Sweet Danger

by Cheryl Pierson

  "Why, Linden?" Hardin's lips turned up.

  "Your word, Mr. Hardin. Jesse…" she faltered, then went on, "Jesse says you're a man of your word."

  He shook his head. "No, sweet Linden. You lay your cards on the table and I'll decide. It's all or nothing, but I do hold the trump. Just no getting around that."

  "I'm the only hostage you need," she said after a moment. "The others will just slow you down, but I don't want Jesse—or anyone else—hurt."

  Hardin stood watching her, puzzlement still in his expression. Finally, he asked, "What makes you so important that I don't need anyone else? Who are you, sweet Linden?"

  Her heart pounded like the wings of a caged bird against her chest as she looked into the face of evil. She had no choice. She'd told Jesse the truth—just not all of it.

  "I'm Ken Oliver's daughter."

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Ryan watched intently as Officer Tim Yancey worked with the tricky door lock. The young policeman carried a kit that contained everything he needed to pick a lock, but the water and dampness had worked on this particular one through the years, rusting it. It took him twenty minutes of coaxing, manhandling, and tickling to get it open.

  "Twenty minutes," he muttered. "Unheard of in my family."

  "Time we don't have," Jim agreed.

  "It probably wouldn't have mattered in this case," Yancey said, turning the handle. "Twenty minutes earlier, the water was just under the door handle. It barely cleared the lock."

  With the water still a good two feet deep, Yancey, along with three of the others, shouldered and prodded the door open on protesting hinges. The murky water rushed into a long-abandoned basement area below where the deli stood. Flashlight beams played off the walls.

  Ryan quickly laid a finger to his lips. He thought, moments earlier, he'd heard a short burst of gunfire, but it was too faint to be sure. He kept his purpose in mind, but thinking about what that gunfire meant, if it had been gunfire, was a significant distraction.

  Standing nearly knee-deep in the swirling current, the seven police officers remained motionless, listening for any hint of noise above them.

  Directly under the deli now, there was no margin for error. Ryan held his breath, worried the brief groaning of the door hinges and the rush of the water would be enough to alert Hardin and his men something was amiss. Could they hear it up there? Did they know about the tunnels?

  "Voices," Brett Lanham whispered.

  "Sounds like Jesse," Jim muttered.

  "What's he saying?" Wallace cocked his head, listening for more details with every tense muscle in his body. "'Lindy…no—'?"

  "Yeah, that's what I thought, too," Ryan said, giving Wallace a quick look. "What the hell is going on up there?" He started forward once more, an instant before Wallace's hand came down on his wrist.

  "Easy, Cap. Take it slow. This all depends on a cool head."

  He nodded, a reluctant grin touching his lips.

  "Captain—I see the door!" Terry Little's beam traced the dim outline of the trap door, a thin edge of light outlining it from below.

  "Thank God, old man Silverman was right!" Lanham whispered. "It's not very big, though. Two of us could probably get up through there initially, but after that—"

  "Yeah," Jim mused. "After that, we'd be sitting ducks if we tried to come up through there, if we didn't get a couple of Hardin's men with that first surprise."

  "Captain Lucas, I'd like to go in first," Lanham said quietly. "That ladder…" he nodded toward the rusty steel ladder hanging from the wall, "it looks like it's had it. It won't hold two of us at once. May not even be strong enough to hold one of us."

  Ryan didn't want to say it, but he'd seen the fear in Lanham's eyes earlier. He wasn't sure he could entrust this mission to the young officer. Ryan knew also, even with the meds they'd given him, he might not be able to climb the ladder. It looked a mile high.

  Lanham was the lankiest of all the men he'd brought, besides himself, and he didn't feel ready to tackle it just yet. Brett was the obvious choice.

  Finally, Ryan gave a slow nod. "All right, Brett. But don't forget for a second what's riding on our success down here."

  Lanham shook his head, already wading toward the rusty iron ladder. "No, sir. I'll remember."

  * * * * *

  Tabor Hardin threw open the bedroom door. The incessant ringing of the phone grated on everyone, it seemed. He smiled to himself. Such a small thing—a phone ringing. But he was the only one with the power to stop it. He strode to the counter and yanked the phone out of the cradle.

  "Lucas?" he grated into the receiver.

  "No. Not Lucas. This is Captain Steve Denton."

  Hardin frowned. Steve Denton. Not a name he was familiar with. "Got my money, Steve?"

  "Workin' on it, Mr. Hardin." The tone was not over-confident, but not nervous, either. Hardin's frown deepened.

  "Why are you wasting my time if you don't have what I asked for?"

  "We're both caught in the middle. I'm trying to figure out a way we can get everyone out of this jam, including you and your men, with no more bloodshed."

  He chuckled at that. "Well, don't you bother your head about it, Stevie-boy. We'll take our chances. I doubt you're worried too much over me and my men anyhow."

  "Do you need anything?"

  "My money, dammit, and a helicopter, just like I told Ryan Lucas before." Idiots.

  "Hardin, why don't you let the women and children go?" There was something naggingly familiar about that voice. Instinct told him something was not right.

  "I'm getting damn tired of that suggestion," he flared angrily. "I'm in charge here! I'll let them go—or not—when I'm damned ready!"

  "Okay. You're right. We're just trying to ease this thing up a little. Everyone's tired and—"

  "What's your stake in this, Steve-O? Hmm? What's got you so worried?"

  There was silence on the other end for an incriminating second too long, before Ken Oliver answered, "It's my job. I'm a facilitator."

  "You mean a 'negotiator,' don't you? And from the way I see it, there ain't nothing to negotiate. Or 'facilitate'—whatever you want to call it."

  "Hardin, you're the only one who can end this. Do yourself a favor and call it quits. Let it be over now. You can say the word, and—"

  "Let me talk to Ken Oliver."

  Silence, again; a silence which let Hardin understand what he had—exactly who he had—on both counts.

  "You've got him, Hardin."

  Hardin chuckled smugly. "I've got your daughter, Kenny-boy." The silence hung between them. "Hard to believe she's yours; your wife must have the looks in your family. She sure is pretty."

  "She better stay that way, Hardin—safe and unharmed."

  "Threatening me, Oliver?" he asked mildly.

  "You better believe it. You hurt her, I'll kill you an inch at a time."

  "I don't think they'll let you do that, Commissioner. You're sworn to uphold the law, no matter whom it protects."

  "Ex-commissioner. I'm not sworn to anything anymore."

  Once again, there was a brief, taut silence. "Be straight with me, Oliver. Where's Ryan Lucas?"

  "He's here, but incapacitated. He has pneumonia. They've got him re-hydrating in the ambulance." Oliver paused. "I'm sure he'll be with you as soon as he's able. You're the only reason he's here, rather than in the hospital."

  "You be honest with me, and I can see we'll get along fine. Tell Lucas all I'm waitin' on is my money. Then he can go to the hospital or hell for all I care."

  "When he's able," Oliver said steadily, "you can tell him yourself. Meanwhile, I'm working on your money. And that's all you really care about, isn't it?"

  "What's taking so damn long?"

  Hardin heard Oliver's deep breath. "I just need some time."

  Hardin laughed softly. "It's running out, Oliver. Running out."

  * * * * *

  Lindy turned to Jesse. He watched as her gaze shifted upward to
the bar where the cuffs held him in place. The acceptance was plain on her face. No way out. Leon Jackson held the keys to the handcuffs, and the bars were fixed tightly in the window frame.

  Jesse leaned against the wall as she came close to him. She reached up to touch his cheek. He stiffened for a moment, his emotions warring. They didn't have enough time for him to stay angry.

  "Lindy—" He pulled her to him with his right arm, his lips crushing hers as he tried to pour all his love for her into her body. He finally lifted his mouth from hers, his eyes caressing her, drinking in the sight of her for all the time that might be left to them.

  "Why did you do that?" he asked in a low tone. "You just signed your own death warrant."

  Lindy swallowed tightly. "You told Tommy earlier that some of us won't make it."

  "Yeah, but I didn't mean you."

  "Is that gun loaded?"

  Jesse looked at her warily. "Yeah, it's loaded. But remember McAdoo and Jackson will be out there with all the other hostages. Now that you've started this, it would be best to bargain as many of the hostages out of here as you can."

  "I'm bargaining for all of you, Jesse."

  The determination was etched in her features, in the set of her shoulders and the stiff backbone. He loved that about her. But he had to stop her this time, for her own good.

  "What about—our baby, Lindy?"

  She tensed.

  "There's a good chance you could be pregnant," he continued quietly.

  "So you said before." She looked away, toward where Nash slept on the bed. "But Jesse, no matter what, you'll have Nash."

  Jesse shook his head. "Trust me, Lindy. Ryan will get us out of here. You shouldn't have told Hardin who you are."

  She turned swiftly to face him once more, desperation and anger flashing in her eyes. "You mean, I should have told you who I was, don't you?"

  "No," he replied levelly. "Because I don't give a damn that you're Ken Oliver's daughter, but you can bet your ass Hardin does!"

  Lindy was speechless for a moment, absorbing the shock of his barely controlled fury. He was sorry, bitterly sorry, that he'd allowed the anger to take over at this point. But it was bound to happen—when two people cared for each other as much as he and Lindy did. This situation was hopeless. He could see she was going to do it; there was no stopping her now that she'd started it. "I'm getting that gun, and I'm going to use it!"

  She turned away from him. "Why can't you understand? I have to do this to save you! To save Nash—and the others. There's no time—don't be angry with me, Jesse—please."

  "No." Jesse shook his head. Suddenly, the anger was gone. All that remained was an emptiness in the pit of his gut where the hope for a future should have been. "I'm not, Lindy. I love you too much for that."

  Before she could answer, Hardin stormed back through the bedroom door. "Just talked to your father."

  Hardin stopped in his tracks, eyeing Lindy. His gaze roved over her lingeringly before he made a slow pivot to look at Jesse. His lips quirked. "Don't tell me you've had your first lovers' spat and I missed it!" He shook his head. "Now, what could've happened here to make you argue…with so little time left?"

  He raised his brows, leering at Lindy. "Was he angry you offered yourself as a sacrifice? Taking a tumble with his archenemy could prove disastrous to a relationship, if there was ever going to be one. Which there isn't. As I said, there's simply no time."

  He watched Jesse thoughtfully. "No. You'd be big enough to overcome that, wouldn't you, Jess? Had to be something more." He rubbed his chin, perplexed. "Something more."

  Jesse gave a disdainful snort. "You'll figure it out in time, I'm sure. Genius that you are."

  Hardin closed the distance between them. Jesse turned to deflect the uppercut, but Hardin anticipated his move and compensated. The blow landed hard, and Jesse staggered, bringing his right hand up slowly to wipe the blood away from his lips.

  He grinned at Hardin, a knowing light showing in his eyes. "My, aren't you grim, Tay. Is it all getting to you a little bit? Not working out like you thought?"

  "Shut up, you filthy half-breed."

  "You're a hypocrite of the first water," Jesse murmured.

  "Least of my worries right now, Jess." Hardin glanced at Lindy who stood halfway between him and the bed. "And yours."

  Jesse's chuckle was caustic. "Convenient. And so like you."

  "What the hell're you talking about?"

  "I'm talking about Lindy. Look, Hardin," he took a deep breath before he went on, praying Lindy wouldn't get all independent on him again and think she knew best. This was a true, last ditch effort on his part to save both of them. He only hoped she had the good sense to go along with him. "I'll level with you. Lindy and I—we have been together before tonight. You were right about that."

  "Slept together?" Hardin flexed his fingers as if he wanted nothing more than to land another punch squarely in Jesse's face.

  Jesse glanced down at the floor, making the look in his eyes convincing. Then he met Hardin's icy stare. "Yeah. Slept together. And…you were right about something else."

  "What would that be?"

  "A baby," he answered, calculatingly. "Lindy—she's pregnant. And the baby's mine."

  Hardin's head swiveled quickly toward where Lindy stood. She sank her teeth into her lower lip and averted her eyes, as if she were afraid of what he might see in her expression.

  "Is that true, sweet Linden?" Hardin rasped harshly. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his teeth clenched tightly.

  "What if it is?" She turned to face him fully, her dark eyes flashing.

  "Ah," he smirked, the smile returning once more. "This is how I prefer you, my dear. Angry. Protective. Fierce. I like my women to fight." He lifted a brow. "Perhaps…you have heard."

  Jesse knew he had to press the point home. Hardin was intelligent in a cunning sort of way, but Jesse knew he couldn't leave this connection to chance. He needed to map it out unerringly, so Hardin would have to be confronted fully by what it would mean if he took Jesse's life.

  By now, Jesse had figured the sordid reasoning for bringing Nash in with them. Hardin planned for Nash to witness what was going to happen to his father…or he planned for Jesse to watch his son die. Though Hardin had an inexplicable reverence for children, his mind was so twisted Jesse couldn't claim to understand his reasoning—but he knew exactly what he was capable of.

  "The point, Hardin, is that you always spout your shit about parents claiming their kids—doing right by them. But you don't mean it."

  Hardin's eyes narrowed. "You can't possibly know. I have done some good in this world."

  "I can't do right by the baby—or Lindy—if I'm not here." It was a long shot that Hardin would give a damn one way or the other about a child who had yet to be born, but Jesse had to try. He pushed the desperation back, remembering how coldly remote Hardin had been only this morning when Jennifer Riley's life's blood drained away. He'd be even more antagonistic toward Jesse, hating him as he did—and Lindy, if he wanted to hurt Jesse by extension. "Lindy'll have to raise the child alone. As a single mother. Pretty much—like your mother had to raise you," he added, walking the fine line of Hardin's temper.

  But Hardin just grinned. "Jess, you are going to die; just no getting around that. You sure have tried hard, but it's not gonna work."

  "So, you don't care how you affect the lives of these children," Lindy interjected.

  "I haven't hurt any of 'em," Hardin answered coldly. "Get off your 'damn high horse."

  "I'm not talking about the other kids! I'm talking about my baby…and Nash." She took a step toward Hardin. "Or did you have something else planned? Why did you bring Nash in here, anyhow?" She stood, staring hard into Hardin's pitted face, revulsion in her eyes.

  "You planned to kill him, didn't you?" Her voice was soft, filled with wonder. "All your talk of 'doing right' by kids…and that is what you planned for an innocent little boy."

  Jesse's gut twisted, hearing
Lindy voice aloud what he'd silently figured. Oddly though, Hardin didn't deny it; he looked decidedly uncomfortable under Lindy's bold stare.

  She shook her head, pityingly. "How sad. You must have been terribly lonely. Must've missed having a father so much."

  "Shut up! Shut up!" He reached out to push Lindy away from him as if he’d accidentally let her too near, providing her the ability to look inside him. "Leon, get in here! Hurry it up!"

  Leon Jackson burst through the door on the run. "What is it?"

  "I pay you to use that blade of yours"—he threw Jesse a furious glare—"so get started and make it slow. We're gonna take our time and enjoy it." He turned to Lindy. "I've waited a long time for this, sweet Linden. You are not going to rob me of exacting payment for those five years; I don't give a damn if you are an ex-commissioner's daughter. This will be me, having my cake—and eating it. Just sit back and watch the show." His lips twisted in a caustic sneer. "I'll deal with you later."

  Chapter Thirty

  From the murky darkness below, Ryan looked up to the dimly-lit area where Brett Lanham clung to the rusted metal, his lips compressed. He hung precariously on the frail ribbon of steel, the edge of the trap door eased up a fraction so he could hear. Another half an inch, and he'd be able to see, as well. But Ryan suspected he didn't need to, yet. By the look on his face, Lanham knew what was going to be taking place very shortly.

  He gripped the ladder and eased the trap door up another half an inch, his shoulder muscles straining. He glanced down at Ryan, lowering the trap door slowly. "Jackson and Hardin are in there, along with Lindy Oliver and a young boy. Nightwalker's cuffed to the bars in the window."

  "Where are the others?" Ryan asked. With only two of the convicts in sight and not knowing where the others were, there was no way to make an effective rescue attempt. They weren't even sure exactly how many they were dealing with. If Jackson and Hardin had time to raise the alarm, the others could do significant damage in the main part of the deli.

  "What's Jackson doing?"

  "Playing with his knife. Dancing around like an orangutan on speed."