Shelter (30 page)

             
The drug dealer went down to the sound of the nine firing. The sight pulled a release valve inside Carlos. His mouth fell open and he sucked in a deep breath. So this was what it was like. No swell of movie music, no overwhelming sense of righteousness. Just…silence. And an empty sense of relief.

             
A groan floated up from the floor and he tightened his grip on the nine again, swiveling the flashlight around until he found Sal.

             
The guy was on the floor, arms flung wide, his gun out of reach. The halves of his overcoat and suit jacket had fallen open and there was a crimson stain on his white shirt, probably three inches to the right of lethal, the blood expanding out and out like it intended to turn the whole shirt red. All the smug coolness had left his face and his features were twisted up with agony.

             
Wincing against the throbbing, pulsing ache in his shoulder, Carlos maneuvered around the counter. He felt blood trickling down his arm inside his sleeve in hot little ribbons. His head swam and he knew he was losing too much.

             
But he picked his way through the debris over to where his cousin’s murderer lay, his chest rising and falling in a shallow rhythm. Sal wasn’t so intimidating now. In fact, he was downright pitiful.

             
“I left Sam in the stairwell that night,” he said in a broken voice he didn’t recognize as his own. Sal’s eyes, glassy and distant, rolled toward him and he made a whimpering sound. Carlos raised the Glock. “I’m not leaving this time.”

             
Sal closed his eyes and his adam’s apple bobbed. He nodded, though, as if he were giving permission. It made this that much easier. Because as Carlos’s finger caressed the trigger, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stay his hand. He felt driven by instinct, obligation, he had to do this for Sam, even if it was making his chest tight and bringing bile up in his throat. He’d just learn to deal with the consequences, because this man had to die…

             
“
Freeze!
”

             
Light shattered the world, turned the dark building inside out and left it as white and hot as the sun. Carlos covered his eyes with his good arm, his gun arm, and through the water that flooded them, saw a half a dozen shadows coming toward him.

32

             
Cop. Sean was a cop. An undercover narcotics detective, actually.

             
The emergency room doctor who’d been cleaning and packing the through-and-through gunshot wound that was right in the soft hollow between Carlos’s shoulder and clavicle applied one last piece of tape and excused herself, pulling the blue curtain shut behind her as she moved on to the next patient, sealing him in with Sean. They’d brought him two oxycodone in a little paper cup, but they were as yet untaken, the sharp bite of bullet-punctured skin keeping him alert enough to take in all that he’d learned since Atlanta PD had come crashing into the building, keeping him from finishing off Sal. Sal
Rubio
, he’d since learned. Salvador’s brother.

             
“Sam knew,” Carlos said rather than asked.

             
Sean had his jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up. His tie was rumpled and he needed a shave and for the first time, he looked like the rundown cop he was and not a glamorous high-end drug dealer. Then again, maybe that was just Carlos’s new perspective. “Yeah,” he said with a sigh, easing down into the plastic chair beside the bed. He pinched the bridge of his nose like he had a headache. “He didn’t wanna tell you cause he thought…”

             
“I’d freak and go to the cops?”

             
“Guess he didn’t give you enough credit.”

             
Reflecting on Sal lying prone on the floor, a gun trained on him, “credit” wasn’t the word Carlos would have chosen.

             
He wanted to be pissed at Sean, but he didn’t have the energy to feel duped. And no one had coerced him into any of this, so now he just felt tired. Exhausted, really. And was still full of all that achy emptiness he couldn’t explain. That, and his shoulder hurt like a bitch.

             
“You were hoping to get to Dolman through me?” he was starting to piece it together based on what he’d learned.

             
“Kind of a long shot,” Sean admitted. “But before Sal reached out, we didn’t have any leads. Sam said he thought there was someone at Good & Green on the take, so…”

             
“Salvador. I always hated that guy.”

             
When Sean didn’t comment, he rolled his head to the side and saw that the dealer – no, cop – was sporting a disturbed expression. “What?”

             
“Salvador Rubio’s dead,” and before Carlos could ask how, “he went after Alma.”

             
“What?!” He bolted upright, not caring that the move left him dizzy and sent a fresh jolt of fire through his shoulder. “Is she - ”

             
“She’s fine,” Sean motioned for him to lie back, but he wasn’t going to. “Some bumps and bruises, broken hand, but she’s okay.”

             
“The baby?”

             
“Fine too. Her folks met her at the hospital, but she was talking about going home alone. She’s tough, I’ll give her that.”

             
His pulse was racing, beating erratically in his ears, this rush of adrenaline more potent than it had been when he’d been squared off from Sal. “You guys,” he had to take a deep, shaky breath, “you got there in time?”

             
Sean shook his head. “That was all her. Blew his ass away with a shotgun.”

             
Relief and pride battled for dominance, creating a knot in his chest. “Shit.” He ran his good hand over the short bristle of hair on top of his head. Cold shame chased away the positive emotions as soon as they’d appeared. “I shoulda been there. Goddamn it.”

             
“Nobody knew Rubio was connected to this.” But it wasn’t consoling.

             
“I wanna see her,” Carlos met the man’s gaze again. “Before you have to haul me off, I wanna make sure she’s okay with my own eyes.”

             
Sean twitched a half smile. “Haul you off?”

             
“Well…yeah.”

             
He stood. “One of the few perks of my job: sometimes, I get to give good news. You’re free to go, Carlos.”

             
“But…”

             
“You were acting in a cooperative capacity with the PD, helped me close a major case. Once he gets patched up, Sal is gonna sing like a fuckin’ bird, and we’re already digging into his phone list, gettin’ in touch with
all
the people he knows.” A white smile split his mahogany face. “Couldn’t have done it without you, bro.”

             
That seemed far, far too easy considering the sins he’d committed. “But I - ”

             
Sean clapped a hand down onto his good shoulder, silencing him. “How ‘bout we don’t talk about that in a crowded hospital?”

             
Carlos nodded, but he could feel the frown etched between his brows and around his mouth. “No charges?”

             
“Nah.” He pulled his hand away and flattened it, extended it for a shake. “Not this time anyway. Don’t take this the wrong way, Carlos, but I don’t wanna see your ass again.”

             
Translation: don’t get in trouble.

             
He accepted the shake. “Yeah.” Though he wanted to hate the guy, the lies, Sam, he found that he couldn’t. Maybe he’d exorcised all his available hate when he’d squared off from Sal. But he thought, probably, that he couldn’t blame Sean because he was doing the best he could under the restrictions that had been laid on him. And, most importantly, Alma was alive.

             
The curtain parted again and a nurse entered, clipboard in hand. Carlos didn’t know what was on it, but he intended to ask for release papers – he still needed to see his girl – well, the girl he loved – with his own eyes.

             
Sean used the distraction as a chance to leave, picking up his coat off the back of the chair he’d occupied.

             
“Hey, Sean.”

             
The cop turned on his way out.

             
“Thanks.”

**

A uniformed officer drove him back to his car after Carlos declined a ride back to his apartment. He wanted his wheels, willing to drive one-armed
in order to have some freedom. And when he killed his engine in Alma’s drive, he just sat there, staring up at the fluttering strips of crime scene tape on either side of the door. The barrier had been broken and he figured she wasn’t supposed to be here, but that maybe Sean had pulled some strings for her.

             
He cycled through the emotions – fear, fury, anxiety – as he thought about what had almost happened to her, and how bad it must have been anyway. There was a strong possibility he was the last person on earth she wanted to see. Resolved not to stay long, to leave the moment she threw him out, he climbed out of the car and headed up the drive to the back door.

             
It was nearing three a.m. and the night was at its darkest, the air sharply cold in his lungs, the grass already glazed with frost. All the windows were lit up and it was the only house on the block that positively blazed. She may have been brave enough to ditch her parents and come home, but she wasn’t brave enough yet to turn off all the lights.

             
After one knock, he heard movement in the kitchen – she’d been awake – and the blinds in the window cracked. Her dark eyes peeked through. The blinds closed again and the deadbolt turned with a soft click. When the door opened and soft light fell over Alma, anger tightened his gut.

             
She was in a loose-fitting grey t-shirt, black leggings, thick socks. Her hair was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. And her clean face was a mess of bruises. One cheek and temple were already purple, a shiner promising an appearance within the next few days. And her bare arms seemed almost swollen, the skin mottled with shadowy new contusions that would darken with time.

             
His reservations were forgotten at once as he stepped across the threshold and took her face gently in his cupped hands, wincing as his shoulder grabbed in protest.

             
Her expression, guarded before, crumbled. Tears glazed over her eyes and she blinked hard. “It looks worse than it is,” her voice shook and he felt her hands close delicately over his wrists. “I’m okay.”

**

              Alma wasn’t sure if she wanted to see Carlos, at least, not up until she opened the door. Then his hands were so carefully holding her cheeks, his thumbs brushing over her bruises with the lightest of touches, and she was so glad he’d come. She felt the walls she’d put up, the temporary support structures she’d used to keep herself from collapsing in the aftermath of the shooting, start to crack, the power of Carlos stronger than any pride or self-righteousness.

             
“I’m okay,” she repeated, rubbing the pads of her fingers over the pulse points in his wrists. She could feel each thump of his heart through his skin and it was a comforting, grounding sensation. His eyes roved across her face and then finally latched onto her gaze, deep and chocolate brown, full of hurt and longing.

             
The drugs, the bad decisions, the secrets…none of it meant a damn thing in this moment, because she loved this man so, so much.

             
Tears finally spilled from the corners of her eyes and he wiped them away, again gentle, seemingly afraid she was cracked and might fall apart if he was too rough.

             
His voice was thick when he spoke. “Baby, I’m so sorry.”

             
“I know.” She slid her arms around his waist – a feat that left her battered limbs screaming in protest – and pressed her face against the front of his sweatshirt. The comfort in his embrace was immeasurable and she soaked him in a long moment, selfishly drawing in all the warmth she could.

             
When she pulled back, she saw the tension in his face, the unusual paleness of his complexion. “What’s wrong?” She slid her hands up his arms, her cast chafing against his shirt, and reached up to his shoulders.

             
He twisted at the last second, pulling the left away from her, and pain rippled across his features.

             
“Carlos?” her pulse accelerated. He was injured, oh God, he was hurt.

             
“It’s fine,” he said, though his voice sounded anything but. “The bullet went all the way through.”

             
“Bullet?!”

             
She watched, horror-stricken, as he unzipped his sweatshirt and pulled it off his shoulder. The short sleeve of his black t-shirt had been cut away and a thick wad of gauze and tape was in its place.

             
“Oh, God,” she reached as if to touch it, then pulled her hand away. “Please tell me you went to the hospital!”

             
“Got the good pain pills and everything.” He actually twitched a small smile, though it faded quickly. “Sean told me what happened.”

             
She lifted her right hand. Her cast was purple and garish, smelled of plaster, which, she had discovered, was not a nice smell, and her fingers protruded, though were still almost useless. Looking at the thing brought back the memory of Salvador swinging the pipe into her hand and fresh tears pooled in her eyes.

             
“It was terrible,” she whispered. “I…I kept thinking about the baby and I had…I had to shoot…shoot him be - ” she hiccupped in her attempt to keep from sobbing.

             
“Shhh.” Carlos pulled her into another hug and she welcomed his strength and solidity again. “You did the right thing,” he said against the top of her head. She felt his lips moving in her hair. “I’m really proud of you.”

**

The bed had still been made, which indicated she hadn’t even attempted to sleep before his arrival, but when Carlos towed her down the hall, giving the blood stain on the living room carpet a wide berth, and pulled her down on top of the comforter with him, she fell asleep almost instantly.

             
Her breathing was shallow, but even, and as the minutes ticked by, and she burrowed against his side, the lines of tension smoothed across her face so that, if not for the bruises, she could have looked as careless and peaceful as she had back in August. Before Sam’s death. Before the stress of pregnancy. Before he’d come into her life in this way.

             
It was fitting that all the lights were still on. The darkness might have clouded the truth he came to realize as he watched her chest rise and fall. He’d known all along he was nothing but an anvil to drag her down, and funny how, though he felt like he’d been scraped empty from the inside out, hollow and in such need of the all the good she had to offer, he knew now, more than ever, that he had to leave.