by Karen Rose
“Eight,” Daniel said. “In the team room.”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” Luke packed up his gun and ammo and was gone.
Alex lowered her gun and pulled the muffs from her ears. “He’s not okay, is he?”
“No. But, like you, he will be. Put those back on.” He stepped behind her and positioned her arms. “Aim like this.” He showed her, keeping his arms wrapped tightly around her. “Now squeeze the trigger and keep your eyes open.”
She obeyed, nodding sharply when her shot hit the paper target’s chest. “Aim for the chest,” she said. “More area, more room for error. I remember a cop once told me that when he brought a stabbing victim into the ER. Her husband had come at her with a knife. She had a gun, but she’d aimed for his head and missed.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died,” she said flatly. “Show me how again.”
So he did, holding her arms firmly in place. Her focus on the paper target was absolute as she emptied her magazine into its chest. But each shot pushed her body back against him, wreaking havoc with his own concentration. He made himself remember Sheila Cunningham, sitting in the corner, dead. Focus, Vartanian.
“Load,” he gritted, taking a step back as she followed his direction. Her hands were nimble and she completed the task more quickly than he’d expected. “That was good.”
She lifted the gun, but without his arm guiding hers, her aim was off and by the third shot she was completely off the target again.
“You’re closing your eyes again. Keep them open, Alex.” He covered her arms with his again, righting her aim. Accepting the torture of her body rubbing against his when she settled back into him and emptied another magazine. In the quiet, he shuddered out the breath he’d held. “Load, dammit.”
She twisted to look up at him over her shoulder, her eyes wide with question at his terse command. Then her whiskey-colored eyes darkened with understanding and a need of her own. She turned back and loaded, her fingers just as steady as before. The steadiness, he knew, came from years of functioning under stressful situations. He wished he could watch her in action in her own domain, and realized with a jolt that he wouldn’t be able to. Because when this was over, she’d go back. Back to Ohio. Back to the job she wouldn’t leave and the “nice” ex-husband she saw every damn day.
Another pulse of fury bubbled up. He knew his jealousy was totally irrational, but the other . . . when this was over she would leave. No, she won’t. I won’t let her.
You can’t stop her. But he knew he couldn’t let her slip away. He’d deal with her leaving when the time came. Until then, he had to keep her alive. “Try it yourself.”
She’d improved, but her aim drifted and he brought his arms back around her. She shifted, her butt rubbing hard against his groin, once, then twice, before she settled into him and began squeezing the trigger again. The move had been deliberate and had what blood was left in his head pounding a fast steady beat. Then she was done.
She put the gun on the waist-high counter, slipped off the glasses and the earmuffs, and he did the same. For a moment she stood, regarding the target with an icy stare. There was very little of it left. Three rounds from her H&K had ripped it to shreds.
“I think I killed it,” she said evenly, no hint of amusement in her tone.
“I think you did,” he answered, his voice rough and gravelly.
She turned in his arms and lifted her chin, meeting his eyes with cool challenge. Then she pulled his head down for the hottest kiss he’d ever experienced. In seconds it exploded and they were dueling for control, openmouthed and frantic. His hands covered the butt that had tantalized him, pulling her up and into him, rubbing her up and down his length, trying to get some relief. She tightened her arms around his neck and fought to get closer, lifting one knee to buttress his hip. He ran his hands down her thighs and lifted her, groaning into her mouth when she wrapped her legs around him.
“Stop.” He ripped his mouth from hers, panting. She was panting, too, and the sound made him want to rip her clothes off and drive deep into her, right here, right now. But they stood in Leo Papadopoulos’s target range and Daniel suspected even Leo would have a problem with that. He let her legs slide down his body, trying to get his heart back to a normal rhythm. “I have to clean up your shells before we go.”
“I’ll do that!” Leo called from the front in a singsong voice. “You two can just go home and do . . . whatever.”
Daniel snorted a laugh. “Thank you, Leo,” he called back dryly.
“Any time, Daniel.”
Daniel put Alex’s gun back in her satchel and took her hand. She hadn’t dropped her gaze since he’d broken the moment and the look in her eyes had his heart racing again. She looked determined. Dangerous. This was going to be really good.
Atlanta, Thursday, February 1, 12:50 a.m.
Luckily Leo’s place was not too far from his house. Luckily it was well after midnight and there were few cars on the highway or Daniel would have been tempted to use his lights for personal reasons for the first time ever.
She’d said nothing the entire way home and every minute of silence took the heat higher and higher until Daniel thought he’d lose it like a teenager before he ever got her clothes off. By the time he pulled into his driveway, he was shaking. But if there was any justice in the world, so was she. He grabbed her satchel and hauled her to his front door, his hand trembling as he tried to get the key in the lock. He missed twice before she hissed, “For God’s sake, hurry, Daniel.”
He got the door opened and yanked her inside. Her arms were around his neck and her mouth was kissing him before he got the front door shut. Blindly he closed it, locked it, threw the deadbolt. “Wait. The alarm. I have to set it.”
She withdrew and he turned to the alarm panel. When he looked back, his mouth went dry. Those nimble fingers of hers had made short work of the buttons on her blouse and she was pulling it from her slacks with impatient jerks. Her eyes narrowed.
“Hurry” was all she said.
The single word was like a cracked whip. Roughly he backed her against the door, taking her mouth with desperate ferocity as he pulled her jacket and blouse off her shoulders. Her fingers were quicker and she had his shirt unbuttoned before he could manage the hooks on her bra. Finally he twisted and ripped and her breasts were free and he filled his hands with them, plucking at her nipples, already pebbled hard.
“Alex.” He tried to step back but she was pushing her slacks and panties over her hips and kicking them away, all while her mouth ate at his. “Come to bed.”
“No, do it here.” She stood before him, nude and perfect. “Do it like you wanted to back there.” Then she gave him no choice when she threw her arms around his neck and launched herself high, twining her legs around his waist. “Do it now.”
His pulse rocketed through the top of his head and he yanked at his belt. His knuckles caressing her hot, incredibly wet warmth as he pulled and twisted, making her moan. He dropped his pants, pushed her against the door, and thrust as hard as he could. Finally all that wet warmth was surrounding him, pulling him deeper, driving him insane.
She cried out, but there was no pain in her eyes, only heat and need and want and he knew he needed to see those eyes glaze over in mindless satisfaction.
“Keep your eyes open,” he muttered and she nodded once, hard. Her fingers dug into his shoulders and his dug into her hips and held on as he pounded into her, giving free rein to the beast that roared inside his head. He pounded until he couldn’t remember anything about the day, until all the fear was gone from her eyes, leaving only dazed passion. Her body arched and she cried out again as she came, gripping him, dragging him with her.
He plunged a final time, and the pleasure was like a brick to his head. He slumped against her, pressing her into the door. His lungs pumped as he gasped for air, certain that if he died right then and there, he could want no more. Then he pulled back to see her face, and knew he ha
d to have her again. And again. She was panting, but her mouth curved. And she looked . . . proud. Incredibly satisfied, but proud, just the same.
“That was really, really good,” she said.
He laughed, then wheezed in another breath. “I think three reallys would about kill me, but I’m willing to risk it if you are.”
“I’m living life on the edge lately. I say we go for it.”
Thursday, February 1, 1:30 a.m.
Someone was crying again. Bailey could hear the plaintive wail through the walls. A door opened down the hall, followed by a hollow thud, then silence. It happened about two or three times every night.
Then her door flew open, bouncing back against the concrete wall. He came in and grabbed her by the blouse that was now tattered and rank. “You lied to me, Bailey.”
“Wh—?” She cried out when the back of his hand connected with her cheek.
“You lied to me. Alex’s key is not in her house.” He shook her, hard. “Where is it?”
Bailey stared at him, unable to speak. She’d told Alex to hide the key. She had no idea where it could be. “I . . . don’t know.”
“Then let’s see if we can make your brain work a little better.” He yanked, dragging her from the room, and she tried to make her mind shut down. Tried to keep herself from saying anything more. Tried to keep herself from praying to die.
Atlanta, Thursday, February 1, 2:10 a.m.
Alex’s body was sore in all the right places. She rolled her head on the pillow to look at him, the only movement she could muster. Daniel lay on his back as, openmouthed, he struggled to fill his lungs.
“I hope you don’t need CPR,” she muttered, “because I don’t think I can move.”
His laugh was half groan. “I think I’ll live.” He rolled to his side and pulled her against him, so that they lay spooned together. “But I needed it,” he added quietly.
“So did I,” she whispered. “Thank you, Daniel.”
He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, reached to turn off the light, and pulled the blanket over them. She’d started to drift off when he sighed. “Alex, I need to talk to you.”
She’d figured this was coming. “Okay.”
“Tonight you said your mother told Crighton that you’d seen him with Tom’s blanket.”
Alex swallowed. “Tom was my dad. He died when I was five.”
“Meredith told me. What was so special about the blanket?”
“It was my dad’s camping blanket. We didn’t have a lot of money, but camping was cheap and he liked being outside. Sometimes we’d all pile in the car and go to the lake and fish and swim . . . Then at night he’d make a fire and he’d wrap me and Alicia up in that old blanket and hold us on his lap while he told us stories. My mom kept all of his stuff out in Craig’s garage in case Alicia and I wanted it someday. I remember Craig didn’t like that very much. He was very possessive of my mother.”
“So what did you see, honey?”
“I don’t know, but I know there’s something. I keep remembering thunder and lightning. Mary said she was a little surprised when I insisted starting the day after Alicia died. We just need to go back another day. That’s all.”
“No, that’s not all.” His arm tightened around her waist. “You’re going to be mad, and I don’t blame you. Just remember, I was trying to do the right thing at the time.”
Frowning, Alex rolled to look up at him. “What?”
He stayed on his side, his expression grim. “This hasn’t been in any of the press releases and we’ve been able to keep it quiet. But two of the three bodies we found in ditches had a hair wrapped around the big toe. The hairs are at least ten years old.” His chest expanded, then fell. “And they match your DNA exactly.”
Alex was stunned. “My DNA? How do you know? I’ve never given you a sample.”
He closed his eyes. “Yes, you did. Remember Tuesday when you were leaving to go with Ed to Bailey’s house and I kissed you and pulled your hair?”
Alex’s jaw tightened. “You did it on purpose. Why? Why didn’t you just ask me?”
“Because I didn’t want to worry you. I was trying—”
“Not to hurt me,” she finished. “Daniel . . .” She shook her head, wanting to be annoyed, but he looked so miserable that she couldn’t find it in her. “It’s okay.”
He opened his eyes. “It is?”
“Yeah. You were trying to do the right thing. Just don’t do it again, okay?”
“Okay.” He pulled her back against him. “Let’s go to sleep.”
She snuggled back into him. Then the full import of his words struck her, and despite the heat radiating from his body, she felt cold. “He has her hair,” she whispered.
“I know, baby.”
Fear snaked its way into her gut. “Where did he get it, Daniel?”
His arm tightened around her protectively. “I don’t know yet. But I’ll find out.”
Thursday, February 1, 2:30 a.m.
“Bailey,” Beardsley whispered. “Are you alive?”
Bailey drew in a shallow breath, testing. “Yes.”
“Did you tell him anything more?”
“I don’t know anything more,” she said, her voice breaking on a sob.
“Sshh. Don’t cry. Maybe Alex just hid it.”
Bailey tried to make her brain think. “I told her to, in the letter.”
“Letter? You mean you mailed it?” he murmured. “To Ohio? When?”
“The day they took me. Thursday.”
“She might not have gotten it then. She got here on Saturday.”
Bailey drew in another, faster breath. “Then she might not know about the key.”
“We need to buy some time. If you have to tell him, say you sent it to her in Ohio. She’s not there if they look, so she and Hope will be safe. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Dutton, Thursday, February 1, 5:30 a.m.
He rolled by Alex Fallon’s little bungalow, his eyes narrowing. Crime scene tape was stretched across her front door. He wondered if the assholes who’d tried to run her down two days before had finally been successful at snuffing her out. They better not have. He needed her alive so he could kill her himself. Otherwise his circle would not be complete, and that would be a damn shame.
He kept rolling along at his snail’s pace, doing what he’d been paid to do. A few doors down, old Violet Drummond hobbled out to the street and he handed her a paper through the window. “Mornin’, Miz Drummond.”
“Mor-nin’,” she said auspiciously.
“What happened at the bungalow?” he asked nonchalantly.
Her lips pursed as if she’d sucked a lemon. “Break-in. Somebody ransacked that Tremaine girl’s things and poisoned her dog. Tore up the house, too. I knew she was trouble the minute she walked back into town. She should have just stayed away.”
He looked back at the bungalow through his side mirror. Somebody had been sloppy. Somebody was getting scared. Inside he grinned. Outside he made his face frown. “Yes’m. Have a nice day, Miz Drummond.”
He rolled away, relieved Alex Fallon still lived, but annoyed that now she’d be more on her guard than ever—and no longer conveniently located on Main Street. But he knew where she’d be staying. She and Vartanian were practically joined at the hip. But he and Vartanian would meet soon and he’d grab Alex then.
For now, he’d finish his job, then go get some sleep. He’d had a very busy night.
Atlanta, Thursday, February 1, 5:55 a.m.
The phone woke her and groggily Alex answered it. “Fallon. What is it, Letta?”
“Um, I’m not Letta and I want to talk to Daniel. Is he there?”
Alex sat up, awake now. “I’m sorry. Wait.” She poked Daniel’s arm. “I think it’s Chase. I was so sleepy I thought I was at home and my charge nurse was calling.”
Daniel lifted his head, his eyes still heavy with sleep. “Oh, hell. Give it here.”
She handed it over, wondering
if they would have any trouble over their . . . sleeping arrangements. She glanced at the clock with a wince. They hadn’t done much sleeping.
“I’m sorry. I did call you about her mother.” Daniel sat up and hunched over, his free hand massaging his temples. He had a headache already. “I should have called you about the break-in at the bungalow, but I had to take Riley to the vet.” He looked up at her with a hopeful grimace, then rolled his eyes. “Well, yeah, there was that, too.”
Alex scooted over so that she knelt next to his hip and lifted his chin. His eyes were shadowed with pain. She pressed her thumbs to his temples and her lips to his brow until she felt him relax. She leaned back and he nodded, but his lips didn’t smile.
“When?” he said. “Who? . . . Never heard of him. Why didn’t APD call us? I thought we had a picture of that kid on the visor of every patrol car in the city.” He sighed. “I guess that would make it hard to see his face. All right.” He sat up straighter and looked at his clock. “Again? Then there’s another one. Who’s his tail? . . . Good. Have him call me when Woolf stops. I’ll be there as fast as I can.” He started to hang up, then paused, looking at Alex. “I’ll tell her. Thanks, Chase.” He handed her the phone and she hung it up, her stomach already starting to churn.
“Who did APD have a picture of on their visors?”
“A kid we’ve been looking for. They found him dead in an alley, a few blocks from his car.” He scrubbed his palms over his face. “Shot in the head with his face covered in blood. Nobody recognized him until they’d gotten him to the morgue and cleaned up his face. They found his car, ran the plates. But I’ve never heard of him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Sean Romney.”
“I’ve never heard of him either.” She made herself ask the harder question. “Woolf’s on the move again?” she asked, and he nodded.
“I’ve gotta get out there and you can’t stay here alone.”
“I can be ready in ten minutes,” she said, and he looked impressed. “When you work level one trauma, you have to be ready to go in whenever there’s a major crisis. We get all the chopper cases in a seventy-mile radius. So I can move when I need to.” She rolled out of bed, but he stayed for a moment, watching her. “What?”
