No Turning Back

by Nancy Bush

  He grimaced, sighed, and revealed his plan. “I need a hostage.”

  * * *

  Jesse skidded his bike to a stop in front of Liz’s walkway. Her black Miata was parked in its place, but another car sat beside it. Who was here? It wasn’t his dad’s Jeep, nor Mrs. Fielding’s car.

  Worried that it was Guy Fielding, Jesse tiptoed up the front steps and tried to peek through the curtained window. That was weird in itself. Liz Havers didn’t normally shut the front curtains because this little house was as private as prayer. With patience, Jesse waited for someone to walk through his line of vision. Moments later, his efforts were rewarded. A man cruised by.

  Jesse sucked in a scared breath. His skin crawled. Was that a gun in the guy’s hand? Good God, what was going on?

  It took him half an instant to make a decision. With the rashness of youth, he decided to take the bastard on himself. Hell, he was six feet tall and strong enough to take any guy who made a nuisance of himself. Some of Woodside High’s most obnoxious could attest to his strength if they were smart enough to form sentences, which, in Jesse’s private opinion, they weren’t.

  There was a back door off the kitchen, but it was always locked; he’d learned that much from prowling around the times he’d been here. But there was a window off the bedroom that might be cracked open on these hot nights.

  So thinking, Jesse crept to the side of the house where Liz’s bedroom was. Just as he’d suspected, the bottom of the window was open and a soft wind blew into the room, fluttering the curtains. Carefully, oh so carefully, he pushed it upward until the space was big enough for him. With all the finesse his sixteen-year-old body could muster, he quietly heaved himself over the sill and into the room.

  They were talking. The guy was explaining something, but it didn’t sound right. The tone was whacked. Like he was trying to convince her of something he didn’t believe himself. With his heart tattooing painfully in his chest, Jesse crept forward, wishing for about the thousandth time that his damn hair would stay out of his eyes just this once.

  Crunch! He bit back a cry of pain with a supreme effort of will. Liz had placed a box on the floor and he’d banged his shin into it dead-on. Glancing around for a hiding place, Jesse heard the thunder of running feet a half second before the guy blasted into the room, gun swinging wildly.

  “Jesse!” Liz screamed behind him, hitting the guy in a flying tackle. He twisted free and whacked her once on the side of the head with his gun. Jesse was on him before he knew he’d moved. He pummeled with all his might.

  “Stop it!” the man wheezed. “I’ll kill her. You’ll make me kill her. See? See?”

  The gun was waving in Liz’s direction. Her eyes were on Jesse, scared but calm.

  Jesse debated a nanosecond, then lifted his hands in the age-old sign of surrender. The man struggled to his feet, the gun aimed at Liz, his eyes on Jesse.

  “Come on,” the man growled, his gun signaling both Jesse and Liz into the living room.

  * * *

  Trickles ran down his neck. It felt like sweat, but it wasn’t. It was something else. Electrochemical impulses running down nerves. Jittery messages. Déjà vu.

  But it hadn’t been like this with Joey, Hawk realized. Not at first. Joey’s situation had been just another job until their worlds collided and suddenly Hawk was Joey’s and vice versa.

  Except this was Liz, and he had the gut-twisting feeling she was at the hands of Avery Francis.

  There’d been no one home at Avery’s. He’d tiptoed through the place like a thief. The place was quiet. That quiet that said there wasn’t a soul around. Then his phone rang. He’d answered it without thinking, believing Perry to be on the other end because Jesse never called and no one else knew the number.

  Except maybe Liz . . .

  That thought penetrated as her voice came on, saying his name. SOS. He’d heard the message loud and clear, though she’d said nothing more.

  And now he was tearing through the night at breakneck speed, unable to feel anything but pure fear. What if it was already too late? Why hadn’t he paid more heed to Dortner when he’d called Avery Francis a loose cannon?

  He pulled into the end of Liz’s drive and cut the lights. Climbing from the car was easy; he was used to the walking cast. Making his way silently was another story. He wasn’t as agile as he could be.

  But he had Avery Francis to thank for the cast, too. With resolve, he checked his gun again, lifting it from its holster, drawing it forward so that it led him like a dark beacon toward the house.

  He hated this position. Memories were black as the enveloping sky. Sweat rose on his skin and though the night was warm, his muscles felt cold and frozen.

  He stopped short, heart jerking painfully. Ahead was a familiar shape. A glint of moonlight on handlebars. Jesse’s bike.

  Oh God.

  * * *

  “Don’t move,” Avery warned, his gun trained in Liz’s direction. She stood by the hearth, a statue, her gaze on Jesse, who sat loosely on the couch, hands dangling between his knees. His eyes followed Avery’s every move. He was thinking. Plotting. Not a good sign. She was scared to death he would do something heroic and get himself killed in the process.

  “I won’t,” she assured him.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered again, swinging the barrel of the gun in Jesse’s direction.

  “I won’t.” Jesse was as terse as Liz.

  They stayed like that for eons, or at least it felt like it.

  “What’s that?” Avery demanded, glancing at the window. “A car?”

  Carefully, he edged his way to the drawn curtain, peeking through a tiny slit. Liz glanced at Jesse, silently begging him to stay put. His muscles tensed.

  No! Liz mouthed, but it went unheeded. Jesse launched himself at Avery like a bullet and both men crashed down in a punching, thrusting, yelling heap.

  “Goddamn it!” Avery hollered.

  “You goddamn sonofabitch. You sonofabitch,” Jesse muttered furiously.

  Jumping past the melee, Liz grabbed the phone, not certain whether she was going to place a call or use it as a weapon. Avery reared back, caught her legs with one of his, and tripped her. She went down with an “oof,” then struggled up, but Avery’d ripped the landline phone from the wall.

  Jesse had him on his back. “Drop the gun!” he yelled. “Drop the gun! Drop the gun!”

  Avery lifted his gun hand. Liz screamed. With a hard slam, Avery smacked Jesse alongside the head and Jesse went down like lead.

  “Jesse! Oh my God, Jesse!” Liz cried, bending over him. He was breathing. Knocked cold but alive. She jumped on Avery, all fury and hatred.

  “Get off me or I’ll kill him,” Avery gasped, writhing to avoid her clawing hands. “I mean it. I don’t want to, but I will!”

  “I’ll kill you!” Liz yelled back. “If he’s hurt, I don’t care what happens. I’ll kill you!”

  “Get off me!”

  Liz wanted to kick and gouge and maim his manhood. She panted and gulped air. Tears ran down her cheeks. Avery jerked an arm free and aimed his gun at Jesse’s youthful cheek. Liz froze, gulping air. Jesse’s lashes lay dark against his skin, a bruise developing along his jaw and toward his temple.

  “I’m sorry,” Avery whispered. And in that terrible moment Liz knew he was going to shoot Jesse right there.

  “Move out of the way,” a cold voice said from the direction of the bedroom.

  Liz gasped, backed up automatically. Hawk stood like stone in the doorway, his gun trained on Avery with deadly purpose. “Put down the gun or I’ll shoot,” he said in a voice that sent chills down Liz’s spine.

  A hesitation. Avery’s hand twitched.

  Blam! The noise was deafening. Liz shrieked in fear, but it was Avery who was suddenly writhing on the floor, holding his shoulder and howling in pain. Jesse lay in blessed silence. Scared, Liz touched him, but he was merely unconscious.

  “Hawk,” she murmured brokenly as Hawthorne came forw
ard, his hands touching Jesse.

  “Is he . . . ?” he asked in a whisper.

  “He’s fine. No, he’s fine. Really. He’ll be fine.”

  She babbled and cried, and then cried some more when she saw the tears of relief reach Hawthorne’s eyes. They collapsed into each other’s arms and held on as tightly as they could as police sirens wailed in the distance—Hawk’s backup.

  * * *

  Hours later, after the police had grilled and questioned and hauled Avery away and Jesse had been taken to the emergency room and diagnosed with a concussion, Liz and Hawk sat clasped together on the couch, arms surrounding each other, while Jesse slept peacefully in his bedroom. Tawny and Kristy had stopped by, stunned that so much had happened in so short a time. The good news there was that Guy was leaving in the morning, sans Tawny,

  It was done. It was over. Vandeway was still being questioned, but with Avery in custody and the whole nefarious plan facing the light of investigation, the truth would come out.

  “So, it was Avery who killed Barney,” Liz stated, more fact than question.

  “Mmm,” he murmured into her hair.

  Liz curled close to the heat of his body, relaxed and filled with awe that this moment had finally happened. Those seconds with the hot smell of gunfire and Jesse on the floor and Hawk frozen in the doorway were burned in her brain. But everything was all right now. Hawk was here, with her, and Jesse was safe.

  In the hospital, Jesse had met her gaze with those beautiful eyes and smiled tiredly. Acceptance. Maybe even a hint of love. She’d been so moved, her throat ached. And then Hawk’s arms dragged her away and back to his cabin, and they tucked Jesse in and tumbled onto the couch together, needing the closeness. Needing each other.

  Now, drawing a finger down the length of his arm, Liz smiled against his cheek. He groaned and dragged her closer.

  “You’re crushing me,” she whispered.

  “Sorry.”

  “No, don’t be. I love it . . . and you.”

  “Liz . . .”

  A period of intense kissing followed until Liz couldn’t help the curve of her lips. Happiness was infectious. Hawthorne’s mouth answered in kind.

  “I think we’ve loved each other a while,” he said lightly, amazing her.

  “I think we have,” she agreed.

  “When I saw Avery with the gun, and Jesse, and everything. . .”

  She pressed a finger to his mouth. “But it’s over now.”

  “Joey’s death doesn’t have its power anymore,” he said slowly, as if the idea were just taking hold. “It’s still there, but when I saw you two, it just crashed in my head. This is real. It’s now.”

  Liz pulled his mouth to hers. She kissed him with all the depth of her desire, dragging another groan from his chest.

  “We’re staying here together in Woodside. All of us.”

  Liz nodded.

  “We’re a family,” he added, as if it were a new flavor to be tasted. “Do you believe that?”

  “Yes,” she admitted happily, cuddling in the shelter of his embrace.

  Long moments passed. Quiet thoughts in the shadowed room. Liz drifted, exhaustion taking its toll.

  “When they test Avery’s gun they’ll see if the bullets match the ones found in Barney,” Hawk said, yawning. “Then we’ll know for sure.” He turned his lips to Liz’s crown and she closed her eyes and sighed.

  “What if the bullets don’t match?”

  “Then there’s another gun out there,” Hawk answered. He also sighed. “I keep thinking there’s something I’m missing, but you know what, right now I don’t care.”

  With a muscular twist, he flipped her on her back, kissing her all over until she was laughing and wrestling with him, enjoying the moment, filled with desire and love.

  * * *

  Across town, a tiny slit of September moonlight cut through the drawn curtains of a darkened room. It had been that way since sunset, for the occupant of the home didn’t care for illumination of any kind these days. The light had gone out years ago. Snuffed out. But not quickly. Oh no, it had been slowly smothered out.

  On the coffee table in the center of the room lay a snapshot. Football days. Glorious times. When youth was all that mattered and love was free of disappointment. The boy in the picture sported a huge grin, helmet tucked under one beefy arm, number seventy plastered across a massive chest. In the background, a group of girls cheered hysterically. Not the cheerleaders themselves. Just a group of nobodies who might turn into somebodies one day and have a chance at a guy like Barney Turgate.

  The slit in the curtains shined a finger of light on Barney’s face and diffused illumination over the rest of the picture. Picking up a pair of scissors, the figure seated on the couch systematically cut the photo in half, then half again, then half again. Love was strange. It could grow without nourishment. It could consume everything in its path like a holocaust.

  A shaking sob rattled from her chest. She’d thought the pain would end. Barney’s death should have ended it. She felt tears cascade down her cheeks; silent homage to the man she loved more than life itself.

  Swiping at the tears, she pulled the hood of her gray sweatshirt close to her cheeks, shivering a little. She wiggled her toes in her black Nikes. The finger of moonlight moved ever so slightly and struck a bluish glance off the handgun tossed on the coffee table.

  Why wasn’t the pain gone? Killing him should have ended it, but no, it was a thousand times worse. It wasn’t fair. It shouldn’t be!

  Snatching up the gun, she pressed it to her temple, squeezing her eyes shut, counting her elevated heartbeats. With her free hand, she grabbed for the bits of picture, kissing them until they stuck to her lips and mixed with her drizzling tears and uncontrollable gasps. Cocking the trigger, she moved her index finger ever so slightly. A hairbreadth. A millisecond. One more everlasting moment . . .

  With a cry, she dropped her arm, the gun slipping from her fingers and tumbling against the couch cushions. Just like always, she couldn’t pull the trigger.

  Like the old woman she’d become, Lora Lee dragged herself to a huddled, standing hulk. Maybe she would turn herself in. After all, what was left now? Maybe she would . . . maybe . . .