Lethal Peril_Military Romantic Suspense

by Emily Jane Trent

  Wyatt came over and sat beside her. “So, what do you think?”

  “I thought the media thrived on controversy,” Beth said. “I handed over a scandal about one of the largest shipping companies in the city. You’d think the editor would snap it up.”

  When Beth was about to give up, Cam emerged from the meeting. He sat at his desk, stone-faced.

  “Well…what did he say?” Beth said.

  Then a wide grin spread over Cam’s face. “He’s going to run it in the evening paper.”

  Beth breathed a sigh of relief. “I was nervous; you took so darn long.”

  “My editor is thorough,” Cam said. “Once it hits the newsstands, you can bet the larger papers will pick up the story—but we had it first.”

  “You must know the right people,” Beth said with a smile.

  It was only a matter of hours before the newspaper would hit the stands. There was no reason to hang out and wait; Beth would see it soon enough. She thanked Cam, then Wyatt shook the reporter’s hand. “I guess we can go,” she said.

  *****

  Wyatt exited first to check out the situation. The newspaper office was a location that Beth had been known to frequent, one that her enemies would be likely to watch. He’d kept an eye out, but hadn’t observed any suspicious activity. The office faced the street; it was the last storefront before the corner. Beth followed him out to the sidewalk, staying a couple of steps behind.

  When Wyatt rounded the corner, he spotted a homeless guy in a wheelchair. The man had long, stringy hair, and his clothes were dirty and tattered. He sat with his feet flat on the ground, but his shoes didn’t match the rest of his attire.

  Wyatt put his palm out behind him to let Beth know to slow down. She hadn’t rounded the corner yet, so wasn’t visible to the homeless guy. Pedestrians flowed past, taking no notice. Wyatt gripped his laser pen and held it at his side.

  The homeless man wore new jogging shoes, a tipoff that he wasn’t what he appeared to be. Wyatt saw the man glance toward Beth’s position, and in the blink of an eye, assessed the situation. This guy was a potential threat, but Wyatt could hardly gun him down without knowing for sure.

  The moment Beth emerged from around the corner, the homeless guy made a sudden move, lurching up. Wyatt flashed the laser beam at the man’s eyes, causing him to throw up his arm to block the beam. The ray slowed the man down, but Wyatt wasn’t close enough to cause blindness.

  Beth looked at the man, then at Wyatt, who took a step toward her. He was out on the sidewalk; she had barely rounded the corner, standing slightly behind the homeless guy between them. The laser had been a deterrent, and a way to test whether the guy had ill intent. The man lowered his eyes, feigning a defenseless pose, but he threw off his rags and whipped out a gun. In one fluid motion, he crouched and raised the gun toward Wyatt.

  A bullet from the .22 wouldn’t penetrate Wyatt’s body armor, so a shot to the heart wouldn’t kill him. But a head shot would. It was a risky situation with Beth so close. The assassin could swing the gun slightly left and hit her first, then deal with Wyatt afterwards.

  When the assassin crouched low and pointed the gun at Wyatt’s head, Beth yelled, “No!” In the same instant, she leapt onto the assassin’s back, threw her arms around his neck, and tried to tackle him to the ground. The gun went off, missing Wyatt, and screams came from the crowd. The man outweighed and outmuscled Beth, but she was fierce in her attack.

  Wyatt had his Glock out, but couldn’t take the chance that he’d accidentally hit Beth. The assassin growled and violently shook, trying to throw Beth off, like a bear trying to shake free of a swarm of bees. With one hand, she reached for his eyes, but when her grip loosened, the assassin propelled her off his back, throwing her into a parked car.

  Beth hit her head and crumpled to the sidewalk, unmoving.

  The momentary distraction was Wyatt’s undoing. He lunged toward Beth, but the assassin got off a shot, hitting him in the leg, and he buckled. Crippled, Wyatt put his weight on one knee and flashed the Glock at his attacker. Pain seared though his injured leg, but he blocked it out.

  There was no time to aim, and the gun was too high. The shot missed, and the assassin flew at him with a head butt to the stomach.

  The impact knocked Wyatt off balance, but he recovered and kicked with his good leg. The gun flew out of the attacker’s hand. Screams filtered into Wyatt’s consciousness as background noise, and vague masses of people huddled at a distance. The assassin grappled for the Glock, but an elbow to the neck backed him off.

  Wyatt’s left hand was wet and his pants were soaked—he was bleeding profusely. Weakness seeped into him, and he was dizzy. Instinct and adrenaline kept him going; he had to get to Beth. He pointed the gun at the assassin, but the guy was a moving target—the bullet grazed his skull, but didn’t stop him.

  The attacker lunged at Wyatt and kicked the gun from his hand—then, lightning fast, scooped up the Glock and raised it toward Beth. With a roar, Wyatt tackled the man’s legs, and the shot hit a parked car. The assassin kicked him in the face, but still Wyatt fought. They struggled in a pool of Wyatt’s blood.

  The assassin swiveled the weapon at Wyatt, but he grabbed the guy’s wrist and twisted, until the gun clattered to the sidewalk. Wyatt was in his element now; he was trained in street fighting. With blows to the head and ribs, he pummeled the assassin, but the guy was strong and fought with deadly determination.

  The sound of sirens pierced the air, and the assassin kneed Wyatt then rolled away. Through hazy vision, Wyatt jumped at the man, but his left leg wouldn’t hold him. Doubled over, clutching his belly, the assassin limped down the sidewalk, and disappeared into the crowd of people.

  Wyatt crawled to Beth and felt for her pulse. She was breathing; thank God she was safe. “Beth…” The roar of sirens was louder, and people hovered, pressing close. Then Beth’s eyes fluttered, just as darkness engulfed him.

  Chapter 20

  Beth opened her eyes to see Wyatt unconscious on the sidewalk. There was blood everywhere, too much blood. His chest moved with shallow breathing; he was still alive. She took off her jacket and pressed it to the leg wound to slow the bleeding.

  Uniformed police swarmed around her, but she held on to Wyatt. “Call an ambulance. We have to get him to a hospital.” An officer kneeled beside her and bent over the victim. He put his own jacket on top of hers to help stop the blood.

  Crowds gawked, noisily chattering, but Beth saw no sign of the assassin. The last thing she remembered was the gun pointed at Wyatt. She prayed that he’d survive. It looked like he’d lost a lot of blood; his pants were soaked, and his skin was pale. She put her fingers to his neck, but his pulse was weak.

  Hurry…please hurry. Then a siren blared, such a welcome sound, and the paramedics were on scene with a stretcher. The police wanted to detain her for questions, but she pleaded for them to let her go with Wyatt.

  The paramedics elevated Wyatt’s lower body, and applied a pressure bandage to stop the bleeding. Beth rode in the ambulance, holding his hand with tears rolling down her cheeks. “Don’t die…please don’t die.”

  *****

  Wyatt was taken to Veterans Hospital and wheeled into emergency. Beth wasn’t allowed to go with him. She paced the waiting room, scared and alone. The paramedics had told her that he’d lost a lot of blood, but she’d known that. He was soaked in it.

  She looked at her shirt, stained with red. Wyatt had to live; he just had to. That was all she cared about.

  Beth went to the ladies’ room to wash up. The back of her head hurt and a bump had formed. She might have a concussion, but she wasn’t about to seek treatment. Until Wyatt came through, she would wait, and avoid being detained for some stupid examination.

  Her injury was minor compared to what he’d suffered. The vision of Wyatt unconscious in the ambulance sent a new wave of agony through her. He was such a good man, and she loved him so much. Life couldn’t be so unfair as to let him die.
r />   Wyatt had protected her. He had been willing to die for her. Beth’s heart was breaking. She couldn’t think about the future, and was unable to see beyond Wyatt’s recovery. He had to recover.

  He was strong, a valiant fighter, and was meant to live. He’d fought in the service, but had made it home in one piece. He was a survivor, and he would surely conquer this.

  Yet Wyatt had lost so much blood. A bullet in the leg could be deadly. A man could bleed out. But even severely injured, he’d fought off the assassin and saved her life. Beth couldn’t face losing him. She couldn’t deal with that possibility, but she might have to.

  While she waited, a police officer came to talk with her. He asked her some questions, then scheduled an interview for a better time. She was grateful for that, plus she was relieved that the press wasn’t hounding her. It would be a while before the media learned where Wyatt had been taken.

  A doctor came to talk with her. Wyatt had been taken to surgery. He’d suffered massive blood loss from the gunshots. His body temperature had dropped and his blood pressure was dangerously low. “Rapid blood loss can prevent oxygen from reaching the brain and vital organs. In some cases, the injury is so severe that the body doesn’t have the ability to overcome it.”

  Beth’s eyes welled with tears.

  “Wyatt is lucky the shot wasn’t close range, and there was no direct hit to the bone. The muscle took most of the damage, likely one reason he didn’t bleed to death before the paramedics arrived,” the doctor said. “But he’s young and strong. The surgeon will do all he can, and then we’ll have to see.”

  “How long will he be?” Beth said.

  “He’ll be on the operating table for five hours, and then he’ll be in recovery for a while. If I were you, I’d go home and rest. We’ll call you when he’s out.”

  There was no way Beth was going home until Wyatt’s condition was stable. When he opened his eyes, she would be there. She didn’t care about sleep or food, only whether he would be okay. She wouldn’t leave the hospital until she knew he’d make it.

  Beth bought a new shirt in the gift shop, and tossed the stained one in the garbage. Then she went to the cafeteria for coffee. She sipped the hot brew, recovering some from the shock of the day’s events. Her numbness faded and the effects of the emotional trauma settled a bit. By her second cup, her sorrow and worry became superseded by anger.

  She was more furious with her uncle than she’d ever been. He was responsible for all of this, and she would see that he answered for his crimes. The evening paper wasn’t out yet, which was fine with her. She had an important call to make.

  Beth stepped outside and found a quiet place in a courtyard intended for visitors. It was unoccupied, giving her the privacy she sought. She pulled her phone from her pants pocket and made a video call to her uncle. She waited for Martin to answer, adrenaline pumping through her veins.

  There was no way she’d go see him in person, even if she had been willing to leave the hospital. Her uncle had been volatile and unpredictable, so she intended to stay beyond his reach. His tendency toward violence had permanently severed their relationship.

  Her uncle’s face appeared on the screen. He hadn’t shaved in days; his eyes were red and puffy. His hair hadn’t been cut in a while, and he didn’t look that dissimilar to the homeless guy she’d encountered earlier. It seemed his lifestyle didn’t agree with him.

  Fear showed in Martin’s expression. His stunned look gave her immense satisfaction.

  “You’re dead,” her uncle said.

  “Not quite.” Beth stared at the screen.

  Martin looked at her as if she might be an apparition.

  “You were expecting a call from your assassin, I assume?” Beth sighed. “I daresay you won’t hear much from him, unless he likes to brag about his failures.”

  “What would you know about it? You’re just a spoiled brat.”

  “I wouldn’t be rude, uncle. You’ve gotten yourself into a tight spot.”

  To her uncle’s amazement, Beth detailed all that she knew about his recent operations. Her voice was calm, but her message was lethal. She recited from memory the details of his business transactions, accounts, and illegitimate profits. When she ticked off his crimes, beginning with conspiracy to commit murder, it had a potent effect. The list continued, including embezzlement and drug smuggling.

  “Need I go on?”

  It seemed her uncle had little to say.

  “You harmed your own brother…my father,” Beth said. “And a man who is very dear to me is in critical condition. If he doesn’t make it, I will hunt you to the end of the earth and kill you myself.”

  Martin’s face was pale, his eyes dark and brooding.

  “You’ve attracted the attention of government agencies, and I’ve seen fit to help them along in their investigations. Whatever happens to you won’t nearly make up for the damage you’ve caused.”

  Martin blanched. “I won’t survive prison.”

  “I guess you didn’t think ahead,” Beth said, then, not wishing to look at his ugly face any longer, she ended the call.

  Beth’s hand shook as she set the phone on the bench beside her. That call would squelch her uncle’s enthusiasm about coming after her. And once the evening news hit the stands, it would mark the end of his despicable methods.

  *****

  Martin stared at the blank screen long after Beth was gone. It couldn’t be true. That little twit couldn’t have outmaneuvered him. She should have died weeks ago. If those bumbling idiots had been able to get the job done, he wouldn’t be in this position.

  Only minutes before the call, his drug of choice had lifted his mood. He’d expected confirmation of the job. The assignment had been paid for; Zhang had assured him the hired killer wouldn’t miss—just like he’d assured him of so much else.

  Yet it was all a lie. Martin had been betrayed. In good faith, he’d done all that had been asked of him. He should be living the good life, but instead he was doomed. His niece had been a thorn in his side since her youth, but he hadn’t dreamed she was capable of such deceit. That she would do this to her own uncle was beyond the pale.

  There was no possible hope in life if one couldn’t trust family. That truism came down hard, a final crushing blow to his spirits.

  He’d had no choice, really. What Beth had cited as his misdeeds had been committed without premeditation. Once indebted to the mob, there had been no option left for him.

  Yet his niece didn’t understand, and the Triad juggernaut wouldn’t back him up. He knew that was so, especially now that their darling assassin had proven to be useless. Martin was on his own, but that had been his lot in life. He should have known from the start how things would pan out.

  He shouldn’t have believed what they told him. And now it was too late.

  Martin went to the bar and rummaged for a bottle of bourbon, his last. But he wouldn’t replenish his supply. There would be no need for that.

  He sat in a chair by the window, looking out. The city was heartless; it moved in an unending progression, unfeeling towards its inhabitants.

  There was no one who cared, not one person who would miss him. Martin chugged the bourbon, relishing the burn. He could feel; he was alive.

  Slowly, he rose from the chair and walked with leaden feet to the bathroom. The bright white paint, the sheen of the marble countertops, and the polished tile floor were surreal. The room was intimidating, the walls closing in.

  Martin could barely breathe. He opened a drawer and retrieved his stash. There wasn’t enough left to line up on his nightstand for later, but it would be enough.

  He gulped the rest of the bourbon, and swayed, unable to stay upright. He wore only his silk bathrobe with nothing underneath. The tile was cold under his bare feet. He emptied out the remainder of his stash, an amount that should have lasted a few more days.

  It was a relief to know that he wouldn’t need it.

  Martin snorted several times. A burst
of energy flooded his system, and momentary euphoria lifted him out of his melancholy. He would have made it all right, if he could have. But he hadn’t been capable of that.

  Prison loomed ahead, a destiny he was unable to face. The bourbon took hold, and Martin’s world spun uncontrollably. Then the cocaine’s magic faded, the high vanished, and depression swallowed him up.

  Martin sank to the floor like a rag doll, and his head rested on the cool tile. He might have risen once more, if he could have—but he was unable to move.

  Chapter 21

  After the surgery, Beth had been by his side. Wyatt had been drugged up, but aware of her presence. “I love you,” he’d said. He’d spoken the words, or maybe he’d only dreamed that he had. He should have told her how he felt the night she’d confessed her love. He hoped that he hadn’t missed his chance.

  The first couple of days had been an ordeal, and Wyatt was still a bit hazy. His bad shoulder was stiff and his leg hurt like hell. He’d been easing off the pain meds. They made him groggy, and he disliked not being alert.

  During his hospital stay, Wyatt had learned the outcome of recent events, and found comfort in the fact that Beth was out of danger.

  Hunter Davis pushed the door open and strolled in. “How do you feel, buddy?”

  “Like I’ve been in a wrestling match with a grizzly bear.”

  “That sounds about right,” Hunter said. “What’s the prognosis?”

  “It’s lucky that the bullet lodged in muscle; no broken bones and no permanent nerve damage. The surgeon wasn’t able to remove the metal, which I understand is not uncommon. It’s better to leave it in—scar tissue will form around it, and there shouldn’t be lasting symptoms.”

  “Guys often come home with shrapnel or pieces of bullets in them. You’ll be in good company.”

  “I’ve had plenty of visitors,” Wyatt said. “My brother and sister have been here. And Beth has stayed with me most of every day. I sent her home to get some rest, but she’ll be back.”