Capture the Night

by Cheryl Pierson

  She stopped, as the thought skittered through her brain and slid to a halt, like a penny tossed against a curb. When had she come to care for Johnny Logan? She forced her feet to continue on the path to the door. There was no denying the thought was true. She did care for him…more than she should. She angrily shoved the notion aside.

  She didn’t need any complications. At that, she wanted to laugh. No complications, aside from the fact that she was hiding from terrorists on the roof of a hotel with a wounded man she barely knew. No complications—like caring too much.

  She realized she’d reached her destination. Something was…changed. Was this the place? She came closer to the door in the dim light.

  Where was the blood?

  Slowly, she sank to her knees in the very spot where she had knelt beside Johnny earlier; where she’d cut and pressed the folded swatches of his shirt against the flow of crimson… The floor had been wet with it, the doorknob sticky. She reached to touch the freshly-cleaned metal of the door knob. There was no smear of it there, or on the wall where she’d watched him lean and slide down. He’d lain there but a few seconds before she’d gathered her courage and gone to him. Even so, in the short interval she’d waited, he’d bled, and the floor beneath him had been smeared with crimson when she’d helped him up.

  Her fingers lingered on the cold concrete, remembering… reliving. She could feel it, warm and sticky on her fingers, her palm, covering the beige-colored floor.

  And now, there was no trace of it. Only the same clean odor of Comet hung in the air.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  “Go home, Pete.”

  Pete’s head jerked up at the sound of his captain’s voice behind him.

  “There’s nothing you can do. One more officer won’t make that much difference—and your brother may not even be in there.”

  “Have they made…any demands yet?”

  Captain Carter’s eyes narrowed. “Not yet. Did you hear me?”

  “Yeah.” Pete finally turned to look at Carter. “Yeah, I heard you, Ray.”

  “I’ll radio for Holcomb to give you a lift before he starts his shift. You…wanna go to your place, or over to the Santiagos’? Someone’ll have to tell Ana. It’s…really Norick’s job, but if you want… Well, I’m sure Levi would rather it came from you.” He nodded, as if the matter was settled.

  Pete looked away. “I—can’t leave. Someone else’ll have to do it.” His voice was brusque.

  Carter’s head came up. “I’m telling you to go home, Officer Logan. Is that clear?”

  Pete nodded. “Yeah. It’s clear.” He looked at the sky. No more helicopters. Only stars. And the moon. Everything looked blurry for a minute. “But I can’t do it, Ray. Can’t go.”

  Carter stood, perplexed. He hooked a thumb in his belt. “Pete, you know it’s standard operating procedure—”

  “Fuck that, Ray!” Pete yelled, rounding on him. “Fuck all that—” he waved his hand in frustration, “that ‘standard operating procedure’ bullshit! My partner is dead, my brother’s in there with those motherfuckers, and you’re trying to send me home? Forget it, Ray, cause I ain’t goin’!”

  Carter heaved a deep sigh and leaned an arm against Pete’s slowly smoldering patrol car. A few pieces of the windshield fell into the floorboard.

  “You left out something.”

  Silence lay between them; then, Pete sullenly asked, “What’s that?”

  Carter nodded at the smoking propeller shaft. “You were about four inches away from cashing in tonight, too.” He was quiet a minute. “Some men would be pretty edgy over that, alone…not to mention—everything else.”

  “I’m okay,” Pete said gruffly.

  Carter shook his head with a sardonic laugh. “You’re so much like Johnny it’s unbelievable.”

  “I’ve been told.”

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  The captain’s lips turned upward in a faint grin. Pete and Johnny were alike in about every way possible—good and bad. And Carter, having been Johnny’s partner when he’d first come on the force more than twenty years ago, knew them all. Pete didn’t fool him for a minute.

  “All right, Logan, all right. You can stay—but don’t you try anything…anything…well, anything.” He pointed a finger in Pete’s face. “You got it? First hint of that Latino temper of yours, or you gettin’ some crazy hero ideas, you are gone, Officer. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Carter reached into his shirt pocket for a smoke. “Been trying to quit these damn cancer sticks for the past two weeks.” He nodded toward Pete. “I was doing a pretty good job of it until this thing happened. I just went from three a day to three an hour in the space of one day’s time.” He drew out a pack of Kools and tapped one out, then offered one to Pete. Pete shook his head.

  Carter fished a disposable lighter out of his pants pocket with a grim smile. “I’ve tried all the tricks—keepin’ the cigarettes in a different place from the lighter—all that crap. Can’t fool your brain when the stress hits.” He lit up, then laid a hand on Pete’s shoulder. “You sure you’re okay?”

  Pete nodded. He glanced back to where Levi’s covered body lay. “Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t, Captain.”

  Carter gave a caustic snort of frank disbelief. “Don’t screw with me, Pete. The only reason I’m not insisting you leave is because I don’t want those bastards seeing us fighting amongst ourselves.” He nodded at Pete knowingly. “This is just what I expected from you. I could have you forcibly removed, you know.”

  “It also wouldn’t do you a damn bit of good, Ray.” Pete’s tone was steady. A promise. “I’d find a way to get back up here. However I had to.”

  Carter nodded, took another drag and blew it out. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. I partnered with Johnny for five years—before he began working undercover.” He gave Pete a hard look. “You’re every bit as hardheaded as he is, Pete, but I’m still the captain. So, like I said, don’t you get crazy. I’d hate to have you escorted off these premises—but I’ll do it, if I have to.” He watched Pete for a moment before he added, “And I’ll have you locked up for your own protection until this is over.”

  Pete’s look turned icy. “I don’t doubt it. Sir.” He turned and walked away, raising a hand to motion for the paramedics who had just been let through with the gurney. They began picking their way in his direction.

  Carter watched as Pete bent to touch Levi Santiago’s arm in final farewell, then gently helped lift him to the gurney.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  Sorley O’Brian took his time coming back down to the lobby. He was starting to get hungry, and thought of going to the kitchen for a bite to eat. But, although death and killing didn’t bother him overmuch, he didn’t look forward to having to eat among the bodies. By now, it would be a stinkin’ mess, for sure. Still, he was hungry.

  And he needed a few moments to think. He had not liked what had passed between Kier and himself earlier. He knew Kier didn’t view him as an intelligent man, and maybe he wasn’t. Not compared to Kieran McShane, anyhow. But he was loyal. Loyalty should count as much as smarts, in his book. Kier might be the brains behind every plan they’d ever had, and they had been successful, no doubt of that. They were still here, still alive. But hadn’t much of that success been due to him, Sorley O’Brian? Kier couldn’t do it all singlehanded, now, could he?

  Kier couldn’t do a lot of things—things he depended on Sorley and the others for. But mainly, Sorley. Sorley was the sniper. He knew everything about firearms, past and present. Weaponry was his passion, his purpose. And he was good at using every kind of killing device known to man.

  Alan Farley and Terry Latham were newcomers to their band, but had proven their mettle. The woman, Eileen Bannion, was the one he had trouble with. He suspected Kier was banging her, but had never asked. Despite all their years together, dating back to that fateful day in fourth grade when Sorley had championed and defended Kier, pounding another b
oy so severely he had to be hospitalized, Kier still did not discuss certain matters with him. His sex life was one of them.

  Yet, there was something about Eileen that Sorley did not trust—not only for himself, but for Kier. How often had he looked at her, watched her—watching Kieran. The expression on her face was not that of a woman looking at her man. It was not even that of a friend. It was the resolved look of a killer stalking her prey.

  Sorley headed for the elevator. The restaurant was only two floors up from where he’d gone to shoot the helicopter. He smiled to himself. It had been a good shot. He had every right to feel proud. He chuckled, thinking of how the other choppers had turned tail and run. After he ate, he supposed he ought to start going through the rooms, searching for Eileen.

  He supposed Kier might have put her to doing something covert. Kier didn’t tell him everything, because he thought Sorley wasn’t smart.

  He understood a helluva lot more than Kier thought, though. He understood that Albert Pickens, the Prime Minister’s man turned traitor, was going to have to go. He pressed the “up” button and waited a few seconds until the doors opened, and the cheery “ding” sounded.

  Pickens was a terrific liability, and Sorley was surprised at Kier for even taking him on—especially as late in the plan as he had entered. Kier was usually a lot more careful. But Sorley knew he hadn’t had time to check out Pickens as thoroughly as he should have. The fact that he was a member of Brendan Roberts’s guard had Kier jumping at the chance to muster him in. It would be Sorley’s job to dispose of Pickens, when this was all over. They could never use him again.

  The elevator doors closed, and he pressed the button, trying to rest his mind for a moment as he rode up. Pickens would be easy enough to deal with. He was still technically one of Roberts’s secret intelligence agents. Sorley would talk to Kier. Arrange for Pickens to be in the next group of hostages to go down. He was dangerous.

  As he stepped from the elevator, he turned toward the kitchen. It was as he’d thought. The stench of death hung over the hallway and pervaded the restaurant as he entered. But, he picked his way over the bodies, through the spilled blood and food, and shouldering the kitchen door open, he went inside.

  Something…something was…different. Wrong. He looked around the room for any sign of life, his nose wrinkling in disgust. Slowly, he walked to the huge refrigerator, and pulled the door open. Nothing, he thought, scanning the shelves of food. Not unless he wanted to cook.

  He pulled back, shutting the refrigerator door, and started for the stove, seeing the pans on the surface. He stumbled on the outflung arm of the chief chef, and let go a curse.

  What was wrong, here? Something. Something. The pans contained an array of dishes in various stages of cooking. Though some of them were still hot, none of them were completely cooked.

  Yet, someone had turned off the stove burners.

  He whirled and strode purposefully to the oven. Inside were two cakes—not done. They had been started, then turned off.

  Every burner in the kitchen, as well as both ovens, had been turned off. What was going on here? He turned the power on to the oven, and felt the heat start to build. He turned it off. Then he went back to the stove and reached for the front dials, turning two of them. The flames snapped to life. He turned the dials off again, his appetite suddenly gone.

  He looked around at the bodies. Pickens and Latham had covered this area, and done it well. There was nothing—no one—left alive here. And he doubted very seriously if any of these poor sots would have thought to turn off the burners as they died.

  Eileen? Had she done it? She’d been missing for most of the night. Once again, Sorley wondered what she was doing, and determined to go look for her. If she hadn’t been the one who turned everything off, they had a problem.

  Even so, Sorley thought, a live person, just one, couldn’t cause too much trouble. He smiled. Whoever it was, he was probably hiding in one of the rooms, shaking in his boots. Probably a waiter they’d missed.

  Sorley licked his thick lips in anticipation and went back out into the hallway. He pulled the master key from his shirt pocket, inserting it into the first door at the end of the hallway.

  Let the hunt begin.

  Chapter 8

  Johnny had hated letting her go, but someone had to clean up the blood, to protect them. He could barely lift his head, after that little trek from the door. What was the use? They had about as much chance of surviving this as… He was sorry for Alexa’s sake, more than his own.

  She had tried to take good care of him, and for that, he was grateful.

  All he wanted was to just rest, maybe even sleep a little. Get away from the pain. And then, when she came back and started cutting on him, maybe he’d be better able to hold it all in. He didn’t want to scare her, any more than she already was.

  Who was he kidding, anyway? He’d be damn lucky, the way he already felt, if he could just manage not to embarrass himself—keep quiet, and not put them in any more danger by being too vocal when the pain took over.

  Where was she? Johnny tried to bring his wrist up to look at his watch, but he was just too damn tired. He shivered as a hard chill shuddered through him, and he clamped his teeth together. He couldn’t remember ever having been more miserable in his life, and with that thought, was instantly grateful for the bed once more. He didn’t remember pulling the quilt up over him, but there it was. He shifted under it, the thigh wound screaming as it made contact with his jeans. He tried to pull the thin quilt closer around him, but couldn’t.

  He felt Alexa push it up next to his body, laying his jacket over the top of it for added warmth. She must’ve brought it back with her after cleaning up. They’d forgotten it earlier…

  “Thirsty,” he muttered.

  “Here.” A hand reached to support his head, and he felt the can of beer being pressed to his lips.

  “You said…one drink…Lex. Don’t…” He took a drink anyway, unable to resist the lure of the cold carbonation.

  “One more won’t matter, Officer Logan.” The voice was low and raspy. And male.

  Johnny fought to open his eyes. He stared hard into the shadows, trying to see the man’s face, the owner of the quiet voice, but he couldn’t manage it. His eyes closed again. It was no use. He heard the beer can return to the floor, felt the quilt snugged about his shoulders, and listened for nonexistent footsteps. The languorous sleep he’d fought off claimed him at last, and he slipped into the darkness, unable to stop his descent, his last thought of Alexa. He couldn’t help her now.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  “Damn it, I’m fair starved!” Kieran McShane reached to click off the television.

  Brendan Roberts supposed McShane’d seen enough for now. He was not getting as much coverage as he’d hoped for. Part of that was his own fault for having O’Brian blast one of those frenzied media choppers out of the sky. He hadn’t sent his demands out yet, either, Roberts mused. It was past time for that. As if McShane felt Roberts’s thoughts, he turned his gaze to where he and his agents sat, silent.

  “What are we supposed to do for food?” His bland gray gaze rested just a moment too long on Albert Pickens, who was already as nervous as a sugar cube in a downpour, Roberts thought.

  Pickens cleared his throat. “We could…order a p-pizza.”

  McShane’s eyes widened, a mocking smile on his lips. “A pizza! Oh, dear Lor’, Mr. Pickens suggests a pizza!”

  Roberts turned slowly to look at Albert Pickens. How had McShane known his name? He supposed it could’ve been when they had supposedly rousted him from his room earlier and dragged him down, after forcing him to witness the slaughter of the kitchen employees and restaurant patrons. McShane might’ve done his homework—maybe he knew all of the men hired to protect Britain’s politicians and the Royals. But it was damn unusual, his knowing Pickens’s name like that.

  “Who do you think will be allowed to bring us our pizza pie, Mr. Pickens? What pizza delivery boy will
risk his life for seven dollars an hour to bring us our dinner, hmmm? Someone from Pizza Palace? Crazy Crust? What’s your pleasure, sir?”

  Pickens looked uncomfortably at McShane, then toward the other hostages seated on the floor. “I doubt they’ll send the real delivery man, Mr. McShane. They’ll probably send in a police officer with it.”

  Roberts’s eyes narrowed. Some of the others in the group on the floor sucked in their breaths, and Roberts knew they’d already thought the same thing, but hearing it voiced by one of his men did not sit well with any of them. Several of them were glaring at Pickens for his outspokenness.

  “That sounds like something they’d do!” McShane responded sarcastically. “Those clever devils. And what’ll we do with him? Kill him, as an example?”

  “Hardly,” Brendan Roberts said, glaring at McShane. “At least, not if you want to order pizza again. You can see how well that worked as far as helicopter coverage goes, eh?”

  McShane laughed. “Quite right, Bren. Quite right. Pretty crafty for a bastard Limey, aren’t you? No, we’ll have to take very good care of our police officer delivery boy, won’t we?”

  He turned to Alan Farley, a bemused smile on his lips. “Call it in, Alan. Enough for all of us. A full hostage is a happy hostage, you know. Oh, and order some beverages as well. I don’t want to go fetch anything from upstairs. I imagine it’s fair reeking by now.”

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  “Captain, wiretap reports they’re calling in twenty pizzas from Pizza Palace along with bottled pop. The delivery person told them they don’t have cups and ice available, but finally agreed to provide them once the situation was…explained properly.”

  “‘Explained’ how?” He was sure he already knew the answer, just needed to verify.

  “One of the hostages was killed as he begged the delivery person for cooperation.” The young officer wet his lips. “The body will be ‘deposited’ at ten hundred hours, sir. From an upstairs window.”