by Norris, Kris
“Me? Do something rash?”
“Where’s Dave?”
“Hopefully on his way. He was supposed to meet me here. I couldn’t reach him. Left a message.”
“We’ll be there as soon as possible. I’ll notify local law. Keep them at a safe distance. Make sure some rookie doesn’t accidentally drop by for a drink.”
“Get here soon, or this is going to end bloody. Though, I doubt it’ll go any other way.”
He snorted then hung up, the dead silence on the other end of her phone feeling like an omen of what was to come. She cursed when more shouting echoed through the door, something else falling heavily to the floor.
None of them were going to last twenty minutes. While she’d never do anything to endanger civilians, she knew Patrick Wilson well enough to understand that he didn’t leave witnesses behind. She’d have to stay out of sight. Wait until he was getting ready to leave then try to buy more time.
She removed her Beretta from her ankle holster. Two guns. More than enough firepower. But, ironically, not nearly enough to get her out of this. Neither was suppressed. They’d know she was there the moment she fired. So hunting them down one-by-one wasn’t going to work. She palmed her phone, again, hitting Cannon’s contact.
“Jericho? Everything all right?”
God, just hearing his voice. It calmed the fluttering in her stomach. Stilled the slight tremor in her hands. “Where are you?”
“Just closing in on my office. Why?”
“I’m at Malone’s. It’s bad, Cannon. Epically bad.”
Tires screeched in her ear, the hum in the background revving higher. “Lay it out for me, sweetheart.”
“I’ve got ten, maybe twelve armed men. More in the alley out back. Probably across the street or on the roof. Along with Patrick Wilson.”
A pause then a huff. “I’m familiar with the name. You safe?”
“For now. There’s close to two dozen people in here. I’m alone. I’ve called in the cavalry, but it’s twenty minutes out. And, if he sees anyone, and I mean anyone, he thinks is a cop…”
Not that Cannon looked like a cop. Mercenary, maybe. Assassin, definitely. But not a cop.
“Understood. I’m five minutes away. Try not to engage, but if you do, torso shots. Take out Wilson and the men nearest to him. He’ll keep his best guys close. You might get lucky. Have the others scatter when his main force starts dropping. Keep something between you and them if you can. You can’t save folks if you’re dead.”
“There are kids, here, Cannon. I’ll try to buy time if he looks like he’s going to start killing people, but… I can’t…”
Had he just sworn under his breath?
“Guys like him like to hear themselves talk.”
“If he sees you, he’ll open fire.”
A snort. “No one’s going to see me until it’s too late. Four minutes.”
“Counting down.”
She ended the call, just as a gunshot boomed through the air. She cursed then headed out, sticking to the shadows. Sobs sounded from within the room, then Patrick’s voice.
“I told you all to stay still. Do you see what happens when you don’t listen? Seems like you all might have a hearing problem.”
She glanced in the room. Only the two men next to Patrick had their guns drawn, the others still standing idly around the room, chests pushed out. Arms crossed. They seemed amused. The window near the front door was splattered with blood, a body lying in a heap behind a toppled chair.
She checked her watch.
Three minutes.
She started mentally counting, drew a deep breath, then eased forward—gun leading the way. “I’m going to have to ask you gentlemen to remain calm.”
Gasps lit the air, the men’s heads snapping up.
“Ah, ah, ah, the first person to go for their gun gets dropped.” She stepped out just enough to see the five men standing close to Wilson. “So, just keep your hands where I can see them.”
Wilson focused on her, a smug smile tilting his lips. “Deputy U.S. Marshal Nash? Well, I’ll be damned. What are the chances you’d be here? Haven’t see you in…what?”
“About two months. Since I chased your ass down that alley. Nice touch. Running into that bar. Knowing I wouldn’t risk an armed assault in a crowd. Thought you might have had the good sense to leave Seattle. Guess I was wrong.”
She huffed, watching the reflection of one of his men edging his way along the small wall separating her from the right side of the dining room. “I swear, if the man on the other side of this wall takes one more step, I’ll shoot him through it.”
Patrick waved his hand—stopping the guy. “That was your table. The one with the water glass.”
Two minutes.
“In the waiter’s defense. I did get stood-up, and I did grab my purse. Now, as I see it, there’s three ways this can go down.”
He arched a brow. “Is that right? Why don’t you explain them for me.”
“One, you all surrender, and I arrest you. Very civil. No one else gets hurt.”
He laughed. “Two?”
“We all draw down, and very few of us leave here alive.”
He glanced around, nodding at his men. “Or three?”
She motioned toward the door. “You and your men leave. We continue this conversation another day.”
“Leave? You’re just gonna stand there and let me walk out of here?”
“That’s right. And I bet by the time I follow you out that door, you’ll be long gone.”
“That doesn’t sound very marshal-like. Letting me go.”
“I’m off-duty. Do we have an understanding?”
“I’ve got ten men with me.”
“Pretty sure I counted eleven.” She focused on his face, firing off a round through the wall when his man lunged toward the side. The bullet hit him in the side, dropping him to the floor.
She smirked. “Sorry. You were right. Make that ten men.”
Wilson looked at the guy then back to her. “You can’t kill all of us.”
One minute.
“Nope. But I’ll kill at least four of you before any of your men finishing drawing. Clip another two before I go down. Is this really worth dying over?”
“Who says I’ll be dead?”
“You’ll be the third person I kill, after those two men at your side. The ones with their guns already out. Who are itching to fire, again. But their hands are shaking. You don’t let them use, do you? Drugs might make them fearless, but it affects their reflexes. Their aim. That kind of spoils the whole fearless part.”
“Maybe they’re just anxious to get this show started.”
“Anxious to die?”
“We all die, Marshal.”
“I wasn’t planning on doing it, today. Were you, Mr. Wilson? Because that’s the only way this is going to end if you don’t take option number three.”
Patrick looked at the men standing next to him—the ones with their guns clasped in front of them by their waists. Hands trembling ever so slightly. Eyes wide—a bit glazed. “Can I think on it for a minute?”
Zero.
“Something tells me we might not have that much time before one of them makes the decision for you.” She stared Wilson directly in the eyes. “So…what’s it going to be?”
Chapter Five
Three days.
That’s how long Cannon had been gone. Only seventy-two hours. Barely a blip in time compared to any other mission he’d been on. Case. He needed to remember he wasn’t military, anymore, and he didn’t have missions. Just cases. Which, this time, had involved a couple of fellow servicemen. Brothers. They’d needed some extra muscle—someone they could trust with their lives. Who could shoot. Fight. Take a beating, if necessary, and keep going—and Cannon had been happy to help out. Hell, he owed Ice, one of the guys working for another company, his life. Russel Foster, aka Ice to his buddies, had needed some intel, and Cannon had jumped at the chance to remove a bit more of the
red ink from his ledger. Even the score a bit.
Not that he’d come close, yet. Ice had dragged Cannon’s ass—literally—for miles through hostile territory to a landing zone. Had nearly gotten killed more than once in the process—not to mention having to eliminate several tangos along the way—just to bring Cannon back. That kind of debt didn’t go away with a few token good deeds. Maybe not a lifetime’s worth. But he’d give it his best shot. Be the kind of man that could shake Ice’s hand—look at himself in the mirror and like what was staring back.
The kind of man Jericho would be proud to stand beside.
Jericho.
That was an entire nest full of vipers Cannon didn’t know how handle. Not without getting bitten. Though, part of him suspected he’d already succumbed to the poison. The kind that messed with his head. Had him tied in knots. Wishing for things he’d never considered.
Thirty-two days since she’d rocked his world inside that bar. Jumpstarted the heart he thought he’d left in the desert. Burned and buried under a shit ton of sand, blood, and death. Yet, there it was, beating inside his chest. Threatening to stop every time he saw her. And that smile…
It was like standing in the midst of a storm, only to have the sun break through for one mesmerizing heartbeat. All its light and warmth just shining down on him. The eye of the hurricane. It made him feel…
He scrubbed a hand down his face. Feel. How long had it been since he’d felt anything? Had given himself permission to indulge in thoughts that went beyond the mission? Beyond keeping his teammates alive? Beyond the next five minutes?
He wasn’t sure he ever had. Yet, after a month of having coffee with her damn near every morning, he couldn’t hide from the truth any longer. He was crazy about the lady. Her courage, her honor. She was smart and compassionate and so damn beautiful, his chest physically hurt just being around her. He couldn’t remember what it was like to go to bed not thinking about her, smelling her perfume on his clothes, hearing her voice inside his head. Or to wake up without having spent the night dreaming about all the ways he wanted to touch her. Wanting to hear her voice, even if all she said was his name. She was quickly becoming a drug he couldn’t live without.
Not that he’d told her, yet. At first, he’d been convinced it was more mutual respect. She’d helped him get his business off the ground, and she was a hell of a resource. Had offered him insight into viable office locations and how to obtain a few special permits from local law enforcement.
But the more time he spent with her, the more he needed to spend. It wasn’t enough to simply meet with her for an hour every morning. Now, he was texting. Was dropping by her office on his way home—ensuring she was okay. Offering his aid if she ever needed it. Anything and everything to be around her.
The jig was up. He couldn’t pretend any longer. At least, not if he wanted to stay sane. Hell, even Ice and Rigs—another buddy Cannon had teamed up with the past three days—had recognized that something was different about him. That he was distracted. Not to the point it compromised the mission—case—but enough they’d mentioned it. Had asked if he was “okay”? If there was anything he needed to “talk” about? Soldier speak that was loosely translated into them questioning his focus.
He’d gotten the job done. Had kept a bullet from finding Rigs’ head, but… They knew. And it seemed about time Jericho knew.
Cannon took a deep breath. God, here he was, nearly back at his office—the one Jericho had helped him find. Perfect for his needs, and in a part of town no one would question his undertakings—and he would have sworn he was scared. Actually fucking scared.
He hadn’t blinked when he’d had to out himself to save a fellow soldier—a SEAL who’d somehow survived a firefight. Had managed to drag his ass across a mountain, only to get captured. Cannon had been stone cold steel taking the men out with only his hands. Hadn’t felt much of anything killing the rest of the cell. But the thought of telling Jericho he had serious feelings for her—that he wanted more than coffee dates and late-night texts. That he fucking needed her in his arms, his bed, his damn life if he had any hope of breathing—that sluiced ice down his veins. Made his palms clammy, his damn pulse race. And all because he didn’t know for sure she felt the same.
Which was stupid. He hadn’t been removed from society to the point he didn’t recognize mutual attraction. The way her skin blushed, or how her breathing sped up. The flutter of her pulse at the base of her neck. The waver in her voice. The dreamy look in her eyes. He knew she wasn’t meeting with him out of obligation or platonic friendship, even if he had kept her on the other side. The non-physical one. She was interested. He just needed a plan.
Good. He excelled at making plans. Strategizing. All he needed to do was treat this like any other op. Figure out the steps required to take their relationship to the next level then execute them. He already had her attention. Her number. Next, he needed to ask her on a real date. Dinner. Maybe some dancing. A walk on along the wharf would be nice. Give him an excuse to hold her hand. Lend her his coat. He’d invite her inside. Make sure he had her brand of cooler on hand, then…
His phone rang. And not just any ringtone. One he hadn’t heard before. The one he’d reserved for her. That he’d practically been begging her to use.
He glanced at his watch as he hit the accept button on his navigation screen. “Jericho? Everything all right?”
Was she breathing hard? Because it she sounded winded even before she’d said anything. “Where are you?”
He read the road sign as he crossed over Holgate Street. “Just closing in on my office. Why?”
Shit, she was definitely breathing hard. And there was a waver in her voice—fear. It was definitely fear. Not a lot. In fact, he doubted anyone else would pick up on it. But he did. He’d spent the past month hanging on every word she said. In putting her pitch, her tone, her damn intonation into his memory. He’d recognize any change in her voice, subtle or otherwise.
“I’m at Malone’s. It’s bad, Cannon. Epically bad.”
He hit the gas, fishtailing his truck around the next left. Somehow avoiding the curb and taxi idling on the side as he accelerated toward the outer section of the warehouse district. What the fuck was she doing at Malone’s? Only local gang or mob families ate there. No sense getting into a gunfight just to eat a burger—no matter how great it was. Not if there wasn’t a friend’s life or bounty involved. “Lay it out for me, sweetheart.”
She breathed into the phone. Calm but just knowing she was in danger… “I’ve got ten, maybe twelve armed men. More in the alley out back. Probably across the street or on the roof. Along with Patrick Wilson.”
Fuck. He knew Patrick Wilson. Asshole was bad news. Wasn’t much the man wasn’t involved in, including killing a couple of cops. They’d nabbed him on some lame-ass charge, and he’d bought his way out. Cannon also knew the charges had gotten harsher over the past couple of months. That Wilson was on more than one most wanted list. Which meant he had nothing to lose. Cannon had planned on going hunting for the man after he’d gotten back. “I’m familiar with the name. You safe?”
“For now. There’s close to two dozen people in here. I’m alone. I’ve called in the cavalry, but it’s twenty minutes out. And, if he sees anyone, and I mean anyone, he thinks is a cop…”
“Understood.” He barreled around the next corner, cutting through a paved path along some small park then jumping onto the next street—dirt spraying across the asphalt. Birds squawking as they scattered into the air. “I’m five minutes away. Try not to engage, but if you do, torso shots. Take out Wilson and the men nearest to him. He’ll keep his best guys close. You might get lucky. Have the others scatter when his main force starts dropping. Keep something between you and them if you can. You can’t save folks if you’re dead.”
Jericho. Dead. Fuck, he couldn’t think that way. Couldn’t say the two words together, because if he thought, for a second, he wouldn’t get there in time—that he’d arrive to find
her limp on the floor, her blood pooled beneath her—he’d lose it. Right there in the cab of his truck.
“There are kids, here, Cannon. I’ll try to buy time if he looks like he’s going to start killing people, but… I can’t…”
Shit. Which was her way of saying she’d do anything—sacrifice herself without hesitation—if there was even a remote chance she could save a kid. Not that he blamed her. He’d do the same.
“Guys like him, like to hear themselves talk.”
“If he sees you, he’ll open fire.”
See him? No. That wasn’t going to happen. “No one’s going to see me until it’s too late. Four minutes.”
“Counting down.”
She disconnected, the sudden silence making his throat close tight. His hands fisted around the steering wheel. He was only a minute out, but depending on how much resistance he faced, he could still be more than a couple away from breaching the dining room. From being close enough to save her. Take down whoever was aiming at her—take a bullet meant for her. He’d take one for a stranger. For her…
He’d face Hell for her.
Cannon pulled up a block away, already sliding out of the truck as it rocked to a halt. He circled around to the flatbed, opening the tailgate then the black bag stashed in the back. He quickly donned a vest—patting down the pockets as he double checked his weapons. Ka-Bars. Two on each side, another two strapped to his shoulder blades. Handguns—M9 with suppressor left holster, Glock 19 right. Walther in his ankle holster if the situation got desperate. He had three extra clips for each in the pockets spaced around his waist. One more in his left boot. He rounded out the items with a couple of smoke bombs, a flashbang, some duct tape, zip ties, and a small amount of C4—he was ready.
He glanced at his watch. Three minutes since she’d ended the call. That gave him one minute to deal with Wilson’s men positioned on the outside and make his way to Jericho before he was pushing the time frame he’d given her. Time she didn’t have. Hell, it could already be too late.
Fuck that. He’d never failed a mission, and he’d be damned if he’d start, now. Jericho was his. Anyone who messed with her had to go through him, first. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t told her. Hadn’t made a move. She’d been his the moment they’d met, and everything between then and now had just been him learning how to be human, again. How to be the kind of man she deserved.
