Sweet Danger

by Cheryl Pierson

  "Captain?" Brett pressed, more than ready to turn back.

  Hollowell's voice from the command post up above sounded in their earpieces, breaking the silence of the airwaves. "I've got a 301 here."

  The decision had been made for them by Tabor Hardin. A '301' was a bogus code they’d invented for this situation. It was a distress signal, summoning Ryan back topside immediately. It meant only one thing. Tabor Hardin was calling.

  * * * * *

  Hardin slammed the phone down, a snarl of rage erupting from his throat. Hadn't he told Ryan Lucas he'd better be available when he called? Lucas was deliberately defying him. The communications officer had passed him off to acting chief Bob Drummond, who'd given him a cock-and-bull story about Lucas being taken ill. He didn't buy that for a minute.

  "What's goin' on, Tay?"

  Hardin gave Macklin a quick glance, striding past the two police officers and the kid where they slumped against the stool poles and the front of the counter.

  "That bastard, Ryan Lucas. I told him I wouldn't deal with anyone but him. Now, he's not there. He's sick. Or so they say."

  Macklin shrugged. "He looked like hell when he was in here earlier. All pasty-white—"

  Hardin gave a snort. "Well, Rod, that's why I'm in charge and you ain't. I don't give a damn if he's sick or not. That phone better ring in the next half hour, and it better be him."

  "You're in charge because we all agreed, Tay," Macklin retorted levelly, seizing on Hardin's remark. He reached for a cigarette, his eyes still on Hardin in the darkness. "Don't forget that."

  Hardin took two quick steps, his hand snagging Macklin's arm as he lifted the cigarette to his lips. "Listen, you bloody puke. You're here because I need you right now. Don't tempt me to find a way around needing you. Because if that ever happens, Rod, I'll blow your ass to hell so quick you won't know it 'til the devil says howdy." He let go of Macklin's arm with a dismissive jerk, turning away.

  Movement whispered behind him. Reflexively, he spun around to bring his fist up hard and fast, connecting with Macklin's jaw. Macklin fell back onto the floor, crashing through one of the tables on his way down.

  Macklin came quickly to his feet, squaring off across from him. They stood in the blackness, barely able to see one another's silhouettes.

  Behind him, Hardin heard the children stirring at the sudden noise. "Back off, Macklin," he murmured. "You're edgy, but so 'm I."

  "Edgy ain't the word, Tay. I'm sick of your shit."

  Hardin was silent a moment, measuring his words. "A few more hours, and we go our separate ways, Rod. Can you live with my 'shit' just a while longer?" His lips compressed, then he grinned at Macklin. "It's worth millions."

  Macklin reached to wipe a slow trickle of blood from his mouth. He nodded, finally, his eyes locking with Hardin's in a cold battle of wills. "I reckon I can. Just a while longer, Tay. But I'm ready to get this mess over with."

  Hardin chuckled, relaxing his stance. "Me, too, Rod. Now, if it ain't askin' too much, could you spell Brindle a while at the radio? A few more hours and we'll have us a party…with Mr. Jesse Nightwalker as our guest of honor." His pulse quickened with anticipation.

  Macklin reluctantly grinned, laying a firm hand on Hardin's wrist. "Now, that'll be somethin' to see, won't it? Bet him and that li'l ol' gal been havin' a hot time in there, don't you?"

  Hardin's smile fled. He didn't believe Jesse would indulge. He'd have never thrown them together, otherwise. "No. He won't do that. That's why I left 'em together, see. No," he shook his head as if to dispel his own doubts, "he won't let that happen. Not with sweet little Linden." His expression hardened. "At least, he better not."

  * * * * *

  As Ryan felt himself being half-shoved, half-pulled out of the street grate, Bob Drummond tried to hurry him away, pushing a phone at him as he walked.

  "Call him back. You've got to call him back!" Ryan's legs wouldn't hold him. Drummond and his underling, Simon Reeves, both grabbed for him as his knees buckled. Jim Rogers was suddenly there from nowhere, his arms going around Ryan's waist quickly from behind as they eased him to the sidewalk.

  "Jim?" He tilted his head back to look up at Rogers' broad dark face.

  "Yeah, don't think this means a damn thing, Ryan." Rogers winked. "I'm straight as they come and you ain't my type, anyhow."

  He managed a faint grin. Jim looked plenty worried. Chills wracked him, and the world started to turn dark. Just too damn wonderful. He was not going to be physically able to go back into those tunnels. He looked at the outstretched cell phone as if it were a spaceship, hearing snatches of the conversation buzzing around him, then the unmistakable wail of the ambulance siren.

  "Jim…" His voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

  Rogers leaned in close, a white grin splitting his face as he tried to sound reassuring. "You're gonna be all right, Captain. Paramedics are here to work their magic. Just take it easy."

  Ryan took a deep gasp of air as one of the paramedics fitted an oxygen mask across his nose and mouth. The other one spread blankets over his wet clothes.

  "If you'd waited another five minutes, I'd have been down there with you. Got all the plats and documentation, but it looks like you had some success without me." Rogers peered closely at Ryan. "I take it you found what you were looking for?"

  Ryan nodded, closing his eyes. "It's there, but…"

  Rogers looked at the taller of the medics, concern in his eyes, and apology, as he shook his head. "But what, Ryan?"

  He grasped Rogers' arm emphatically. "There's a door. Bill can show you." He gritted his teeth in determination, willing himself to stay coherent.

  "Here we go." The medics lifted him onto the gurney. His dripping sleeve was quickly rolled up, and a blood pressure cuff strapped around his arm. "Ninety-two over sixty," the shorter medic said, pushing him flat as he made a feeble last-ditch effort to rise.

  The taller of the two noted the reading and gave a shake of his head accompanied by a low whistle. "Get that needle in him."

  Ryan shook his head. "No! I can't leave. Hardin won't believe it." He met Rogers' eyes as the medics looked at each other.

  "Are you refusing treatment, Captain?" one of them asked.

  "Hell, yes, if I…if that's what it takes." He broke off, too tired to say another word. Closing his eyes, he was unable to do more than listen to the ebb and flow of the conversation around him.

  Rogers glanced at the medic and then at his taller counterpart.

  "No, he's not," he answered firmly. He went on as the two put their hands to the gurney once more and began to push, "But, it'll have to be here—in the ambulance."

  Donaldson, the driver, shrugged. "We'll do what we can, but if he starts slipping, we'll have to take him in, Lieutenant."

  "You clear it with me first."

  Donaldson nodded. "Okay. Let's see what we can do for him."

  "How long before he can talk to Hardin?"

  "Half hour?"

  Rogers shook his head. "Can you get him coherent enough for a short conversation in half that time? I don't think we can stall Hardin for another thirty minutes."

  Donaldson looked dubiously at his partner, Miller. "We can try, Lieutenant. Do our best—"

  Rogers nodded. "That's what I need to hear." He squeezed Ryan's shoulder. "Don't worry, Boss." The medics rolled the gurney toward the ambulance, Rogers walking beside them. "You just rest; let us handle everything here for the next few minutes. Get some of your strength back."

  Ryan looked up, seeing the truth in his lieutenant's dark features. Though Jim tried to sound reassuring, he was worried sick. Ryan knew by Jim's expression that he must look god-awful. He wasn't even managing to hold his eyes open.

  "Jesse…" Angry with himself, his eyelids flicked open, then closed again.

  "Just rest, Cap. I'll stall Hardin."

  "You're…in charge. Not Bob Drummond." He had to make Jim understand. Drummond was not a negotiator. Though he had some rank o
n Jim, most of Drummond's co-workers didn't even like him. He couldn't take a chance on Drummond botching things with Hardin. "You, Jim."

  "I understand," he replied, but Ryan could still hear the question in his tone.

  He moved to unclip his cell phone. "You handle things. He won't…won't do the right thing. You know it." He handed the phone to Jim, his fingers feeling oddly nerveless, like blocks of wood. As the phone passed from his hand to Jim's, it began to vibrate. The ring sounded oddly far away. Jim would handle it; his big hand scooped the phone from Ryan's as he looked at the caller ID.

  "I know. I'll take care of it. Don't worry."

  "Don't let them…take me to the hospital."

  "I'll do my best, Ryan." He clicked the phone open as the paramedics bent over Ryan.

  His world faded to black.

  * * * * *

  "Hardin? This is Lieutenant Jim Rogers."

  Rogers! Who the hell?

  "Where is Ryan Lucas?" His words were bitten off in tightly-leashed fury.

  "Lucas is sick. They're treating him in the ambulance."

  "Why don't I believe you, Lieutenant? Hmm?" It was always a damn game with the cops. They could never just do what they were told.

  "Doesn't really matter what you believe—that's how it is."

  Hardin smiled. "Well, Lieutenant, right now your skin is prickling, and your asshole is tight. Quite a gamble you're taking. All or nothing. If I believe your little tale, all is well. If not…it could all end in a matter of seconds. You know there's nothing to be done about it, either way. But, so does Ryan Lucas."

  "Look, Hardin, I'm ready to go home and call this good. Aren't you getting tired of this game? I might get you half the money you asked for, but ten million bucks is a lot of money to raise quick like you're askin'."

  He remained silent for a few seconds, letting Lieutenant Jim sweat it out. Finally, he said, "What's wrong with him? Lucas?"

  "Got the flu—or something." He hesitated before adding, "It's hit him hard."

  Hardin grunted noncommittally. "Five mil, huh?"

  "That's right."

  "How soon?"

  "Seven a.m. was your deadline, wasn't it?"

  "I like you, Rogers," Hardin said, with a hint of sly laughter in his tone. "You're a no-nonsense kind of guy."

  Rogers didn't respond. Instead he asked, "How about releasing the women and some of the children?"

  "No. No more kids. And I need the women to take care of the others."

  "'Take care' of them how?"

  Hardin whooped with laughter. "Well, we got Miss Linden Oliver doing her medical internship with us, Jim-bo. Mrs. Althea Montgomery has so kindly agreed to head up the bathroom breaks and The Hokey Pokey lessons for the brats. So, as you might can tell, they're both occupied."

  "Who all you got in there, Hardin?" Rogers' tone remained low-key.

  Hardin chuckled. "Gonna hit the families up for their share of the ransom, Jim-bo? You can probably get most of it from Governor Anderson. He's got the most at stake here—two brats, rather than one. It's only fair he should fork over the lion's share, don't you think?" He laughed aloud. "All right, I'll play. It's kind of like the United Way Campaign isn't it? Gotta treat everyone equally. You know we've got Caspar and Johnson and Nightwalker. Old Mrs. Montgomery and young, sweet Linden Oliver. Oh, and some young punk goes by the name of Tommy Norton."

  There was a silence from Rogers' end of the line that made Hardin wonder. Then, "That all?" Rogers asked casually. "Besides the kids, I mean."

  "Yeah, that's it."

  "Hardin—I expect the hostages to be kept safe. After all, you're being paid well to return them like you found them."

  Hardin snickered. "I'm afraid that won't be entirely possible, Lieutenant. You see, some of our hostages are already a bit worse for wear. The longer it takes, the harder it is to keep my men occupied."

  "You better string 'em on a tighter leash, Hardin." Rogers pushed, his tone almost commanding.

  "And what of myself, Lieutenant?" Hardin sneered with a trace of petulance. "I plan to alleviate my boredom quite handily before this night is over."

  "Meaning?"

  "I have a long overdue date with Jesse Nightwalker. Midnight is the witching hour, when debts will be settled and Jesse Nightwalker will satisfy his—one torturous hour for each year of my life he stole! He is going to pay, and pay dearly."

  "Hardin—" Rogers began, but was cut off by Hardin's solemn pronouncement.

  "It could be a long, long night for Nightwalker, Lieutenant. But the sooner you bring me the money, the sooner we can all go home. Until then, I will be enjoying my 'games'." Another long space of silence before Hardin added, "And tell Ryan Lucas the next time I call, he better be available. He's the one I want to deal with. No offense."

  Hardin laid the phone gently in its cradle. He stood for a moment, lost in thought. He was getting tired of the games. Nothing had happened as it should have. He was letting his lust for vengeance control everything else.

  It felt damn good.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Jesse couldn't help glancing at his watch again. Time had never passed so swiftly, or dragged so slow. The small cut-glass lamp on the night table provided a dim circle of light. Come on, Ryan. Come on.

  He reached to switch the lamp to the lowest setting. The shoulder wound pulled painfully as he did so, as if to remind him of what was coming soon enough. More agony at the hands of the four convicts. His stomach knotted. Leon Jackson and his box cutter were bad enough to consider, but Hardin…he would enjoy every minute of torture.

  Can I withstand it? He took a deep breath. What choice did he have? He'd take what Hardin dished out as well as he could, understanding his own expendability. The kids were the primary concern.

  What had happened to the rest of their gang? He'd caught bits and pieces of conversation between Macklin, Jackson, and Hardin which led him to believe the others were not in the equation any longer.

  But what the hell happened?

  Nash would know. But he wasn't likely to get a private moment with his son. Maybe Althea Montgomery had been able to find out.

  Jesse lay listening to the sounds around him. Beyond the door, he could hear the low thrum of Hardin and Macklin's voices in relatively calm conversation. That brought a smile to his face, thinking of earlier, when it had sounded as if one of the tables was being pounded into kindling out there.

  Too bad they hadn't killed each other while they were fighting. They must've worked things out.

  He closed his eyes for just a moment, afraid sleep might steal over him. He wanted to remember the moment Nash slipped into his arms, pressing his head into his neck. The silky-fine black hair had reminded Jesse of when Nash was a baby. The fierce clutch of his boy's arms held all the love for him that had never been voiced.

  And Lindy had been beside him. He'd been aware of her unfailing presence and drawn strength from her. He was exhausted—not just from the beating and blood loss, but from the emotional roller coaster ride he'd been on all day. Lindy's presence in all this could be his salvation, or his destruction. His love for her was undeniable. She had been at his side—literally—throughout the entire ordeal. Now, he looked down at her face, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her eyes closed. Watching her, an arrow of guilt and self-condemnation pierced his heart. She trusted him to take care of her, to keep himself alive, to provide them a future they hadn't recognized until today.

  She didn't realize that she was depending on him. She thought she was trying to keep him out of harm's way, rather than the other way around. But he could tell by the way she relaxed into him as she slept, she knew he wouldn't let anything happen to her.

  There was no way he could guarantee her safety. It was just an illusion. His fingers tightened on her arm where they rested, and she snuggled closer into him.

  He would have to think of something to get Hardin to release Lindy and Nash. But, what? He'd seen what Hardin was capable of. Kerry Masefield
and his wife had been mutilated beyond recognition. Jesse pushed the revolting picture out of his mind for the millionth time. With the hours passing, he didn't want to think of what lay in store for him at midnight.

  Lindy lifted her head slowly to give him a sleepy look. He smiled at her. "Hey."

  She rubbed her eyes. "Hey." Carefully, she moved to a sitting position beside him. "Why'd you let me do that? Go to sleep, I mean?"

  Jesse watched her for a moment, his heart constricting. He wanted to give her the world, but he'd have to stay alive to make it happen. He knew Hardin wasn't going to allow that. As the minutes ticked by, he worried Ryan hadn't been able to come up with a plan. He pretty much figured, with the rest of the hostages' safety at stake, he was on his own. He understood, but Lindy wouldn't. Reading the love for him in her eyes, he felt like he was letting her down all over again.

  "You needed to rest."

  She glanced away. "Time for that later."

  Jesse touched a strand of her hair, fascinated by the deep shimmering highlights that blended to make up the auburn color. "Promise me something."

  She nodded, her expression becoming wary at his seriousness. "If I can."

  A prudent response. It left her room to wiggle. He would frame the question so she couldn't. He needed an assurance from her. "When…if the opportunity comes along for you to get out of here, promise me you'll take it." He raised his hand to stop the protest forming on her lips. "Lindy, listen to me."

  She gave him a mutinous look but remained quiet.

  "I have something I want to give you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his key ring. Holding up the first key, he let the others dangle. "This is the key to my truck—blue, Ford F-150 four wheel drive King Ranch package. My parking slot is B-6." He glanced up at her, then continued matter-of-factly. "Truck's paid for…I made the final payment a couple of months back. It's yours, if you like pickups. If you don't"—he smiled at her shocked look—"trade it in on something."

  "Jesse…" She shook her head in denial, but he continued.