by Cindy Skaggs
Her heart trembled. It was one thing to know on an intellectual level that someone wanted you dead, quite another to stand opposite him. The lunatic grin on his face said he enjoyed the idea of killing. Killing her or killing in general? Probably both. “But you worked for my brother.”
“I worked for Sully. Nick Calvetti wasn’t going to muscle in on our territory.”
Man, but Nick was a bad judge of character. Because this guy was large and threatening, he’d gotten into Nick’s inner circle. If Sammy hadn’t done the job, this guy would have eliminated Nick. After uncovering Nathan’s whereabouts. Now that Sully and Trenton had the information, they wouldn’t let her live.
She swallowed. She didn’t have anything they wanted. “Did you kill…?” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Fucker put up a fight.” He grinned again.
Sadistic bastard. She charged, tucked her head and rammed him in the gut, slamming them both back. He gained his feet first and shoved her across the room to trip over Eddie. Blood coated her hand, pulling out the memory of blood-matted fur. Rage blurred her vision. She regained her feet and faced off against him. She was out of contingency plans. No way would she make it past Trenton. Plus she’d never leave Eddie to certain death. “You’ll pay for torturing my cat.” Her voice sounded stronger than she felt.
Trenton loomed as if waiting for her to make the first move. He expected her to make a dash for the door. “You gonna put up a fight? Scratch me?”
The taunting got to her deep down where grief lived. It boiled up, overcoming the panic and the shaking. She wanted to ram him again, yes, claw out his damn eyes, but he waited, expected it. A direct attack would get her killed.
The window, Eddie had said. Was Manny on the opposite roof? Standing guard? God, she hoped so. She twisted. The window was only a few yards away. She stepped over Eddie’s arm, but Trenton grabbed her from behind before she made it another step.
Trenton lifted her off her feet, pulled her back into his chest, and squeezed the breath from her lungs. “Go ahead, sweetheart. The fight makes it better.”
Her bones groaned at the pressure. He’d squeeze the life out of her if she let him. She kicked, but his grip held firm. A rib snapped; the pain zapped through her body. She sucked in a breath, but couldn’t get enough air. Each beat of her pulse throbbed in the bruises all over her body. Her lungs screamed for oxygen. Her vision blurred.
Desperate, she raised her legs and dug in her boot for the knife. Trenton’s knife.
He slammed her up against the door, much the way she’d found the cat. The thought of Fuzzball gave her the extra strength she needed. Her fingers brushed cool steel. Gripping the hilt in a tight fist, she slammed back with all her might. Felt the blade puncture skin and slide deep into flesh.
Trenton screamed, the sound a mix of pain and rage. She pulled the knife back, felt the flesh give way in a gush of blood, but the memory of the crucified cat wasn’t satisfied. Pulling back in the confined space, she stabbed again, aiming for his crotch. He shifted a leg at the last minute, but she had the satisfaction of feeling the knife puncture deeper this time.
He released her as if he couldn’t stop himself. “We know where your brother is, bitch. Choke on that while you die.”
She heard him pull his weapon as she leaped for Manny’s coat. If the assassin wasn’t waiting and ready to take the shot, she was a dead woman. Trenton’s bullet struck her left shoulder before she heard the blast. She fisted the trench in her right hand as she sailed to the floor. The coat yanked, pulled the curtain rod with it. Sun burst into the room. Another shot sounded.
Her shoulder radiated heat and pain. It was all-consuming. And then it was nothing.
Chapter Seventeen
Vicki floated in a cold cocoon. She struggled to open her eyes, but the more she tried, the more her head ached. Gradually, she became aware of the rustle of papers, a squeaking set of distant footsteps, the clatter of metal on metal. Pain. Blinding-hot pain.
She was definitely alive, but where?
Someone rubbed her right hand, which brought attention to her body. She was lying on her back under the weight of a cool blanket, her feet numb with cold. The pressure on her hand was gentle, not someone beating the crap out of her, which was an improvement. Not quite hell, although the pain searing through her body meant not quite heaven either. She put more energy into it, pried her eyes open. At first the bed swam and her vision blurred.
“Hey.”
She turned to the sound of the voice.
Sofia came into focus. She smiled softly, but her brown eyes narrowed in concern. “There you are. How are you feeling?”
“Loopy,” she croaked. A raw, hot pain tore through her throat. “Water.”
Sofia grabbed the cup from the bed stand and pushed the straw into Vicki’s mouth. Cool water soothed her scratchy throat, bringing other aches and needs into the spotlight. Her shoulder hurt like a mother. Her face throbbed. She felt like death. “Eddie?”
“Down the hall,” Sofia answered. “He lost a lot of blood, but they expect him to recover.”
“Good.” Her voice quivered. She wanted to ask more, but Sofia didn’t know about Nathan yet. Where was Blake? “What happened?”
“Blake called and said you were on the way to the hospital. You went straight to surgery. Gunshot wound. Do you remember that?”
“Hard to forget.” She reached out to touch the bandages over her shoulder, but the tubes coming out of her arm hindered movement. Movement brought the pain into sharp focus. “How long am I in for?”
“As long as I say.” An older gentleman stepped into the room. He didn’t wear a white lab coat, but everything about him screamed authority. Tall, with an arrogant smirk and long, competent fingers, he wore slacks and a sweater, which meant he was a lot warmer than she was in this dismal place. He grabbed her chart and flipped through the pages. He explained the surgery she’d undergone and ordered the nurse to push another dose of pain meds and antibiotics.
The nurse had gray hair and a soft smile. She rubbed Vicki’s arm before she injected something into the tubing. “I’m going to make you feel real good,” she promised.
Vicki struggled to keep her eyes open, but the weight of the sedative swimming in her veins meant she had no control. “Don’t go,” she asked Sofia.
“I won’t leave you alone,” Sofia answered.
It was enough. Vicki gave in to the pull of the drugs and drifted into white.
…
Strips of light and dark crossed the bed, adding to the shadows around Victoria’s eyes. Bruises marred both sides of her face, the one over her left eye turning a fantastic blue and black, giving her the look of a ruined boxer. A bandage covered her shoulder, and a sling held her arm trapped in place. The yellow crap they used to sterilize for surgery was halfway up her neck. The place smelled like antiseptic and blood.
A sense of powerlessness washed over Blake. A need for vengeance pounded in his veins, blurring his vision, but he couldn’t leave her like this. He sat in the world’s most uncomfortable chair waiting for Victoria to wake. He’d slept in the chair overnight, resting his head on the bed next to her hand. Seeing her battered and bruised more than screwed his focus. He was done for, out for the count, done.
He’d nearly lost her. He’d gotten to the club at the same time as the ambulance. An anonymous 911 call. The sight greeting him in the apartment would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life. Victoria lay facedown on the carpet, covered in blood and Manny’s trench. Shattered glass. Eddie half under her legs, a gunshot wound to the thigh and blood all over the green carpet. Trenton was faceup, eyes open, gunshot wound to the chest. Two shots in a tight grouping. His hand still on a Glock.
Blake lost it, screwed the evidence, and trampled everybody to get to the woman on the far side of the room. Fear and guilt were as real as the sirens outside. He’d failed to protect Victoria. He didn’t calm until he found a pulse. Even then, the EMTs tried to kick his as
s out of the room.
The EMTs tended to the living, loading both Victoria and Eddie into ambulances. Blake had to stay behind to wait for the forensics team, homicide, the coroner, and every freaking member of the task force who wanted to know what had happened to their operation. Stiles wanted his ass in a sling, which he just might get. Two years undercover down the drain. Sully would walk away clean. The team worked with local law enforcement to take down the known dealers Blake had worked with, but they were small fish in a big pond.
He hadn’t simply failed the team. He’d failed Victoria. Someone had leaked Nathan’s location. Gunshots, and the Witness Protection agents were down. A bloody mess plus an explosion. They were still searching for bodies at the crime scene and no one could tell him how Sully knew where to find the kid. Nathan’s address had been top secret, known only to Blake, Dez, Mick, Stiles, and WITSEC. Victoria had taken a beating and still not given up her half brother, which meant the leak came from within Witness Protection or the lead agent.
He would worry about them another day. Right now, the sight of her bag packed by the door hurt as much as finding her bleeding on the floor. She was planning to run from him. Again. When they had first started down this road, he had warned her he would follow, but he couldn’t keep a woman like Victoria Calvetti caged. If she wanted to fly… Shit.
He pushed to his feet, stretched the aches from a near-sleepless night. He’d give his left hand for a cup of coffee, but didn’t want Victoria to wake without him. She’d been awake a couple of times, but didn’t remember from one time to the next. She asked repeat questions about Eddie and Nathan, occasionally about her shoulder, which according to her, hurt like a mother and who the hell was in charge of pain management anyway?
Bossy little pixie. He liked that about her. He watched her for long moments as the sun gradually brightened the room. Hair tangled on the pillow, face bruised, covered in bandages and blankets, she was the most beautiful thing. Something in his chest flexed. Trenton would have killed her if someone hadn’t taken him out. It had been too close to call. Protecting her was Blake’s job, and he’d failed.
Chapter Eighteen
The cabbie watched her in the rearview mirror, his dark eyes full of suspicion. Vicki wore socks with blue surgical booties and Manny’s trench over a hospital gown. The left arm swung empty since she was still in a sling. Her hair looked like a rat’s nest after too many days in bed, and she clutched a plastic hospital bag like it was her last possession on earth.
She looked like an escaped mental patient.
She’d checked herself out of the hospital AMA. Against medical advice. Sofia had gone home for bed, bath, and books with Eli, giving Vicki the time and space to bolt. She never missed an opportunity to do the unexpected.
The cabbie, visibly relieved she’d been able to pull a wallet out of her plastic bag, dropped her in front of the Victorian. Wind whipped down the hill, shooting straight up her skirt. Or lack of a skirt. It was near to dark and as cold as a crypt. She’d kill for a hot shower and a real night’s sleep without someone poking and prodding her. She was in a pissy mood.
Blake hadn’t come to the hospital, at least not when she’d been conscious. Sofia gave her the lowdown. Cop. Debrief. Undercover. Blah, blah, blah. He’d spent the first night at her bedside—and wasn’t that sweet, Sofia had asked in a high, false voice—but he hadn’t bothered to show when Vicki was awake or aware.
Everything about their relationship had been full speed ahead until someone was dead.
Then he’d faded into the undercover woodwork. The pain in her chest rivaled the one in her back. Losing Blake would do more damage than a hit man’s bullet. She dropped her bag on the mahogany sideboard, too drained to put things where they belonged. She dropped Manny’s coat on a chair and stripped as she hobbled to the bathroom, leaving a trail of hospital clothes in her wake. The water thawed her weary bones and eased some of the aches, but washing her hair one-handed while keeping the bandages dry involved magic-level contortionism. By the time she’d dressed in flannel sleep pants and T-shirt, she felt like she’d gone three rounds in the ring.
The throbbing in her shoulder radiated from a burning epicenter at her suture site. This was why they hadn’t wanted her to leave, but she couldn’t spend another night in the hospital waiting for Blake. At least here, she could curl up under the covers and have a private pity party.
The couch called her name. Whenever she was sick, it felt better to sleep there, curled up with the TV droning in the background. She grabbed a comforter and snuggled in for the night. The weight of the soft velvet soothed her, but just as she got comfortable, she realized she didn’t have water or her meds, and the pain had reached too-bad-to-sleep level. The knock on the door was one more thing she desperately wanted to ignore. No one knew she was home yet, but Sofia would only worry, and no one could make her go back to the hospital at this point.
She stood, the movement pulling the stitches, reminding her of a desperate need for pain meds. The knocks on the door grew louder and more demanding. Unladylike. Definitely not Sofia. A surge of adrenaline temporarily blocked the pain.
“Open up.”
Blake.
Now he decided to show. She could ignore him. Tit for tat, but he’d keep knocking until she opened the door. Besides, better to pull off the bandage quickly. Break it off with Blake and then take a pain pill, sleep for a week. Bracing for the big kiss-off—the “we had a good time while it lasted” speech—she opened the door.
He stood on her front porch in denim and leather, his hair windblown and his eyes hooded. Jaw tight. Something about muscles bound in leather got her juices flowing. The anger flowing off him sent a spike to her pulse. He pushed through, not waiting for an invite. “Do you have a death wish?”
“It’s been suggested, but I seem to have nine lives.”
“Could be you’ve used them all up. Sully’s still out there, and he has already sent one man to kill you.”
“Trenton failed.” She closed the door and plodded back to her cocoon on the sofa. “And there’s no need to kill me now that Sully has gotten the information he wanted.”
“He might do it for general purposes. You’re a pain in the ass.”
“I try.” Her smirk turned to a wince as she leaned against the couch, aggravating the wound. “Tell me Nathan’s okay.”
“He’s okay.”
“Where?”
“Don’t know.”
“I’m going to need more than that.” She had risked everything to keep her half brother alive. “Trenton said they found the information without my help. Made me think they knew where Nathan was.”
Blake picked up the line of clothes she’d dropped on her way through the house and took them back to the bedroom. When he returned, he dropped to the sofa. He told her about the leak. “Dez and Mick have Nathan. That’s all I know.”
“They’re on the run?” Better than dead, but not much.
“They won’t come in until we find the leak.”
Victoria glared at him. “This is what I was trying to protect him from. The reason I— He doesn’t have any experience with life on the run.”
“He’ll be fine. Mick would die before letting anything happen to the boy.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to Mick the Mountain, either.”
“He knows how to keep his head down. Can’t say the same for you.”
“Takes more than a beating and a gunshot wound to take me out.”
“Probably used up the last of those nine lives.” He squeezed her leg through the blanket. “Took a year off my own life to find you lying in a pool of blood.”
“Should have taken me with you,” she croaked.
“That’s what Sully said.”
“He in jail?”
“Sore subject.” He shifted closer. “No evidence linking Sully to what happened to you or Nathan.”
That was the problem with cops. They wanted actual evidence. A wise guy would simply ta
ke Sully out. “Trenton admitted he worked for Sully.”
Blake thought about it, and then shook his head no. “Not enough to keep him. His lawyers would call your testimony into question, and it still wouldn’t link him to the drugs or money laundering.”
“Too bad.” She straightened the blankets when something fuzzy jumped at her. Paws swatted at her fingers under the blanket. A cat? A kitten, on the smallish side and as black as a mobster’s soul. “Why is there a cat in my house? A black cat?” Bad luck, that.
“Meant to warn you, but you broke out of the hospital before I could—”
“You put a cat in my house.” She glared, tried to shoo the animal off her lap. “You must be the one with a death wish. I don’t own pets.” God, after what happened to the orange cat? Nope.
“Her name is—”
“Don’t tell me her name. What is wrong with you?” Vicki jumped off the couch and felt the movement from her skull to her toes. Every part of her ached. The cat wound between her legs, meowing and raising a ruckus. She backed away.
“She’s just hungry.” He lifted the cat to his lap and ran a hand over the fuzzy black fur.
“Then feed her. It.” Definitely an it.
Don’t get attached.
“I didn’t mean to upset you.” He led her into the kitchen and proceeded to dump a can of cat food in Fuzzball’s bowl.
She would have lost her lunch if she’d had any. “I don’t do pets.”
He gave her a look, raised his eyebrows with a slight smirk. “You had one.”
“Had. Past tense. And that’s the reason—” Tears stung the back of her eyes. She stormed out, retrieved her prescription, and swallowed one down before she faced Blake. “I won’t go through it again.”
He rubbed his knuckles over her cheek. “Darlin’, you’re pale.”
“Last I looked, I was black and blue.” She brushed his hand away.
“Why are you upset?”
“You brought me a cat.” Even she heard the hysteria in her voice. Was the cat some sort of consolation prize? She was two seconds from a complete meltdown. “Why did you buy me a cat?”
