by Debra Webb
“What makes you think I know all there is to know about you?” he asked, changing the course of the conversation.
Soon the EMT would arrive and there would be no more time for talk.
“Wait a minute,” she argued with a husky laugh. “The question was about you, not me.”
The uproar inside him instantly began to settle at the sound of her voice, soft and fragile, yet immensely warm. This was the first time he’d heard her laugh. He liked it. Full, rich, not that silly tinkling sound most women made. Coming from such a slender, vulnerable-looking waif it took him entirely by surprise.
He swung his gaze to hers. “I didn’t know about Dr. Anderson.”
“Please,” she protested with a dramatic roll of those lovely eyes. “I told you, we’re friends. And, to be honest with you, he’s not even a doctor. He’s a med student.” At his skeptical look she quickly added, “But he is in his surgery rotation. And we are only friends.”
“Not from the gentleman’s perspective.” Keith Anderson wanted her. His interest was quite clear. Somehow that realization had disturbed Cole. Ridiculous, he knew, but true. He didn’t like the way the young man looked at her. Admittedly, Anderson’s age and occupation were more suitable. Cole was much too old, his work far too dangerous.
What the hell was he thinking?
“Cole…” A little hitch in her breathing, the one that unsettled him so unreasonably, disrupted her intake of breath. “I’m sorry. Danes,” she amended.
The pause that followed went unanswered. He knew what she wanted. Proper etiquette insisted that he assure her that she could call him by his first name if she liked. But Cole had never been one to adhere to anyone’s etiquette.
“I made it a rule a long time ago,” she went on despite his flagrant snub, “not to get involved with anyone at work. I learned the hard way that things aren’t always what they seem.”
She didn’t say more but she didn’t have to. As she’d alluded, he already knew most everything. She rarely dated and nothing came of the few efforts at socializing she’d attempted since her child came into her life. Cole suspected she either had a problem committing or hadn’t met anyone interested in a ready-made family.
“My daughter is the top priority in my life,” she noted aloud, confirming his conclusions. “I can’t imagine my life without her.”
Something about the way she said that last statement drew his eyes back to her. So damn young, barely twenty-five. A three-year-old daughter and all alone, except for the aunt she adored.
Cole swallowed at the uncharacteristic lump of emotion clogging his throat. How was it a woman so seemingly fragile survived in such a tough world. Especially when faced with men like Howard Stephens and Errol Leberman. He couldn’t imagine the fortitude and courage required coming from someone so young and inexperienced.
Angel Parker had no idea just how cruel the world could be. She had not and likely would not ever know the harsh realities he had looked dead in the eye. She could not possibly imagine what Stephens and Leberman were truly capable of. Her experiences had merely scratched the surface. And yet, here she sat fully prepared to do whatever it took, to face anything necessary to keep her aunt from harm.
“You have no idea the level of danger you are in at this very moment,” he offered, unable to hold back the words.
She blinked those long lashes a couple of times to disguise the fear that flickered in her eyes, but he saw it just the same. “Yes, I do. That’s why I bought the gun. I was afraid…I knew I couldn’t do this without help.” She stared down at her hands, her fingers twisted together nervously. “I don’t want to be a victim anymore. I want this over.”
That was just it. No one wanted to be a victim.
But every day, every hour, every damn second of each minute, someone became a victim in one way or another. The only way not to be a victim was to do as he had. No attachments. No close contact on a personal level at all. Complete focus on one’s mission. Nothing else. Even basic human compassion was a weakness.
People like Angel Parker weren’t built with the necessary equipment to turn everything and everyone off. For that very reason, she would always be susceptible.
Not like him.
If he died this second no one would care. He doubted if even his parents would mourn the loss of the son they’d actually lost ten years ago. They had grieved for one son. Cole had ensured that they would not grieve for another. He’d taken himself out of the equation, lived for only one purpose.
Revenge.
He had not confessed that truth to anyone, not even himself until now. His father had realized the task he’d taken on and that was part of what kept Cole away.
The irony was that here, in the darkness, a fragile woman he’d only just met, made him feel the one thing he’d sworn never again to suffer.
Need.
An error of monumental proportions.
Her life, the life of her aunt, depended upon his ability to do what he did best.
Forge ahead without distraction, without care for anyone or anything else.
Somehow, in the past few hours, a seemingly insignificant space in time, she’d taken that advantage away from him.
And he had no idea how to get it back.
For the first time in more than a decade, the vaguest glimmer of uncertainty crept into the cold, unfeeling pump that pulsed in his chest.
He almost laughed. His punishment, he concluded. God had taken his time, but the moment had finally come. Cole Danes would now stand in judgment for all his cruelties. For his lack of compassion, for his relentless determination to rid this world of scum like Stephens at any cost.
A hell of a time to reap what he’d sown.
The most amusing part was that he’d stopped believing in God about the same time a vital element had gone missing in his damaged heart. Accountability. Another human weakness he had triumphed over. Yet even he had to admit that his current predicament was far too ironic to be the result of mere fate.
Just his luck.
Cole reached into the glove box and withdrew the compact 9mm he’d taken from her that first night. “Keep the safety on until you’re prepared to shoot.”
She accepted the weight of the weapon into her small, delicate hands. A deep, ragged breath accompanied her visual inspection. “I’ve never shot a gun before.” Her gaze locked onto his. “I’m not at all sure I can.”
A self-deprecating smile stole across his lips. “You’ll do what you have to when the need arises.” He had little doubt in that department.
“Shouldn’t he be here by now?” she asked, shifting her gaze to the house they’d come here to watch.
“Soon.” The EMT’s shift at the soup kitchen had ended twenty minutes ago. Cole suspected his arrival was imminent.
“How can you be sure this man—” She stopped and turned back to Cole. “Do you know our target’s name?”
Cole didn’t see the harm in sharing that information. “The man who died yesterday was Anthony Rice. Our final target, the man who visited your home and who continues to call, is Wyman Clark.”
“How do you know he’s the final target? What if there are more?”
Clearly she hadn’t thought of that until now. “There could be others working for him but he’s in charge.” Clark was Cole’s final target. He was the last of the original team involved with…the murder of Cole’s brother and his family. When Clark was dead he would be finished. “If we take him down, the entire organization will collapse.”
“There’s an organization?”
“In a manner of speaking,” he allowed. The details were of no consequence—a waste of time to discuss. An explanation would only lead her back to the question he had no intention of answering.
“But how can you be sure Clark hasn’t already tracked down the EMT? Maybe he went to the soup kitchen.”
“Miss Parker,” he used her surname in an effort to keep things on a formal level, “I didn’t allow him that opportunity. By the time Clark trac
ked down and interviewed the first EMT who was on duty, which would be the first, most logical place for Clark to start looking, the other man would be leaving his volunteer work at the soup kitchen.” Cole glanced at the digital clock. “He should arrive home any minute now.” He placed a tiny wireless communications device in his right ear to ensure his uninterrupted surveillance when the need arose for him to exit the vehicle.
Angel’s prolonged silence made him uneasy. She was smart. He didn’t need her figuring out the things she wouldn’t understand.
“Oh my God.”
Too late.
“You planned all of this, didn’t you?”
A hint of terror tinged the words uttered with a kind of disappointed disbelief.
“Now is not the time to discuss strategy,” he said, infusing his tone with a cold, calculating brutality. He trained his gaze back on the house.
“The guy who died didn’t tell you anything, you only want Clark to think that. All of this…every moment was choreographed by you.”
Any sign of fear, disbelief or disappointment had vanished, only unadulterated fury remained.
“Keep your voice down.”
“To hell with you,” she snapped. “What are you going to do? Let Clark go in there and hurt this guy for information he doesn’t even have?”
Any response he gave at this point would be unacceptable.
He did the only thing he could…the only thing that would settle the matter once and for all.
The barrel of his weapon came to rest against her forehead before she could launch her next tirade.
“Shut your mouth,” he warned, wiping any emotion, real or imagined from his mind. “Don’t say another word. I won’t let anything get in my way.”
Her fingers tightened around the weapon in her lap but he knew she wouldn’t use it. She lacked the essential ingredient—a heart of stone. Unless provoked by what she presumed to be the true enemy she wouldn’t pull the trigger. Even then he wasn’t so sure she would overcome the deeply engrained instinct.
At that precise second he discovered an unexpected glitch in his perfect plan. A rip in his long-standing impervious armor. In light of what he recognized just then, he had to admit that maybe it would have been better if she had used the weapon. Anything would be preferable to what he saw in her eyes and the power that discovery wielded. The glow from the moon provided ample illumination for him to see her initial shock fade to a combination of extreme disgust and dislike.
Headlights in the distance shattered the tension-filled moment.
Cole turned his attention back to where it belonged. He clenched his jaw against the alien emotions that tightened in his chest. What she thought of him was of no consequence. It would be best for all involved if she hated him, which he imagined would be the final outcome of their association…assuming either of them survived the night.
The compact car advancing toward their position slowed for the turn into the driveway. Cole visually identified the make of the vehicle beneath the beam of the streetlight as it swung into the drive. The EMT.
Clark wouldn’t be far behind.
Cole’s anticipation moved to the next level.
Time to finish this.
Lights came on inside the EMT’s house.
Angel’s impulsive move was abrupt and swift, but not swift enough. Cole snagged the arm closest to him before she had managed to open her door.
“Let me go!”
“Don’t move,” he ordered softly. “Clark will be close.”
“You going to shoot me?” She peered up at him in abject disdain. “Well, go ahead.”
He moved his head slowly from side to side. “You don’t want to force my hand, Miss Parker.”
“I don’t believe you’ll do it.”
With one flick of his thumb he disengaged the safety of the weapon. “Are you sure about that?”
For two excruciatingly long beats he thought he had her, but then she proved him wrong.
“Yes.”
She jerked out of his hold. The door opened and she was out of the car in one fluid move. “I’m not going to sit here and let this man die for you.”
He’d set the interior lamps to off, but even in the near darkness her determination was crystal clear.
“Not even for your aunt?”
She shut the door without answering.
Cole swore as she hurried across the street.
He had no choice but to watch for Clark. He couldn’t make a mistake…not even to protect her.
No matter how badly he wanted to.
Angel pounded on the front door until the EMT opened it. He looked startled to have someone at his door this time of night.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said quickly, scared to death Clark would arrive before she got inside. If he did, she was likely dead…unless Danes intervened and she wasn’t sure he would—not if it put his mission at risk.
“I remember you,” the big, burly EMT said. For the life of her she couldn’t remember his name. “You’re the lady from the shoot-out.” He frowned, peered past her shoulder, his posture going from confident to nervous. “Where’s that guy who was with you?”
“Can I come in?” She had to get inside. Lock the door. Now! “Please,” she urged when he didn’t look compelled to offer the invitation.
He shrugged. “I guess so. What’s this about?”
He closed the door behind her. “Do you mind locking it?” She could only imagine how that request struck him.
“Look, lady, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I’m beat.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “I got the shower warming up. Whatever you and your friend are involved in, I don’t want any part of it.”
She heard the water running somewhere down the hall. He just wanted to be left alone. Boy, did she know how that felt. But it was too late, he was in this.
“I don’t know how to explain.” She hugged her arms around her middle. She’d tucked her gun into the waistband of her jeans at the small of her back. She hoped she wouldn’t need it. “Anything I say is likely going to sound crazy, but you’re going to have to trust me.”
He lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Lady, after what I saw your friend do, nothing would surprise me.”
She moistened her lips and tried to smile, it didn’t work. Her lips just wouldn’t make the transition. “The man who was shooting at us—the one who got away,” she explained, “is coming. Here.”
His uneasiness hitched up a notch. “Why? What does he want?”
How would she ever control this guy if he didn’t believe her? He was far bigger than her. No way could she strong-arm him.
“He wants to know what his friend said before he died.”
The EMT choked out a laugh. “Well that’s easy. He didn’t say anything. His voice was all garbled.”
She nodded. “I know, but you have to understand, the man coming doesn’t know. He believes his friend said something that you can tell him.”
The EMT held up both hands stop-sign fashion. “Lady, I’m calling the cops.”
What should she do now?
“You know—” she followed him into the kitchen where his phone hung on the wall “—under normal circumstances I’d say that’s a good idea. But, I’m afraid that won’t help.”
He hesitated, his hand halfway to the receiver. Just then, for some reason she probably would never understand, the whole scene hit her from a new perspective. Here she stood, in this man’s kitchen, trying to make him believe a story no one in their right mind would believe. He was just a regular guy with a job that put him in contact with lowlifes from time to time. He lived alone it appeared. His house was cozy, decorated in an old-fashioned way, as if maybe he’d inherited the place from his grandmother. And he had no idea that in the next few minutes he could die…probably would.
“You tell me what the hell’s going on here.” He advanced on her.
Angel held her ground, hard as that proved. “This man is a kill
er. He wants anyone involved with the shooting dead,” she told him, giving him the abbreviated version.
“Then we need the police,” he urged, desperation rising in his voice.
“No,” she said softly. If only it were that simple. “What we need is a miracle.” She thought of Danes. Tears burned in her eyes, but she blinked them away, leveled her gaze on the man standing before her in hopes he would see the desperation in hers. “But lately I’ve been having a little trouble believing in miracles. So, I think maybe it would be best if we got out of here.”
His mouth opened but before he could speak a heavy knock rattled the front door.
She pressed her finger to her lips.
The terror that shot through her was reflected in the EMT’s expression.
She grabbed him by the arm and moved silently into the hallway that adjoined the kitchen as well as the living room. The short corridor was dark but she followed the sound of the running water. A dim glow lit the small bathroom. Inside she closed the door and tried to lock it but the latch didn’t work.
“It’s broken,” the EMT muttered.
Another pound on the front door.
“Look.” She faced him. “He knows you’re in here. Your car is in the drive and the lights are on.”
“We shoulda called the cops,” he whispered frantically.
A loud bang and the splintering of wood warned that Clark was coming in.
The EMT muttered a curse.
“Get in the shower.” She shoved him toward the curtained tub.
“What?” he gasped.
“Get in. Hurry,” she whispered.
He climbed into the tub. She climbed in right behind him and slowly pulled the curtain closed, painstakingly slowly so the metal rings glided across the chrome rod without making a sound.
She reached back and drew her weapon.
She spread her feet apart as best she could and held the weapon just the way the guy at the pawnshop had shown her. Hot water sprayed down on her but she ignored it. The EMT had moved to the far end of the tub, had pressed into the corner as far as he could. That was good.
She listened intently, trying to hear above the hiss of the water. If he opened the bathroom door did she fire then or wait until he drew back the curtain?
