Capture the Night

by Cheryl Pierson

  “You think it’s wrong to want something good to come from this? To want to be happy?” He tried to choose his words carefully. “Come here.” He reached up for her, and she settled against him in the small space. There was barely enough room for them to lie together, even with her head on his shoulder.

  “No. I’m afraid, though,” she whispered. “I’m afraid of wanting it too much.” She moistened her lips, squeezing her eyes shut. “I want this more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my entire life—for this nightmare to be over, for us to be safe—and together.”

  Johnny took a deep breath. “That’s what I want too, Lex. That’s what I was talking about earlier—”

  She put two fingers to his lips. “Let’s see how we feel when we’re out of here, Johnny. When we’re free, with no more threat of the terrorists or the bombs. When you’ve had proper medical care—”

  “When we can go to a proper restaurant and talk about proper, normal things—”

  Alexa laughed softly. “Yeah. I guess that’s what I’m saying. Will you still feel the same way about me when I’m not the only woman available—”

  “And I’m not the only man?”

  “Well, I do have a choice—you or Daniel.” She shuddered, and he pulled her closer.

  They were quiet for a moment, then Johnny said, “He’s got my cell phone, doesn’t he?”

  Alexa nodded against him. “I followed him out of the tubing, onto the roof. He called his brother.”

  “Shit.”

  “Why does it matter so much?”

  “It may not,” Johnny answered. “But if McShane and his men have even half the technology they’re purported to have, some kind of a comm monitor would be imperative for them. A tracking device.”

  “So, if Daniel calls from up here on the roof, they will know he’s here? And…us.”

  “Not likely,” Johnny muttered. “They may not be so far on the cutting edge.” But, they probably were. “Could be they’ll just be able to track the number and know it’s mine.”

  “Know you’re a police officer?”

  Oh, yes. McShane would find out everything he could about that number—and the person it belonged to. He was thorough, if nothing else.

  Reluctantly, Johnny nodded. “Yeah. I imagine he’ll know everything about me in a few short hours, if my number comes up on his monitor.” He let his fingers trail through Alexa’s hair, loving the texture of it, as he loved everything else about her. “Lex?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Why did he need my phone so bad?” He felt her stiffen against him. “Was that part of what you aren’t supposed to tell anyone?”

  “He says he needs your phone so he can call his brother when he ‘gets to feeling shaky’.” She told him, then, of Daniel’s illicit trip “down below”, to the nearby Bobby’s Burgers, and of his murdering the two young men. “Johnny, you—you were right not to trust him from the very beginning.”

  “Yet, he’s kept us safe,” Johnny mused. “Hard not to trust someone who’s gone to the lengths he has to protect us.”

  “You knew, though. He’s dangerous.”

  Johnny smiled and rubbed her neck in weary playfulness. “Intuition. Couldn’t’ve survived being a cop this long without it.” The smile faded as he became thoughtful once more. “Hope he doesn’t ‘get to feeling shaky’ again before this is over. They’ve already discovered that someone’s living up here…and they’ll be back…at some point.”

  “Then what?”

  “You know what. We’ve about run out of hiding places up here. Hand me the gun.”

  Alexa struggled up, careful of Johnny’s wounds, managing to turn and snag the weapon. Gingerly, she transferred it to her left hand, then passed it to Johnny.

  He took it from her, relieved to have it near again, even though he knew six bullets wouldn’t be enough, most likely, to buy them the kind of time they would need to escape. Especially with him slowing Alexa down.

  The pistol felt different. Lighter… Almost like it was…empty. A fist gripped his chest and squeezed, but he managed to keep his breathing calm, steady. Alexa lay down again, and snuggled her head under his chin. Slowly, he raised the weapon behind her, out of her view, and thumbed the barrel open.

  Chapter 23

  Sorley O’Brian made his way back down the hallway to the elevators. Killing Farley and his group had been easy. O’Brian smiled, remembering the way Alan Farley’s eyes had widened in shock as he had put a hand out toward the barrel of the smoking gun, trying to push it away, to deny what was about to happen.

  “What’re ye doin’, Sorley? God’s teeth man, don’t be fuckin’ around like that—”

  O’Brian had smiled and pulled the trigger three more times, just as Farley had decided it truly was no joke, and had gone for his own pistol.

  Tsk tsk…Farley had been lax. He should’ve already had his weapon at the ready. After all, he had hostages to guard. O’Brian shook his head as he trudged to the elevator. Farley hadn’t learned. You never knew who your enemy was—not really. That was a lesson Sorley had learned from the time he and Kier were in the lower grades. But Kier and him, they’d always be tight. Kier had taught him all he knew of soldiering. Aye, he had a tough hide and a quick fist, but Kieran McShane had the brains. And he’d chosen him, Sorley O’Brian, his right hand man. Sorley would never disappoint or question him.

  He followed orders to the letter, with no argument. Of course, there’d be no reason to argue over killin’ those two, he thought, pressing the down button.

  Latham—Latham had been a bit more prepared for him. Sorley sighed, stepping into the elevator. Latham had had his gun out and ready…had helped him murder the group of hostages who sat on the floor facing the wall. They’d gone down like lambs…but Latham had had a crazy gleam in his eye that Sorley recognized. Blood lust was hard to mistake.

  He’d been laughing like a damned hyena. Sorley had waited a moment, hoping Latham would lay his gun down. But he kept waving it around while he did his happy dance. O’Brian gave a snort at the memory. Absently, he wiped the specks of blood from his hand. He’d had to kill him at close range—a messy business, that.

  Wet work usually didn’t bother him, and today had been no exception, but with most of the killing over and done, he’d like to shower and put on clean clothes.

  He’d report to Kier, then go upstairs to his room to freshen up and change. After that…maybe he’d go back up on the roof…scout around…see what he could see. Maybe he’d take the SAMS with him—put some real fear in those damn coppers out front.

  He grinned as the elevator door opened, and stepped inside.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  Pete had felt the brittle tension in the girl’s body. She’d tried to shrink down to nothing, hoping McShane wouldn’t take note of her. Damn unlikely. Pete recalled what Traci had told him of how McShane had threatened her. With the other female hostage gone, there was no doubt McShane would make good his threat.

  Pete’s hand had lay on Traci’s leg, and he moved it away, casually, as if he were still sleeping. His eyes were so swollen that it didn’t take much to make the scenario seem authentic enough. He knew McShane was headed their way, and it had seemed, as Pete looked up at Traci, that she was watching her own doom approach.

  Pete peered at McShane through slitted eyes. There was nothing he could do to help Traci.

  But just as McShane stopped, standing over them, grinning that damn wolf’s grin of his, Eileen Bannion had inexplicably risen from where she sat at the bar and started toward him. She’d “tripped” on the edge of the Oriental rug, landing in Kieran McShane’s arms as he’d turned toward her at the very last moment.

  Pete knew that her pratfall had been timed to divert McShane’s attention from him and Traci. Eileen was trying to help them, but he’d be damned if he understood why.

  Watching her had been like watching a skilled stage actress. She never missed a cue, and she took in everything… even seeing where a bit of ad lib
was required. Could it be she was jealous of McShane’s attentions to the girl? Somehow, Pete didn’t think so. Twice, he’d noticed a sort of animalistic glint in Eileen’s gaze as it had fallen upon McShane. Not the kind of a look you’d ever give your lover—unless you were a black widow.

  No, Eileen had a purpose for what she did. For everything she did. And observing her told him one thing. Her reasons were not McShane’s.

  Now, Pete sighed, tightening his fingers around Traci’s in silent comfort. His head pounded.

  Whatever had set this in motion, there was no stopping McShane’s fury, unleashed on Eileen, and Pete marveled at her skill in handling him. McShane gripped her hand tightly, forcing her back to the barstool she’d maligned as the cause of her clumsiness.

  “Suppose we return to your duty station, m’dear, and see how—loyal—you actually are, hmm?”

  Pete watched as she stumbled again, McShane’s grip like a vise around her arm, his mercurial anger hot in his eyes.

  “Kier, give me a chance to explain—” Her fingers went to the controls, but McShane pushed her hands away.

  “Wait!” McShane’s exclamation echoed imperially throughout the lobby. “Let’s see the number.”

  Pete watched, as, for a split second, Eileen seemed to freeze, her smile becoming brittle.

  “Where is it?” McShane demanded abruptly.

  “I—I guess I must’ve done something—”

  “You bet yer sweet ass you did! You erased it! Damn you, Eileen! Damn you! Ye’re as fuckin’ stupid as yer bastard brother before ye’!” He slammed his palms down beside the monitor, shaking the entire bar.

  There it was again. That flash of pure hatred, just as quickly masked. Pete watched as Eileen struggled to keep from saying something. She bit her lip and lowered her eyes, and Pete knew she was hiding the murderous rage that threatened to overcome her.

  Her brother. It seemed the mention of her brother had triggered the reaction Pete was watching—not the fact that McShane had gone into one of his notorious tantrums over a mistake she’d made.

  “Would you have wanted Farley and Latham aware of everythin’, then?”

  “You didn’t know what I had in mind!” He raised an angry fist, ready to slap her, but Pete started off the sofa, pushing Traci out of the way.

  “Oh, yes. I knew.” Eileen met his eyes, refusing to cower.

  “No, McShane!” Somehow, Pete managed to stand, his head spinning as if he’d been on a three-day cheap drunk. Traci’s hands were steadying, but he shook her off, trying not to jerk his head too quickly.

  McShane and Eileen both turned to stare at him, incredulous. Eileen’s pale features were gaunt and hollow under her dark, close-cropped hair. She looked exhausted, but so grateful to him, that Pete knew she was used to taking any abuse Kieran McShane dished out. Again, he couldn’t help wondering why.

  Eileen Bannion, while no raving beauty, was attractive enough to garner her own fair share of attention. Was being part of Kieran McShane’s entourage worth so much to her?

  As Pete met McShane’s glower, he knew he had to talk fast. He was ready to collapse, and there was nothing solid to hold on to.

  “Don’t—Don’t hit her! You’re beating a woman. You’re—supposed to be—to be a man. Act like it, why don’t you?” Pete reached for the arm of the couch and lowered himself on unsteady legs back into its welcoming softness.

  Whatever McShane said in response sounded like an angry bee buzzing in his head. He couldn’t make out the words. It didn’t much matter, anyhow, at this point. He had nothing left. He sank back into the comforting cushions, his head resting against the leather, feeling like he could dissolve into the buttery softness if he allowed it. Only, he couldn’t do that. Not now. He figured he’d pissed McShane off bad enough that any moment he’d be the recipient of the punishing blows meant for Eileen Bannion.

  “Here! Here, Kier, I think I—I can remember the number, maybe,” Eileen said, holding up a staying hand.

  Pete knew Eileen had drawn the attention back to herself, away from him. Why? The thought occurred to him that perhaps she was a plant—a spy…why else would she allow McShane to treat her like he did? Why else would she play this dangerous game—a game that could end in her own death if she pushed too hard?

  “And the name? Would that come to you as well, my sweet?”

  Cat and mouse. McShane was a master at it. He had a secret, Pete sensed, and was only waiting for the perfect moment to spring it on her. Did she recognize that as well? Surely, after being with him as long as she had, she would know what he was all about. By the tremulous note in her voice when she spoke, Pete knew she did.

  “H-Here, Kier. The number is two-three-two—” she moistened her lips before continuing. “Nine-two-four-three.”

  Pete’s pulse jumped and raced. Johnny’s number! Was he alive, then? In the next instant, he realized that the number Eileen had read was not his brother’s, after all. It was one number off—with a “two” where there should’ve been a “three.” But was that the true number? Had she been mistaken? Or, had she done it on purpose—given McShane a wrong number for her own purpose…

  One number off. One number different.

  Pete’s kept his eyes closed, determined not to give anything away, should Eileen be able to keep up the ruse, if that’s what it was, and not some miraculous coincidence that the number she spouted to McShane happened to be someone else’s number. Someone other than his brother. Anyone, other than his brother. Because that would mean Johnny was dead, and this caller had lifted his phone…was using it to call someone on the outside.

  Pete tried to slit his eyes open. He managed it, but couldn’t lift his head. He shifted on the couch to relax his neck, lowering his head gradually until he looked across the few feet that separated him from the bar.

  Eileen Bannion’s gave McShane a guilty glance as he looked from her to Pete, a sneer on his lips.

  “Well, pet. What do you know? The miracles of technology, and all that. I guess I forgot to tell you about this little key…the recovery program. Just in case you accidentally delete something…or forget a number. Let’s listen to the conversation shall we?”

  He smiled widely as the taut greeting between ‘Danny’ and ‘Ronnie’ was exchanged. His expression never changed throughout the course of the conversation. When they’d said their goodbyes, his head swiveled, his gaze boring into Pete. “Look at that, will you?”

  He turned the screen around, as if he thought Pete could actually see it from where he sat, even if he hadn’t been seeing double of everything he looked at.

  “I’m afraid…I can’t read it, McShane,” Pete muttered. “I seem to have…a small concussion.”

  McShane grinned, and then began to laugh. “Oh, Peter. I’m glad to see you’ve retained your sense of humor.” He stalked toward the couch, leaving Eileen and her betrayal forgotten for the moment. Pete watched him come, hating the flash of fear he saw in Eileen’s face, the sneering laughter on McShane’s. Finally, the Irishman stood in front of Pete, his thumbs hooked in his belt.

  “Logan,” he enunciated succinctly. “John T.”

  Pete’s heart pounded, the adrenaline rushing through him like speed. His lips were dry, and he despised himself the moment he moistened them, hearing McShane’s soft chuckle once more.

  “Any relation to Peter J.?” McShane’s voice, as he leaned close, was a demonic whisper.

  Pete quelled the urge to reach for him, to throttle him, knowing no matter what, he was in no physical shape to challenge the Irishman.

  “I can beat it out of ye, Peter J., truly I can. An’ I’m thinkin’ ’twouldn’t take much, either, right now.” His voice was low, wheedling, and Pete had to agree with him.

  It wouldn’t take much at all.

  But, as he watched McShane step to the side and grasp Traci by the arm, hauling her to her feet, Pete knew McShane meant to save himself the time and energy of a beating. McShane reached for his pistol as Traci mo
aned in fear, her eyes terrified.

  “Don’t…McShane.” Pete said thickly. “My brother. Johnny’s my—my brother.”

  McShane let his hand rest for a moment on the butt of his gun, then released it with a smile. “Very good, Officer. Very smart.” He gave Traci a push in Eileen’s general direction, and she motioned the young woman over. McShane propped a booted foot on the leather sofa beside Pete’s leg and leaned forward.

  “I don’t want to scare her any more, now.” He jerked his head toward Traci. “So it’s grand ye’ve decided to come across with the goods…without any promptin’. I’ve no taste for all the histrionics. Just tell me what I need to know, boyo. It’ll all be fine.”

  McShane pulled a pack of cigarettes from his inside pocket and offered one to Pete, who shook his head. He could use the whole pack right about now, but he wouldn’t lay a finger on one of them, being McShane’s offerings.

  McShane struck the expensive lighter and brought the flame to his smoke, dragging an inward breath to get the tobacco burning. He snapped the lighter shut, exhaling slowly, watching Pete.

  “Tell me about your brother.” McShane dragged on the cigarette once more, casually, blowing the smoke upward. At Pete’s continued silence, he said, “Don’t try to play games with me, Officer Logan. Pigs don’t rank high in my book. In fact, I’d rather kill them than the common folk. Makes a point better. Now, let me ask you again. Your brother. John T. Why is his cell number showing up?”

  “I can only…assume he’s dead, McShane.” Pete put a hand to his forehead, hoping to hold his face together. Standing up earlier had not been one of his better ideas.

  “So, you figure this Danny—whoever he is—lifted your dead brother’s cell phone?”

  Pete tried to shrug. The pain that immediately knifed through his back and neck made him want to cry out, but he reined himself in. They hadn’t missed a square inch of him. He eased back into the leather.