by Becky McGraw
“Oh, good God—are you crying?!?” He stood back up, and she felt his anger electrify the air. “You are no longer a ten-year-old, Fallon,” he said, using that tone he used when he was disgusted with something she’d done.
Well, he could go to hell, because right now she was the only one entitled to be disgusted.
“You need to take yourself home and stay there until you get your head together. Get over your fixation with the Crifasos before you come back if you know what’s good for you.”
The swoosh of his robes as he turned toward the door was followed by her door opening and slamming shut, and Fallon’s breath came out in a rush. She sat there a moment, fighting through the fog in her brain, before pushing up to her feet to stagger to the bathroom at the corner of her chambers. Looking at her ravaged face in the mirror, she cringed then flicked on the light, turned on the tap and splashed cool water on her face. She felt for the linen towel on the bar beside the toilet and yanked it down to pat her face dry, then rolled out some toilet paper and blew her nose loudly.
Her father was right about one thing. Fallon definitely needed to take herself home and get her head together. She had other pending cases she could review today, but she knew it would be a futile exercise. Her mind was too clouded with grief, and her insides too raw to focus. She had a pint of Hagen Daas in her freezer at home with her name on it and a spoon big enough to eat it in one bite. Today, she would grieve over losing Jaxson, over losing her father, but tomorrow she’d be right back here doing her job.
Flipping the light off in the bathroom, she took a step but stopped to bend over when her gut twisted again. Or maybe the day after, she revised, moaning through the pain. It twisted tighter—holy hell, maybe she’d need the whole fricking week. Rising, she stumbled to her desk to grab her purse on her way to the door. Fallon walked out of her office without bothering to remove her robe, because the last thing she cared about at the moment was protocol.
She just needed to get the hell out of here.
At the back exit, she remembered she didn’t have a car there, so she’d have to call a cab. When the back door opened and her father stood there on his cell phone, Fallon spun quickly to walk toward the front of the building, fumbling in her purse for her cell phone. She passed through the sidebar at the security checkpoint and one of the officers spoke, but she didn’t respond. She kept moving until she pushed through the front door and took a deep breath of freedom, before pausing on the second step to try to find the number for a cab company. If she had her own damned phone, it would be in her contact list.
Suddenly, flashes blinded her, rapid-fire questions deafened her and microphones appeared under her nose as a mob of reporters rushed up the stairs. Panic squeezed her chest, and Fallon turned back toward the building but the door was blocked. The guards inside pounded on the glass to be let out, but the reporters didn’t move.
“Judge Sharpe do you think the money the FBI seized from your father a few minutes ago is mob payoff money?” a smug male voice yelled, shocking her to the core. Many more questions came at her as Fallon tried to shove her way down the stairs to the sidewalk. “Judge Sharpe, do you think your father will be impeached?” a woman asked snidely. A reporter followed her all the way down to the sidewalk with his microphone under her nose to ask, “Judge Sharpe how do you think William Crifaso will take the news he may be charged with bribery of a federal judge? Did he try to bribe you too? Is that why you really disappeared?”
Another had the nerve to grab her arm. “Is it true you’ll be testifying against both East Coast Willie and your father, Judge Sharpe?”
Fallon jerked her arm away. “No comment,” she growled, as she looked left and right for an escape route, but only found more reporters.
Her heart pounded in her ears as she pushed her way down to the sidewalk. When the crowd broke, she ran for the corner and stopped there to remove her heels. One determined reporter followed her, so without waiting for the crosswalk signal to change, she darted through blaring horns and squealing brakes to get to the other side of the street, before turning right and running until her sides hurt, until the voices faded.
Gasping for breath, she stopped to lean against the brick wall outside of her favorite deli to catch her breath. She knew Gaston, the owner, would let her use the phone inside but right then there was no way she could talk.
Good Lord, evidently Senator Greenwood and his committee worked fast. She’d only started the impeachment wheels turning last night when she told him what she suspected and why. Or had her father been under investigation for a while, and she just happened to stumble into it? That was the more likely scenario, because federal investigations did not work that fast.
And if that was so, why had Peter Crifaso’s case been reassigned? Or was it really canceled? Had he cut a deal with the prosecutor to rat out William? Fallon pushed the loose hair back from her sweaty forehead, and huffed a breath. This whole thing was a fucking nightmare.
Tires squealed and someone shouted her name. Her heart stopped when she saw the armored van they’d ridden in to the courthouse that morning slide to a stop two blocks down crossways in the street. When Jaxson hopped out of the van, carrying what looked to her like a machine gun in his hands it kicked into overdrive.
“Get down!” he shouted as he ran toward her, but Fallon was frozen.
A loud pop rang out, echoed in her head and Jax’s body jerked, but he kept running toward her in what looked like slow motion. Screams echoed hollowly in her head, people behind Jax scattered then two more pops rang out. Fallon finally woke up and realized something was wrong when his body jerked again and he fell to his knees.
Jaxson Thomas was a ninja—a freaking Navy SEAL ninja. They did not fall, she thought, pushing off the building to run toward him where he lay face down and unmoving on the sidewalk. Fallon was almost there when another loud pop echoed through the street before something punched her in the back hard enough to drive her to her knees. Another pop preceded a ringing buzz in her ear and a stinging burn in her scalp above her right ear.
Edges of blackness curled her vision inward as she heard two different sounds—more bangs than pops—as she collapsed on top of Jaxson.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jaxson’s breath came back in a rush, and he gulped in the sweet air that had been denied his body since he took the direct hit in the center of his vest. He tried to push up, but something heavy was on top of him. Dead weight, he thought, pushing harder.
“Wait, Jax!” Chris yelled, then the weight was removed from his back and he sat up, looked down at the pool of blood on the sidewalk and his stomach rolled.
“Fucking cheap ass thin vest,” Jax cursed, as he patted his chest to check for obvious bullet wounds. A stinging pain near his left pec told him there was a problem there. Quickly unstrapping the vest, he pulled his shirt away from his body and saw the tail of a round embedded there almost flush with his skin. “Fuck, I’ve been shot,” he hissed.
That wound did not explain all the blood on the sidewalk though, so he kept patting around his vest until his eyes froze on a new blood spot forming near Chris’s boot. His eyes shot upward and he saw Fallon in Chris’s arms, her head lolled back with blood dripping from the tips of her hair onto the concrete.
Adrenaline and horrific fear surged through him as he vaulted to his feet to take her from Chris and lower her to the ground. Sickness churned in his gut and his heart didn’t beat until he felt at her throat and found a steady pulse. It might not stay steady long though, if he didn’t find out where she was bleeding. Quickly he ripped the front of her robe open, and his body wilted in relief when he saw she had on the vest.
Oh, God—please don’t let the head wound be bad, he prayed, as he gently lifted her head to remove the clip from her hair. He shoved his hand into the thick bloody tangle and worked his fingers over her scalp.
“Did you get the tangos,” Jax asked shortly.
“Why do you think they’re not shooting at us
right now?” Chris drawled, patting the sniper rifle strapped across his chest. “You know we don’t miss.”
“Why the hell didn’t you shoot sooner?” Jax found a three-inch trench above her right ear but he couldn’t determine how deep it was because it was bleeding profusely.
Ripping off his vest, he pulled his shirt over his head and wrapped it around Fallon’s head then squeezed the sides of her skull.
“No clear shot until then,” Rick replied with a shrug. “I thought you’d be pissed if we shot your girlfriend.”
Jaxson met Rick’s eyes, and he frowned. “No, I’d have been pissed if you didn’t kill the bastards who shot her.” Jaxson lifted the shirt, and the flow immediately started again.
“How bad is it?” Chris asked, crouching beside him.
“Bad enough to need stitches, and she’ll probably need blood. We need to get her to Bethesda fast, but I have to keep the pressure on the wound. One of you will have to drive.”
“I’ll do it!” Chris and Rick said in unison, and Jax knew why when he heard the sirens and saw the black-suited feds running down the street from the courthouse toward them with weapons drawn. The amount of paperwork they’d have to stick around to get done with the police would be mountainous. Jaxson definitely didn’t want to get caught up in that mess. He wanted Fallon at that hospital now.
“Rick you handle what you do best—the paperwork. Chris help me get her to the van before they get here.”
“I hate fucking paperwork,” Rick whined.
“But you’re good at it,” Jax replied, as he lifted Fallon’s shoulders then positioned her to keep pressure on her head wound. After their missions, if they hadn’t had Rick around to weed through the heaps of reporting they had to do, they’d probably still be sitting at that table in the command post writing reports.
Chris lifted Fallon’s feet, and looked back over his shoulder to grin at Rick who was scowling. “Watch those paper cuts, man, I hear they sting like a bitch!” He winked, and Rick growled as he and Chris hustled to the van and got inside.
How in the hell could it take three fucking hours for a doctor to stitch up a head wound Jaxson wondered, pacing again in the family waiting room. He’d been in the room for an hour and nobody had told him a damned thing. Of course, since he wasn’t family, that could explain the lack of urgency to get him information. Jaxson had no idea how to get in touch with her mother or sister either. He certainly wasn’t calling her father.
That man couldn’t give a shit about his daughter. He had enough issues of his own to deal with now anyway if what he’d heard in the parking lot of the courthouse was any indication. From what Jax gathered, James Sharpe had evidently gone in to see his daughter right after Jaxson ‘left’. What Jax had actually been doing was surveilling the parking lot to make sure it was secure, while he gave Fallon time to cool off some, or see if she would. When he saw James Sharpe come out the back door with his cell phone, Jax had been too damned curious to know who the man was chatting with and about what in his red-faced, agitated state, not to hide under the van and listen.
Yes, I have her under control. No, she doesn’t know too much. I told her to go home since the trial was canceled. The her he referred to could be nobody other than Fallon. I have no idea why it was canceled, but I’ll find out. And the only trial he could be speaking of was Peter Crifaso’s, which must mean James was speaking to William. Jax quietly clicked record on his cell phone, and stayed right where he was until James Sharpe went back inside the building.
At the end of the fifteen-minute conversation, Jax’s summation of the situation was that Willie wanted his money back since the trial was canceled, and Judge Sharpe only had some of it to return to him—in the safe in his office. When the Judge went inside the building again, and a dark sedan with two tough looking goombahs, one he recognized as the man he’d winged in Fallon’s front yard, pulled into the lot and went directly to the last row, Jax knew they were waiting for James Sharpe to bring them the money.
Jax texted the audio clip to the FBI agent he’d spoken with that morning, then called him to tell him the rest of the story. Before he knew it, the feds were piling out of the back door, the sedan was peeling out of the parking lot and Jax was rolling out from under the van to follow them to find out where they were going. If Jax hadn’t missed following their quick turn into the alley when they obviously spotted Fallon at the deli, she wouldn’t have been shot at all. Turning the bulky van around on that narrow street proved almost impossible. When he saw them on the sidewalk with guns pointed at her, Jax left it right where it was and ran.
But in facing down the goons and saving her, Jax knew all he was doing was only tying up loose ends for her so she could move on. He realized when Fallon fired him in her chambers it hadn’t just been from the protection detail. She’d fired him from her life too, because Jax took the choice to hear the case out of her hands.
He knew the FBI would take that hint and remove her. It had been a tough decision for him to do that, but it was a choice he’d make again to know she was safe. Now that William Crifaso was otherwise distracted, she was off the case and the goons were dead, Jax could walk away with peace in his heart knowing she was safe again.
It was heart wrenching, gut twisting, because he care—no he fucking loved her—but he’d do it again if it meant keeping her safe.
Doing the right thing, going with your gut, did not always make for a happy ending. Leaving the SEALs to save his squad the distraction and dishonor of a JAG investigation, leaving Deep Six to save their contract, and doing what he needed to do to protect Fallon Sharpe were all proof of that.
“Chris, I need you to take me to the Greenwoods so I can get my van,” Jaxson said, and Chris jerked awake in the corner chair where he’d been dozing. That was the thing about SEALS, they had learned to catch twenty winks wherever and whenever they could because they never knew when the next twenty would come.
And they also knew when to retreat and regroup.
***
“Where’s Jaxson?” Fallon gasped, sitting up to look from corner to corner in the strange room when consciousness slammed into her. Her stomach rolled, she swallowed and plopped back on the bed and closed her eyes until the nausea passed.
“Probably in Colorado by now beating himself up for letting you get shot,” a soft female voice answered. “Do you want me to get the nurse? She said the pain and nausea meds would wear off soon, and she’d give you another round if you wanted.”
Fallon opened her eyes and turned her head to meet Jaxson’s sister’s blue eyes.
“Anna?” she asked, in confusion.
The petite brunette shrugged. “Jaxson called me and told me what happened. He said you were fine but alone, and I was in Virginia, so I came.”
There was some reason Anna Thomas shouldn’t be sitting here. Fallon’s brow furrowed as she searched through her cotton-stuffed brain. “But you have your test—”
“I got it postponed for a few weeks. I told them there was a family emergency.”
Anna’s impish grin popped a dimple in her cheek that reminded Fallon so much of Jaxson that sadness and grief swamped her as memories flooded back. Why in the hell did she feel so thick-headed right now?
Fear shot through her, as she eased up to lean on her elbow. “Jax was shot—did they transfer him to Colorado so your mother can take care of him?” If so, that must mean he was really bad. Fallon’s body tensed. “Is he going to d-d—”
Anna’s eyebrows raised, and her lips wiggled. “Jaxson? Are you kidding? That man is bulletproof. Well, I’ve seen the scars, so I think he was shot a few times when he was in the Navy, but he sure wouldn’t tell us about it. Or those secret training exercises he always went on spur of the moment with the teams.”
Tears burned Fallon’s eyes at the thought of Jaxson being shot because of her this time. She knew if he hadn’t gotten out of that van and put himself in the open to distract those thugs, she would probably be dead right now. He w
as one of the bravest, most heroic men Fallon had ever met. Maybe his sister didn’t realize he’d been shot three times. He could have hidden that from her to save her worry, just as easily as he hid those training exercises.
“Jaxson took three bullets to the chest,” Fallon said, but Anna waved her hand.
“Trust me he’s fine—when I talked to him yesterday he was ornery as he always is. He’s the last person you should worry about. Like he told us, he’s too mean to die.”
“How long—what happened to—” Fallon stopped and put her hand up to her head that throbbed now under the thick bandage covering her ear.
“You have a concussion from the bullet that grazed your head. Or at least that’s what I dug out of the nurse’s chart last night. That doctor needs to learn to write better,” Anna said, with a wide grin, which pulled a smile out of Fallon too.
“You dug through my chart?” she asked, amazed at the girl’s audacity. That’s actually one of the things she loved about her new friend. She was not only sharp, quick-witted and fun, she was not bashful about going after whatever it was she wanted.
“Investigated,” Anna corrected, with a wink. “I was practicing my skills for the academy.”
“Speaking of which, did my letter of recommendation help with the application?”
“They set me up for all the testing, so it must have,” Anna replied with a shrug.
“Well, I need your help with something—”
A nurse pushed through the door with a tray in her hand, but stopped to smile. “Well, I’m glad you’re up! I wanted to tell you that the doctor has cleared you to be released in the morning, as long as you’re up and walking.”
Fallon would be up and walking tonight, because in the morning she had things to do, and people to talk to. Her first call would be to Senator Greenwood to find out if he’d made progress on the other thing she’d asked him to work on.
