Rogers swore. "We can't wait, then."
From above them, Lindy's scream sounded, piercing the darkness around them. Brett immediately raised the door to see again.
"Let's go," Wallace muttered, starting for the ladder himself.
Brett put his hand down in a firm gesture that stopped the others. He glanced back down below him into the blackness, the seven puzzled faces looking up at him.
"Hold up," he whispered. "Looks like the kid has a surprise of his own."
* * * * *
Leon Jackson stood, grinning at Jesse. His blade dripped dark red. "Whoo-ee! Ain't we got fun?"
The gash ran long and wicked across Jesse's chest, the edges of the white cotton undershirt soaking up the arc of crimson. Even knowing it was coming hadn't prepared him for the jolt of liquid fire turning his muscles to jelly for that instant the metal invaded his skin. He sucked in his breath, swallowing back the cry that threatened to spill out as he clenched his teeth. He wouldn't beg. He wouldn't give Jackson one piece of satisfaction. Instead of letting the pain register and show in his expression, he made his eyes hard as granite, his face impassive.
"Can't wait for you to start beggin' for your sorry life," Jackson taunted. A droplet of blood fell to the floor from the box cutter.
"It'll be a long wait, Jackson. When hell freezes over." Jesse managed to sound steady; tried to put Lindy's wrenching scream out of his mind. Of everything that had happened, having her bear witness to his torture was the worst. He wouldn't look at her. He watched Jackson, so he'd know when to expect the next onslaught. Seeing it coming was the only way to keep some kind of control.
Jackson's eyes held Jesse's. He brought the blade close to his mouth, then reached out to delicately lick Jesse's blood from the sharp metal.
Hardin stood nearby, a bemused expression on his face. "Give him another one, Leon." His eyes met Jesse's. "This time, make it across that Indian mug of his. Maybe our sweet Linden won't be so distraught when we take him off her hands for good—if he isn't so pretty to look at."
"No! I'll do anything you want. Anything!" Lindy's voice was breathless and terrified.
Hardin smiled at her.
Jesse knew she had given him just what he wanted.
"In the end, my dear, you will do exactly that, anyway." He turned back to Jesse. "My, my, Jess. She loves you as much as Masefield's wife loved him, I do believe. What was his name?" He gave Jesse a faint grin again. "That rookie, Masefield…"
Jesse's dark gaze shifted to Hardin. Jackson would do nothing until Hardin gave him the green light and he was enjoying himself right now.
"You knew him, didn't you, Jess?" Hardin pressed. "Let's see—was it Jerry? Larry? Barry…?"
"Kerry. You haven't killed so many men that you've forgotten their names, Hardin."
Hardin shook his head. "No. I remember every one of them. All the men…and the women." He took a step closer to Jesse, glancing up at where his arm was chained to the window bar. A smile touched his lips. "Being chained up doesn't suit you, Jess. It didn't suit me, either."
"You killed three innocent people."
Hardin pursed his lips. "Well, two anyway. My sister wasn't so innocent…not after she was fourteen—if you know what I mean." His grin broadened. "And neither was Cindy Masefield. She sure knew how to please a man." He chuckled. "Might say, she died trying. Much like I figure sweet Linden would try…given half a chance."
Jesse clenched his jaw, willing the explosive fury back. He needed a cool head right now. He pushed the throbbing pain in his shoulder wound down, as well as the ache of the deep arc across his chest. Human nature made him want to look down, to see the damage Jackson had inflicted, feeling the burning separation of his flesh. But he couldn't afford to be human—not now. Maybe not ever again. Instead, he kept his eyes on Hardin, ignoring Jackson's eager presence.
"You're not so innocent, either; are you, Jesse?" Hardin cupped his chin thoughtfully. "You might just as well have killed Erica yourself, you know. You'd never give her what she wanted most. You loved being a cop too much to ever quit."
He smiled widely. "But she was proud of you in her own way. At least, that's what I was told. Macklin was with her when she died." He stopped, watching Jesse's reaction.
Jesse's lips compressed tightly for a moment, as he fought back the red tide of disbelief and rage. Macklin? Oh God. No suicide. Erica had been murdered. Murdered on Tabor Hardin's orders. Murdered.
"Oh, you didn't know? I see it comes as a shock to you. After all these years of blaming yourself, you can see things in a whole new light before you join dear Erica, Jesse." He took a step closer.
"You see, now you only have to blame yourself for going to work that night, rather than staying home." Hardin snickered. "You know, Erica begged Macklin not to kill her…begged him, Jesse…but Macklin was always very dependable, until recently. I knew I could count on him. And he got the job done."
"You son of a bitch!"
Hardin laughed. "I've been called worse. I just thought you'd want to know before you died. So, here's one for the memory of your dear wife." He nodded to Jackson. "Work your magic, Leon, and—"
The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked from behind him made Hardin turn slowly, leaving his words hanging.
Nash sat solemnly in the middle of the bed, the .44 pointing unwaveringly at Hardin's chest.
Lindy took a step back, away from the end of the bed, out of Nash's line of fire. Hardin and Jackson stood in the open with nowhere to hide. Nash peered steadily at Hardin from under his black fringe of hair. His eyes were hard as granite.
Jesse thought his son had never looked more like him than he did in that moment.
"Son, you don't want to—" Hardin began.
"I'm not your son."
"If that don't beat all," Hardin murmured. "Jesse Nightwalker's kid gettin' the drop on ol' Tay."
"And, I will shoot you." Conviction filled Nash's voice. No one in the room doubted it. Pride threatened to burst Jesse's chest. But fear was there, too. Nash had better be able to pull the trigger. Five years old. Regret washed over him. This would not have a good outcome, no matter what.
Hardin surreptitiously edged forward a little, and Lindy moved in from the other side a step. She kept her eyes on Hardin as she took another step toward the bed. Hardin licked his lips, starting to inch up, but Nash sat straighter and thrust the gun forward. At that, Hardin checked, and stopped moving.
"Nash, give me the gun," Lindy murmured softly.
Nash didn't answer. Lindy gave him a quick glance, but he didn't take his eyes off of Hardin for an instant.
Jesse watched his son, understanding the inner struggle the boy was going through. He believed Nash would shoot if he had to, but then what? A five-year-old would be no match for a grown man. Yet, he saw no reticence or fear in Nash's expression. Hardin might manage to overpower him before Nash got off a good shot. Jesse had no doubt Hardin would kill Nash in his fit of rage, while he was forced to stand here and watch. Desperate, he pulled at the manacle and felt something in the casement begin to give way.
The bar had moved!
Keeping an eye on Nash, he pulled again and felt it loosen even more.
Leon Jackson suddenly gave a snarl of anger and began to walk steadily toward the bed. Nash moved the gun to point it at Jackson and in that instant, Hardin started forward, too.
There was a deafening roar as Nash pulled the trigger.
* * * * *
Lindy anticipated the recoil of the gun would be too much for Nash's inexperienced hands. She dove behind him, catching him as he was jarred backward, still holding tightly to the handle.
She grabbed for the .44, at the same instant Tabor Hardin did. Her hand touched the hot barrel, and she flinched back, then put her other hand around Nash's small brown one. But, in the next moment, Hardin was atop her.
Lindy became a she-cat, clawing at his face, using her elbow and fingers of her left hand to poke and gouge at him as she franti
cally held the gun—and Nash's hand—away.
"Almost…you little bitch…" Hardin muttered under his breath, his pale eyes fired hellishly as he laid across her, roughly grappling for the gun.
From somewhere far away, Lindy could hear the terrified screams of children. Voices…shouting…
Jesse, Jesse, where are you? Her mind raced even as she felt Hardin's fingers close around hers, trying to wrench the .44 from her grasp. Glass shattered, and she flinched instinctively, even though she knew the sounds meant help was finally here.
In the next instant, Hardin's hand clamped around her wrist, and he gave a triumphant shout. He wrested the gun from her completely, his snarling face only inches from hers. Then, she felt the still-warm gun barrel jammed against her own temple, smelled Hardin's fetid breath, and knew she was about to die.
"This is going to be messy, sweet Linden," he whispered. "Say goodbye."
* * * * *
Just as his son pulled the trigger, Jesse gave a mighty yank on the bar, pulling it completely free of the window casing—along with one to the side of it. Although Nash had managed to hit Leon Jackson in the side, it hadn't stopped him—had barely even slowed him down. In a fit of animal rage, he went straight for Nash, jerking him from the bed and flinging him across the room. Jesse still held one of the bars in his left hand. Jackson started after Nash again, and Jesse swung it, bringing it down hard across Jackson's head.
Jackson went to his knees, shaking his head as he tried to clear the stars away.
"I've got him!" A SWAT officer yelled, knocking Jackson flat to the floor and straddling him, as another came to assist.
"Jesse!"
Lindy.
He whirled to see Hardin on Lindy, the gun at her head.
"Hardin! Come for me!" A moment of lightheadedness hit him, but Jesse shook it off. He stood unmoving.
Hardin yanked Lindy up from the bed, the gun steady at her temple.
Lindy squeezed her eyes shut. Jesse could see the metal bore of the pistol pressed tightly against her scalp, Hardin's fingers gripping her shoulder, his arm circling under her chin like a vise.
"You smell good, Lindy," he whispered, inhaling deeply. "Like honeysuckle and wild roses."
Lindy shivered.
Hardin chuckled in her ear, but he watched Jesse the entire time. "Look at your lover, sweet Linden."
Jesse stood still, his hands at his sides. He clutched the bar tightly in his left palm, red-hot anger surging up inside him. Erica was dead because of Hardin. Could he keep Lindy safe from him? Adrenaline pounded through Jesse's veins, making him want to throw caution to the winds, but he couldn't. Of all times, he couldn't do that now.
"I'm the one you want, Hardin." He tried to force reason into his voice, but he knew there was no way he could hope to bend Hardin to his will. He had nothing to offer, and Hardin had nothing to lose.
The room had gone silent but for the sounds of labored breathing as the tension mounted to the breaking point. The SWAT team took positions behind Jesse, their guns trained on Hardin.
"Well," Hardin drawled, "this is what you call a Mexican standoff." He smiled at Jesse. "You gotta know this can't end good for you, either way…right, Jess? I am gonna kill you. Question is—will sweet Linden be going with you?"
"You don't need to kill her. Take me." Jesse's throat went dry as he watched Hardin toy with Lindy, running a thumb over her skin, breathing deeply of her scent. It was the worst kind of torture he could have imagined. He couldn't bear the thought of losing her. Not to the likes of filth like Tabor Hardin. Not at all. "Take me."
"Ken Oliver's daughter." Hardin gloated. "How about that?" He raised the gun a fraction, and Jesse saw in his eyes that he was going to end it.
"Hardin. Your beef is with me—not Ken Oliver and his daughter. You afraid to finish it?" Jesse's voice rose tauntingly. "Well done is better than well said. Make your move."
Suddenly, Hardin turned the gun on Jesse. "See you in hell, half-breed!"
The blast was deafening. Despite being ready for the shot, Jesse didn't move quite fast enough. Hardin's lead ripped through his side, a stabbing finger of hot fire, excruciating, stealing his breath.
Lindy fell to the floor, blood spraying her as Brett Lanham's simultaneous shot from the trap door took off the back half of Hardin's head.
The men in the tunnel swarmed up through the trap door, the ladder miraculously holding as they made their way up into the deli and began to secure the building.
Jesse ignored the trail of aching heat in his side as he closed the distance between himself and Hardin. He nudged Hardin's body over, turning him face up. The blood drained from Hardin's head, pooling on the floor.
"Jesse! Are you all right?" Ryan grasped Jesse's arm firmly, searching his face.
Jesse nodded wearily. "I'm okay. Thanks, partner." He put a hand down to Lindy and pulled her up from the floor. She sagged against him, as if allowing herself one moment of weakness, as his arm came around her in support.
"Where's Nash?" she asked in a shaky voice, looking up at Jesse.
He was already scanning the room, his face scored deep with lines of pain and worry. He started toward the wall where Jackson had thrown his boy. Nash had been okay because he had sat up, crouched, ready to take on Leon Jackson like a man. Jesse's throat tightened as he thought of what his son had done. It wasn't easy to pull a trigger on another person—no matter who they were. It was something that many police officers had trouble doing. Yet, Nash had taken on an adult. Although he'd been afraid, Jesse remembered only the determined granite in his son's eyes. Where was he now?
"Nash!" He went through the door, ignoring the throbbing in his head that matched the rhythmic ache of his shoulder wound, and now, his side. Fresh crimson stained what was left of his undershirt, soaking the chambray outer shirt as well. "Nash!"
As he burst into the lobby of the deli, his eyes were assailed by light everywhere. The children had all been hustled out, and Brindle McAdoo lay dead against the curb in front of the deli.
Jesse walked on, hearing bits and pieces of conversation flowing around him like a river.
"…thought he was Butch Cassidy or somethin', coming out the front door with his guns blazing like that."
"…Lucas? I thought you were at the hospital…"
"…good kill—sniper got him between the eyes!"
"…took off the back of Hardin's head—"
"Who?"
"Brett Lanham. Helluva shot!"
He glanced at the front of the bar where Caspar and Johnson had been chained; where Jennifer Riley had given birth to her baby and died; where Tommy Norton had become a man.
There was no sign of any of them, other than a chilling amount of fresh bloodstains and a matching pair of handcuffs that lay beside the counter stools. He bent slowly and picked them up, putting them in his shirt pocket.
His gaze was drawn to the street once more as he made out the figures of the mayor, the commissioner, and Lindy's father coming toward the door. At the same moment, he felt Ryan beside him, Lindy behind him. He turned to face her and saw she carried Nash in her arms.
Nash's face was pinched. He needed comfort only Jesse, as his father, could give him. He reached to take his son from Lindy, and as Nash came into his arms, Jesse knew one true thing. Superman had nothing on him. He was invincible, now.
Chapter Thirty-One
Jesse pulled Lindy close to him, heedless of the blood and slivers of glass in his clothing. He held Nash with his right arm, his left encircling Lindy's shoulders. He felt her tremble beneath his touch, and her arm came tentatively around his waist. He glanced down at her. "I'm okay, Lindy."
She shook her head. "We're going to the hospital."
"What for?"
Lindy rolled her eyes. "To make sure I got the lead out right and the patch job holds." She looked at Nash's worried face. "Are you sure you're okay, Nash? It might be a good idea to have the doctor look at you, too." She brushed Nash's bangs back with
a tenderness that made Jesse take a deep breath.
Nash stoically shook his head, sounding a lot like Jesse when he spoke. "I'm okay, Miss Lindy."
Lindy turned her gaze to Jesse again, her message clear. Do something.
"Uh, well, big guy…maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to get checked out," Jesse said uncomfortably, knowing what was coming next.
"And you, too?"
He laughed, defeated. "Yeah. Me, too." The ache in his side turned into a harsher, burning pain. It felt as if the bullet had gone through clean, but the way it hurt let him know the wound might be more serious than he first thought.
Ryan stumbled beside him, and Jesse stopped, waiting as he regained his footing. Jesse glanced over Nash's head at his old partner. Ryan looked like hell, but he'd come through for Jesse, just as he'd predicted. Jesse swallowed hard as their eyes met.
"Thanks, Ryan. I owe you."
Ryan managed a grin. "I hope that's one debt you never have to repay. You scared the hell outta me, partner."
"You always say that," Jesse retorted, and Ryan chuckled.
"Because it's true. This was the worst yet."
"Lindy!" Ken Oliver approached them, stopping in front of his daughter. He held his hands out to her, and she slipped from Jesse's embrace into her father's. "Honey, I was so worried!" he whispered, pulling her close to him.
Lindy smiled as he held her away, looking at her as if to be certain she was unharmed. "I'm fine, Dad. Really."
Jesse met her eyes. "Maybe all three of us should get cleared."
Lindy nodded at his subtle reference. She gently pulled free and touched Jesse's arm. "Do you know my dad?"
Jesse put his hand out to shake Oliver's. "Yeah, we've met…long time ago."
"I remember you, Jesse." He nodded at Ryan. "Lucas, good to see you."
"Nightwalker!" Charles Norton pushed in beside Ken Oliver, offering his hand. Jesse shook it, hating the way Norton pumped up and down furiously—a true politician's grip.
"They say Tommy's going to be fine! He was trying to protect those policemen—crazy kid. He'd have been safe if he hadn't tried to intervene." Charles Norton heaved a deep sigh and looked up into Jesse's questioning expression.
Sweet Danger Page 24
