by Julie Frost
“It’s a big place and it backs up to a National Recreation Area.” Alex shrugged. “You’d have had a lot harder time getting in the house.”
“Try me.”
That was a piece of bravado that Megan wasn’t ready to let him get away with. He hadn’t been in the house; she’d have smelled it if he had. Alex had no idea about the extra layer of security her nose afforded him—or that she could smell that the rifle had been recently fired, and could guess when and where. She managed to keep her wolf from actually emerging, but her rage had to come out somehow. Whirling, she lashed out with a foot to the intruder’s chest, knocking him over, chair and all. Alex and Jeremy both looked shocked before grins tugged at their mouths.
Sharpening vision meant her eyes had gone amber. She leaned over the guy, who inhaled with dawning comprehension when she bared her (thankfully still-human) teeth. “Just because you can breach the perimeter of a fifty-acre piece of land doesn’t mean you can get into the actual house,” she said, inwardly cursing herself for nearly letting the wolf out in a moment of weakness. She shoved herself upright and leaned against the island again, glaring, eyes back to blue.
“How well is the industrial espionage business paying these days?” Alex asked, eyeing Megan with surprised admiration. “Because whatever it is, it’s not enough for the world of hurt you’re in.”
Jeremy immediately pulled the intruder and his chair back upright, smiling at Megan. “I guess that self-defense training we’ve been doing together paid off, huh?” he noted.
“Are you going to start the torture anytime soon? Because right now it just looks like you’re going to talk me to death,” the man said, smirking, his eyes locked on Megan’s.
“Ah, screw it, he’s right,” Alex said to the room at large. “I guess we’ll just call his werewolf boss and let him know how sloppy he was, letting himself get caught like this.”
The man’s swagger slipped, just a little, and Megan thought they might have him. “You don’t know who I work for,” he said.
“You’re wearing a shirt with an Ostheim Industries logo, man. We know exactly who you work for.” Alex shook his head with a bemused smile, and Megan knew that smile. It was the one he used when he knew he had someone right where he wanted them. “I’m making a phone call. Jeremy, keep our guest entertained. Maybe you can find an old cattle prod lying around.” He waved his hand. “Miss Graham, if you wouldn’t mind taking me into the other room …”
She took charge of the wheelchair, pushing him into the library, which was floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with books on all kinds of esoteric subjects, most of which she knew he’d actually read. “What are we really going to do with him?” she asked as she set him up in front of one of the comfortable chairs and sank into it, pinching her nose.
“I’m tending toward calling the cops and having him charged with assault on Ben, myself.” He rubbed his beard, and his eyelids drooped. “I’m not real big on torturing people, no matter how much they deserve it. Might be nice if he told us for sure who he works for, but I don’t think he would.”
If Alex was big on torturing people, Megan would have quit long ago. “Well, then. Call the cops.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t make a move toward the phone.
She frowned. “Alex?”
“I’m fine.” He flicked his fingers, slouching, eyes closed. “Could you…?”
“Of course.” She realized that he wasn’t just tired; he was worn out. “As long as you promise to go to bed after they leave. Or maybe—now. Now would be good. You’re still recovering from being shot in the lung, Alex.”
“Yeah.” The fact that he didn’t argue with her, at all, made her knit her brow with worry. She resisted the urge to put a hand on his forehead. The wolf wanted to lick his face and nuzzle his chin. “Do I need to wake Doc Allen?”
“No … nothing like that. Just call Reed at a reasonable hour, okay?”
“Okay. Are you sure—” She stopped when he opened his eyes and lifted a sardonic brow, along with the corner of his mouth on the same side. This was the Alex she knew and alternately loved (in a completely platonic manner, of course) and loathed, and she relaxed. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath.
“I’m sure.”
O O O
The effort of reassuring Megan that he really was all right had nearly finished him. Alex had been told, many times by many people, that he had a tendency to overdo, and for once he believed it. Not that he would change his behavior in any way whatsoever, but his own limitations were something he was always pushing, and it helped to know what they were.
He sat there while Megan called the police, watching through slitted eyes. When she was done she grabbed the handles of the chair and started wheeling him toward the elevator rather than back to the kitchen.
“Hey, the cops will want me to sign stuff—”
“Bed, now,” she said firmly. “You can sign it when you’ve rested.”
She put him in the elevator, turned the chair to face the door, and stood in front of him, arms crossed, as it began its ascent. “If you think I’m going to stand here and watch while you run yourself into an early grave, you’re sadly mistaken.”
“Why, Miss Graham. I didn’t know you cared.” He slouched down again with a somewhat predatory smile, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “But if I knew that all it would take to get you to tuck me in was getting shot in the back, I’d have done it sooner.”
She choked. “When you get better, I am so going to kill you. Slowly.”
He closed his eyes and let out a breath. “After watching what you did to our intruder, I’m actually a little afraid you might.”
The elevator stopped and the door opened, and she wheeled him out with a little more force than she needed to, and stopped with a jerk next to his bed.
Alex opened his eyes in time to see her yank the covers back, her eyes smoldering. Had they changed color? He was too tired to tell. He tried to lever himself out of the chair, failed, and she was there, helping him onto the mattress, pulling the blanket over his shoulders, tending him like she always did.
“Take a memo, Miss Graham.” His voice slurred. “Note to self: Give Megan a raise. I don’t pay her enough for this shit.”
Right before he dropped off, he thought he felt her hand on his cheek and heard her say, “You idiot.”
O O O
Megan’s legs were too tired to hold her up anymore, and she sank into the wheelchair, watching Alex sleep. She wanted nothing more than to fall into bed herself, but …
She sighed and rubbed her forehead. She was doing that a lot tonight. Bed would have to wait until she’d squared their unwanted guest away with the police. Then she’d have to see if Ben and Janni needed anything else. By the time that was all done, the hour might be reasonable enough to give Mike Reed a call. Not to mention the fact that she hadn’t gone through Alex’s schedule for the day and cancelled all his appointments yet.
Well. Her tasks wouldn’t complete themselves. She pushed herself out of the chair, checked Alex’s breathing one last time, and went to find her phone before joining the others in the kitchen. “Police are on their way,” she told them.
Someone had given Ben a stool. He was nearly asleep at the counter.
Janni watched him, her brow creased with worry. “Should he be this tired? I thought the nanotech was just supposed to make him heal faster, not knock him on his ass.”
Megan nodded. “It uses the body’s own resources to do it, so it takes a lot out of you. Alex crashed and burned a few minutes ago.”
The bad guy in the chair tested his bonds, but Jeremy knew his business, and he wasn’t getting loose until they wanted him to. “You called the cops on me?”
“Well, yes.” Megan looked at him like he was stupid. Which he was. “What else would we do? We’re not, well, you. And there they are now,” she said unnecessarily, as someone knocked on the door.
She checked through the peephole just t
o make sure it was really the police. She was reassured by their appearance—a dark-haired man and a blond woman in a ponytail, wearing familiar uniforms, standing on the porch.
Opening the door, she gestured for them to come in. “Right this way, officers.” She led them into the kitchen.
Ben took one look at them and his sleepiness disappeared like a switch had been thrown. The barstool clanged into the dishwasher as he swore and shoved himself up off it, backing into the corner the kitchen counter made between the stove and the sink and pushing Janni behind him, all in one motion. The sharp scent of his panic filled the room, and Megan’s hackles rose before she could stop them.
“Ben?” Megan asked carefully.
“Not cops,” he said, panting, eyes wide and terrified behind his glasses. Shit.
That was enough to have Jeremy drawing his sidearm, and Megan found a gun pointing straight at her own head, wielded by the male “cop.”
“Drop it,” he said to Jeremy, not realizing his danger came from the woman he had his weapon aimed at.
Megan fought back the wolf, barely getting control before fangs erupted, displaying an outward calm she didn’t feel. “Jeremy, I’m thinking our security is completely and totally screwed,” she said.
“I’ll be looking into that forthwith, Miss Graham,” he answered, placing his gun on the counter and raising his hands. “What’s your play?” he asked the fake cops.
“Where’s Jarrett?” the woman asked, waving her gun.
“Oh, we’re not telling you that,” Megan said. She was fully prepared to show everyone the damn wolf if it would prevent these people from grabbing Alex. “Take your man and get out. Seriously, you have no idea.”
“Big words, little girl,” the sniper said.
“You’re outnumbered and we have more to lose than you,” she said, trying to be reasonable. “Take what you can get and go.”
Her fingers found the panic button under the counter, which would summon the real police, and she noted to herself that Jeremy hadn’t actually put his gun out of his reach. She exchanged a glance with him and nodded her chin a bare fraction. Not that he needed her permission, but she was sure he’d like to know that she’d back any move he made.
“That one’s hurt, and none of you are armed.” The woman cut the sniper’s bonds, freeing him to stand up, rubbing his wrists and looking smug. “I think we’ve got a pretty good hand here. So where’s Jarrett?”
O O O
No one had noticed that Ben had jammed himself against the counter where they’d put the sniper rifle. The threat “Your girlfriend’s next” kept looping through his frazzled memory.
Over his dead body. He pushed Janni to the floor, and his hand closed with robotic precision over the stock of the rifle, bringing it around, steadying it with his other hand, his index finger finding and disengaging the safety and wrapping around the trigger, on complete autopilot. He couldn’t miss at this distance, they were less than eight feet away …
“Don’t—” Center of mass. One shot, one man down. Shockingly loud in the enclosed space. Swearing, shouting, Megan and Jeremy diving out of the way. He shifted aim to the woman and hesitated a second, because he had a thing about not hurting women, hard-wired into him by insurgents who’d hurt a woman in front of him and laughed while they did it. But her 9mm spat fire, and Ben’s gun was bigger, his Ranger training even more ingrained.
Something punched him in the chest as he pulled the trigger again. Two shots, two down. Third enemy retreating, backing away, hands up. Hands that had held a cattle prod, mouth that had threatened Janni begging him to stop, to not—
Three shots, three down. Okay. Finished.
Ben dropped the rifle. Dropped to his knees. Looked down at his chest, which kind of hurt, a lot. Was that blood? His blood? Wow, that was … a shitload of blood.
“Ben?” Janni’s voice.
He leaned against the cabinets, started sliding, caught himself on one elbow before hitting the floor, glasses skittering away. “Omigod, Ben, Benbenbenbenben …”
Breathing. Breathing was an issue. Breathing was always an issue, but the mouthful of wet, sticky copper was new. Cool tiles on his hot forehead, Janni’s warm hand holding his cold one. She was still calling his name, but it was such a slender string holding him to her and he couldn’t …
O O O
Megan swore. “Jeremy, get Doc Allen down here, now; he’s in one of the guest rooms! And get Mike Reed out of bed if you have to!”
What the hell had Ben been thinking? And she realized, even as she thought it, that the poor son of a bitch probably hadn’t been thinking at all, had probably been working on sheer instinct, the same fight or flight impulse she’d smelled him wrestling since they’d brought the sniper in, and flight hadn’t been an option. Which didn’t make the situation any better, but she and the wolf understood it.
She grabbed the pair of dish towels hanging from the oven handle. Ben lay face down in a spreading puddle of red, the scent sending her wolf into overdrive.
Janni blinked at Megan through tears and a spatter of Ben’s blood. This was too much for her; it was too much for all of them, but they had to deal with it or he’d die this time. No exit wound—Megan wasn’t sure if this was beneficial or not. She eased him onto his back and pressed the towels down on his chest, but they were quickly soaked.
“Come on, Ben, stay with us,” Megan said, knowing he couldn’t hear her. His heart was still beating, anyway. She could both hear it and feel it under her hands.
Doc Allen appeared at her side, gently pushing both her and Janni out of the way. He held a syringeful of something just short of magic, she hoped, which he injected directly into the bullet hole.
“Mike’s on his way,” Jeremy said. “He’s about fifteen minutes out.”
“Do we have that long?” Megan asked.
“This should stop the worst of it,” Doc Allen said, setting the empty hypo on the floor. “But I need to get him into surgery stat. Ten minutes ago would be better.”
Fortunately for everyone involved, Alex had such a lively horror of hospitals (“You can die in places like that, Miss Graham.”) that he had his own fully-equipped operating theater right here in the house. It was getting a workout tonight.
“Jeremy, stretcher,” Megan said, and here she was directing traffic again. He ran out, coming back less than a minute later with the folding one from the basement lab.
They rolled Ben onto it and carried him down to the surgical suite, which was right off the lab. Alex tended to have the majority of his accidents at home there.
Doc Allen and Jeremy scrubbed up and sent everyone else out, including Janni, despite her protests.
Megan headed back upstairs and realized that she hadn’t even checked to see if the bad guys were dead or alive. She decided she didn’t actually care. She got Janni cleaned up and calmed down, then settled in the living room with a cup of tea just before the real police arrived with clipboards and questions. But not too many questions because this was Alex Jarrett’s house, and she was his PA, and it was amazing just how much the cops trusted you when you had billions of dollars at your beck and call and made large, regular donations to the Widows and Orphans Fund.
The three bad guys were dead. Ben’s shots had been scarily precise, and Megan wondered where he’d learned to handle a gun like that, because he struck her as more the mild geek type than a Rambo. She decided to ask Janni about it later when things weren’t quite so crazy. But right now she was juggling police and the coroner, sending Mike Reed down to the OR to help Doc Allen out with Ben, and holy crap, was that daylight peeking in through the windows? And she still hadn’t called a cleanup crew for the blood all over the place or cancelled Alex’s appointments for the day.
Speaking of her boss, four rather loud gunshots had been fired in his house, and he hadn’t made an appearance wondering what the hell was going on. When the police left, Megan went upstairs to check on him.
O O O
; “Suction.” Doc Allen’s voice was cool, but he was losing his patient, and he wasn’t sure he could do a damn thing about it. Even with the nanotech, Ben’s body had sustained too much trauma in too short a period of time, and this wound might prove fatal if Allen couldn’t pull something out of his ass, and quick. This wasn’t the first time he’d roped Hasgrave into assistant duty, and Jarrett’s chief of security was good at it, but he honestly couldn’t help much.
Removing the bulk of the bullet itself required a fairly basic operation, but it had punched through a rib, tumbled, and shattered, sending shards of bone and metal into Ben’s lung and pericardial sac. Allen managed to repair most of the damage, but something in there was still bleeding, maybe several somethings. Ben was losing blood pressure and still in the same state of shock he’d been in when they’d put him under the knife with no time to stabilize him. Transfused blood leaked into his chest almost as fast as it entered the vein in his left hand.
“Shit. Shitshitshit …” Allen muttered, digging around. “Where are you, you little bastard…?”
Mike Reed came in, scrubbed and ready, carrying an aluminum case loaded with, Allen hoped, miracles. “I’m glad you’re here, Dr. Reed. Tell me you’ve got something good in that shiny container.”
Reed’s gaze took in the monitors, which told an unhappy story, and his brow lowered over his mask. “One thing that might actually work. It’s untested on humans—”
“And yet you brought it anyway, so you must think it’s special. He’ll die on my table if we don’t do something drastic, now.” Allen briefly met Reed’s eyes across the still form before he went back to hunting whatever the hell was bleeding in Ben’s chest.
Reed nodded on the periphery of his vision. “All right. No guarantees.” Reed opened the case and pulled out a syringe.
“It’s better than what I have.” Which was a whole lot of nothing. He still couldn’t find the bleeders … “Now. Now would be ideal. Shit,” he added as warning klaxons began sounding on more than one machine.
