed.”

Her lips curved in a tender smile. “I imagine she did.”

“Pop went to every game, every school event, every Boy Scout activity when work permitted. He was a great dad.”

“He was. You've got some wonderful memories.”

Yeah, but this wasn't one of them. “Grady's alma mater won. The three of us carried him into the house on our shoulders, with Mom brandishing his MVP award. We were chanting some stupid cheer at the top of our lungs. We got halfway across the living room before we noticed the place was trashed. Stuff was missing.” Staring over her shoulder into the gloomy store, he felt the blow all over again as he relived that awful night.

“Mom tore upstairs to the master bedroom. Grady and I hit the kitchen, Aidan and Liam rushed into the family room, calling for Pop. Then they went dead quiet. A tangible wall of silence rolled out. I don't know how to explain, but the shock hung in the air.”

“You don't have to. I've experienced that feeling.”

“Grady and I looked at one another, and knew bone deep it was bad. We ran into the family room. It was worse than anything we could have imagined. Sick and weak as he'd been, Pop must have put up a hell of a fight. Blood was everywhere. Enough blood…” He faltered, then soldiered on. “For the ME to testify Pop couldn't have survived. They never found his body.”

“I'm sorry. Losing your father is hard enough when you've got closure.”

They'd been forced to hold a memorial service instead of a funeral. There was no coffin to drape the flag over. After the mournful echo of “Taps” faded, the honor guard had simply handed the folded flag to his mother. “We didn't want Mom to see the carnage. It took both Aidan and me to keep her out. We
brought her to Letty's. Grady was the most visibly upset and least functional, so he stayed with her while the CSI team worked. Hours later, when they'd finished and taken the evidence they wanted, Grady showed up. The four of us cleaned up the mess. Scrubbed away the gore.”

“Oh, Con.” She hugged him again, and her slender body trembled in his arms.

He held her, comforted by her presence. “Took us all night. We ripped out what was left of the carpet and took it and Pop's chair to the dump. Nobody except Grady showed any emotion.” Pop's death had hit his youngest brother the hardest. “Until we threw that torn, lumpy recliner out of my truck. We stood there, looking at Dad's chair amongst the garbage, bloody and battered. Then we lost it. Four grown men. Put our arms around one another and cried like babies.”

She drew back and touched his face. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “It's understandable. No wonder you're all so close.”

He trailed a fingertip over her wet face. She shared his pain, just as he shared hers. Her empathy made the hurt more bearable. “Mom was devastated. But when we suggested she move, she got royally pissed off. She said—” An unsteady chuckle dislodged the aching lump in his throat. “Well, I won't repeat it. The gist was that criminals were not going to drive her out of her home and destroy her memories.”

Bailey captured his hand in both of hers. “Your mom is incredible.”

Anger crackled, burning away sorrow. He'd watched his mom fall to her knees after the death of her soul mate, then struggle to her feet and get on with living. “She should have had the privilege of growing old with the man she loved by her side.”

“We can't change what's done, I know that better than anyone.” Her eyes softened, deep blue pools of sympathy. “Dwelling on it will only hurt you more.” She placed a tender kiss in the center of his palm. “Are you going to be all right?”

“Yeah.” He'd stood outside the bank racked by grief, and battled the urge to rush in and confiscate the robber's Uzi. To turn the weapon on him and force a confession. To finally find jus
tice. Only the thought of Bailey, alone and defenseless, hunted down by those ruthless men, had made him walk away. Each step had taken every ounce of stubborn Irish will he possessed.

Con sucked in a deep breath and yanked his thoughts out of the past. He would be fine. After he finished it.

“What do we do now?”

He looked at the woman he loved beyond all reason. Her eyes were dark with sadness. Her delicate face white with strain. Her sweet lips creased with worry. Those men had killed his father and now they were a threat to Bailey's life. And the lives of innocent hostages. Anger boiled into rage. “I'm going to stash you somewhere safe, go back to the bank and clean house. Exterminate the vermin. No catch and release.”

She went rigid. “No! You can't!”

“Hide and watch me, Bailey.” Years of anguish. His mother's quiet suffering. His brothers' pain. Tears. Loss. The ragged, empty hole in their lives that no one would ever be able to fill. No more.
Never again.
“They aren't getting away without a trace this time. I'm going to stop them before they hurt anyone else.”

“Is that what you've been trained to do? Would your father want you to charge out there, hell-bent on revenge? I think not.”

He clenched his jaw. “That bastard has no right to wear my father's watch like some kind of grisly trophy.”

She shook him. Hard. “Focus, Con. Those hostages need you. I need you. If you lose it, we will all die.”

She was right. Blind fury had overtaken him, pushed him too close to losing his head. To doing the wrong thing for all the right reasons. He'd come within a heartbeat of blowing off his training and throwing away his life to annihilate a criminal SOB who might very well have murdered his father. He'd nearly risked Bailey's safety and the welfare of innocent hostages. Shame washed over him, cooling his rage. He swore.

The seesawing emotions combined with loss of control rattled him to the core. He dropped his head into his hands. He'd been in scary, unpredictable situations before, but never like this. This time, his family was at stake. The woman he loved was at stake.

This time, it was personal.

Bailey shook him again. “Look at me.”

Resolve steeled her gaze. “Conall O'Rourke is a dedicated police officer, not a vigilante. He upholds the law, does not take it into his own hands.” The conviction in her voice yanked him back from the edge of no-man's-land. “Our objective is to go home with the same number of holes in our bodies we came with. And to get our friends out of that bank.”

He gritted his teeth. Shoved his grief and anger deep inside. Right again. His priority was to keep them both alive. He rested his forehead against hers until the confusion and pain receded and he regained control. “What would I do without you?”

She kissed him, her soft, gentle mouth reviving his strength, her sweet, fresh taste restoring his purpose. “We're in this together, for now. So, I guess we need a…what do you call it? Tactical plan. Your forte, Officer Sexy. What's our next step?”

He managed a shaky grin. This woman amazed him more every second. “Communication. Get word out there's an incident going down in here.” He hesitated. Could she handle the truth?

He should have known better. She read him as easily as one of the books she always had her nose stuck in. She frowned. “What aren't you telling me?”

Trying to hide it from her was futile. He might as well come clean. “If my suspicions are correct, this crew has been doing bank jobs and home invasions for years. They seem to fit the profile on a number of unsolved cases. They don't leave any witnesses. Once they crack the vault…” He didn't finish. Didn't need to.

She closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. “Oh no!” When she opened her eyes, panic laced her expression and her voice quivered. She grabbed his arm. “What can we do, Con?”

“Mike bought some time by slamming the vault door when the robbers stormed in. Calling out SWAT will buy more. The suspects won't kill the hostages if they need bargaining chips. I wish we had access to a phone or radio. We can hardly send smoke signals.”