Brooks cut him off. “I’ll take that as a no.”
There was another pause, then a sigh. “We all know what hell you went through, Small. None of us would wish it on our worst enemies. But you lost control. A good man died.”
Regret hit Brooks straight in the gut. More painful than a gunshot wound, and far more lasting, too.
He refused to let it overwhelm him. “Parler slept with my informant. He got himself killed. And the girl, too. The man’s ‘goodness’ is questionable at best.”
This time, the blank air went on for so long that Brooks thought momentarily that his partner might’ve hung up. He knew better, though. Masters was simply giving him a chance to retract his statement. To let his brain catch up to his mouth. But he wasn’t going to give in to the silence.
I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a killer.
He didn’t realize he’d spoken the words aloud until Masters answered him.
“I know that, man. Anyone with his lid screwed on tight knows that. But when the chief’s favorite rookie winds up dead...”
The other man’s voice carried on, but Brooks had tuned him out again, this time because he really didn’t want to hear what Masters had to say.
His gaze drifted back toward the striking brunette, but she and her lover were gone.
Maybe to take their tryst to the next level. Maybe to—
Brooks’s musings cut off as he spotted them on the corner of the road.
The girl’s mouth was open in a silent cry, her body bent away from the man, who held her elbow tightly. Too tightly. The man lifted his other hand then and pressed it to the small of the woman’s back. Something metallic glinted in the small space between them.
Brooks leaped to his feet. His thighs slammed into the table hard enough to send the espresso cup rolling off. It smashed to the ground, and his jacket snagged on the chair again, leaving him stuck.
“Small?” Masters’s voice was full of concern.
“I have to go.”
“C—”
Whatever his partner had been about to say was lost as Brooks clicked the hang-up button. He abandoned his jacket, dropped the phone into his pocket and took off at a run.
Because he recognized that glint for what it was.
A gun.
* * *
Without warning, the man with the gun slid an arm around Maryse and pulled her back into a darkened doorway. He clamped a hand over her mouth, pushed the weapon into her back and warned her to keep quiet as a blurred figure went running by. Even with the freezing air surrounding her, and the thick winter coat acting as a buffer, the cool metal drove into her and made her shiver.
She wanted to recoil away from it. Almost as much as she wanted to recoil away from the man wielding it. The single glance she’d stolen before he bundled up his face was enough to make her chest squeeze with fear. His eyes were dark, angry slashes. His mouth no better. A terrible, star-shaped scar covered one cheek.
Maryse closed her eyes for just a second and reined in another shiver.
What were you expecting? she chastised silently. A kidnapper who looked like Santa Claus?
But truthfully, it didn’t matter what he looked like, any more than it mattered he had a weapon. The uncertainty of her daughter’s fate and the hope that this man would lead Maryse to her were more than enough to keep her quiet.
After several long minutes, he forced her back to the sidewalk. And as he led her through the warren of streets, she swore she could feel the cool metal barrel digging a little farther into the small of her back with each step.
Hold on, she told herself. Means to an end. This man knows where Cami is.
She resisted an urge to ask about Camille’s safety. He’d made it clear he didn’t want to hear the sound of her voice. When they’d left the hotel doors, she’d uttered a single word and he’d pinched her so hard that it still smarted.
Trying to distract herself, she glanced up at the nearest building and tried to place it. But it was too late to orient herself. They’d already managed to weave through a half dozen streets that blended together.
Rue Rouge.
Rue Laurent.
Rue...who knew what?
The corners came quickly, and the buildings were piled atop one another, each looking as drearily the same as the other.
Please, she prayed silently, just let her be okay.
In spite of her resolve not to show any emotion, tears pricked at her eyes. It got worse when she glanced up and saw a discarded doll hanging from the edge of a balcony. Normally, that kind of thing made her smile. This time, it made her cringe. Unconsciously, she slowed to stare. And it earned her yet another sharp jab.
“Go,” growled the gunman.
Maryse stumbled a little as they reached yet another corner, this one unmarked by any street sign at all. In her boot, one of her ankles twisted. Even though she tried to bite down and keep it in, a little cry escaped her lips.
Weakness, she chastised herself.
Not something she should be showing. Not if she wanted to negotiate her daughter’s release. The smallest chink in the armor could jeopardize that chance. So she ignored the searing pain that shot up her leg from her twisted ankle, and she let the man behind her push her on.
But they only made it four more steps—not quite all the way across the road—when he abruptly released her arm. As he let her go, he barked out something gutturally unintelligible. For a second, she thought he’d switched to speaking in French. Puzzled, Maryse spun to face him.
Then stepped back as he flew toward her.
What the—
Her thought cut off as her mind worked, trying to make sense of what she saw.
His eyes were wide, his mouth open. A crimson drop fell from one corner of his lips. Then his body hit the ground, and she figured it out.
Not French, she realized. And not English, either.
The sound he’d made hadn’t been words at all. Just a last utterance.
As if to confirm it, his coat flapped open, revealing an increasing pool of red, with a narrow hole in the center.
A gunshot wound.
Maryse’s gut twisted, and she doubled over. The motion saved her. A bullet whizzed by, then slammed into the ground just a few feet in front of her.
With her heart in her throat, Maryse righted herself, turned and fled toward the buildings on the other side of the road. She pushed her back flat against the icy structure just as another bullet hit the cement, this time mere inches from her boots.
Sure it had come from above, her gaze flew up, searching. Was that a pinprick of red light, up in the window of the low-rise up the road? Did the curtains just flash? But everything was still now.
She hazarded a quick glance toward the fallen man. His head had rolled to one side, and his chest no longer rose up and down at all.
Cami.
Oh, God. What did this mean for her daughter? The man on the ground had been her one link to whoever had her.
The wall Maryse had been holding around her heart for the last few hours teetered. A dull ache formed in her chest as the anxiety threatened to overwhelm her. It made her sway a little on her feet. And she stumbled.
But surprisingly, she didn’t fall.
Instead, a warm, strong hand closed on her elbow, steadying her. Then the hand pulled her back into the building. Out of sight. Out of the potential line of fire. It gripped her tightly. And for a paralyzing instant, Maryse’s instinct wasn’t fight, and it wasn’t flight. It was simply to sink into the reassuringly solid touch. And the strange sensation worsened when she looked up and met a man’s gaze. Hazel, flecked with gold, and full of genuine concern.
She had to force herself to pull away enough to take in a little more of his appearance. Whoever he was, he had a
frame as bulky as it was tall, and if his height topped less than six foot three, Maryse would eat her wool hat. But as he pulled back a bit more and opened his mouth, it wasn’t his impressive size that made her gasp. It wasn’t even the fact that she finally recognized him as the man who’d been sitting outside the café near the hotel. It was the slight flash of metal at his hip.
Oh, God. This man is the shooter.
And Maryse was off as fast as her legs could take her. Three steps to the edge of the street. Another five to put her past the body lying there. Two more and—
The stranger’s body slammed into hers, then twisted. The motion sent them to the ground together, and for a second, Maryse was on top. But the momentum kept them going, and they rolled. Once. Twice. And on the third time, his powerful forearms locked to her elbows and his thick thighs locked hard against her hips, pinning her to the icy concrete.
He stared down at her, his hazel eyes dark. Like it was she who’d done something wrong. And it made Maryse mad. All the stress of the last few hours funneled through her, found purchase in her knee, then jerked up full force. The man must’ve seen something in her gaze, though, because he swung sideways at the last second, and she just barely managed to graze his hip.
“Stop,” he ordered, his voice full of authority.
Yeah, right.
“I’m trying to help you,” he growled.
Equally unlikely. She struggled harder to free herself, flailing wildly.
“Parlez-vous anglais?” he asked in badly accented French. “I want to let you go so we can get the hell out of here.”
As if to prove his point, he released her arms. She reached up to throw a fist at him, but before she could follow through, three more bullets—not quite rapid-fire, but successive enough to be thoroughly jarring—hit the building behind them.
It really wasn’t him, Maryse realized.
He glared down at her, an I-told-you-so look on his face. The smugness didn’t last longer than a second, though. Another shot made him jerk backward in surprise.
He let out a groan, then rolled off her and pushed to his feet. “C’mon.”
Maryse only hesitated for a heartbeat. Long enough to glance down and realize the flash she’d seen at his waist hadn’t been a gun—just a belt buckle. She took his outstretched hand and let him guide her away from the gruesome scene, and away from whoever was still firing on them.
And just in time. The wail of sirens cut through the air, warning them that authorities were on their way.
Chapter 3
Brooks was careful to keep their flight as casual as possible. Not just because he had a sharp, dangerous burn in his shoulder, but because he knew what the cops would be looking for. He knew what he would be looking for himself, if he was in their shoes: a couple on the run. So he hugged the buildings to stay out of sight and moved at an unsuspicious pace. He could tell that the woman—who was now gripping his hand tightly, and who still hadn’t said a word—wanted to move faster. Her feet kept trying to pick up the pace, and Brooks was the one holding them back.
Why had the sound of the siren spooked her even more?
She was visibly shaken up by the impending arrival of the police, and in Brooks’s experience, that usually meant trouble. And running from the scene of a crime... He shook his head. Never mind the legality of it, he knew how bad it looked.
Deal with it later, he said to himself. When she feels safe and is calm enough to explain.
If she ever did. She kept glancing over her shoulder, then jerking her head forward.
“If you can understand me,” Brooks said softly. “Try to focus on something ahead of you instead of thinking about what’s behind you. Look at the fire hydrant. Then, when we get there, pick something else. A sign or a landmark. Anything.”
He had no idea if she knew what he meant, or if it was just his tone, but she took a breath, and her frantic movements eased. Her pace slowed, too.
Good, Brooks thought. Just a couple out for a leisurely stroll. In arctic temperatures.
Which he was really starting to feel now that the adrenaline was wearing off. The only thing keeping him from being completely frozen was the closeness of the woman beside him. In his hurry to keep her safe, he’d almost forgotten what had drawn his attention to her in the first place. Her classic, China-doll beauty. Walking beside her, hands clasped, hips bumping...it was impossible not to think about it. Definitely enough to warm him far more than the parka he hated. Which he was never going to get back now. Because even though they had come nearer to the hotel and the café—just a few streets away, in fact—he didn’t want to risk returning. If someone had seen his sudden departure, they might put two and two together and want to ask questions he didn’t have the answers for. Yet.
He gave the woman’s hand a reassuring squeeze, then directed her up a street he knew well. His own.
He let go of her hand and stopped in front of the familiar brick building he’d called home for the last two months, then pointed up before asking again, “Parlez-vous anglais?”
She stared at him for a long moment, her pretty mouth set in a line but her arms and hands moving silently. It took Brooks a moment, but as her face and hands worked, he realized it wasn’t random. It was something he recognized. A language he knew, at least partly.
Crazy if he thinks I’m answering, she was saying. Crazier still if he thinks I’m going in there with him.
Are you deaf? he signed back—clumsily and more of a literal translation than a true use of the language, but to the best of his ability. Or do you just like to talk to yourself in ASL?
Her clear blue eyes widened, and she didn’t have to sign what she was thinking. She clearly hadn’t expected him to recognize the gestures, let alone understand them.
I had a cousin who was deaf, he signed, then added, Well? Anything to say?
She sighed. “I’m not deaf.”
“And you do speak English.”
“Yes. And French. Better than you do, apparently.”
He noticed that she had to hold her hands stiffly at her sides to keep from signing along with her words. Who in her life was deaf? He glanced down at her ringed finger. Her husband? Where was he, while she was out here getting shot at in the streets of Laval? And why did it bother Brooks so much that the man wasn’t there to protect her?
He forced his attention back to the moment. “Do you really have time to fight about my language skills?”
“No. I don’t. Speaking of which...” She turned away.
Automatically, Brooks shot out a hand to restrain her. “You can’t just go running right back out there.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“You do have a choice.”
She shook off his grip and glanced up at his apartment building. “That’s not a choice.”
“Listen to me,” Brooks said. “Whoever called the police may have got a good look at you. If you head back into those streets, you risk being caught. If not right this second, then as soon as they start circulating your description.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she argued.
“But you are a witness, and I’m guessing that if you don’t have time to argue with me about my pronunciation, you don’t have time to give an hours-long statement to the police, either,” he replied. “And even if you do somehow manage to elude them, I’m guessing that whoever was firing at you isn’t going to just give up.”
Her face crumpled, and for a second, Brooks thought she might cry. An unexpected tug of sympathy pulled at his heart, and an accompanying urge to pull her into his arms. He made himself resist, but when he spoke again, it was in a far gentler tone.
“You may not like the choice, but I’m all you’ve got.” He paused, then signed the rest of what he had to say. I saved your life. I might be able to help y
ou again. At the very least, give me a chance to keep you alive long enough to learn your name.
Her eyes flicked up the street, then to the apartment building, then back to Brooks. There was the tiniest sliver of hope in those baby blues.
“Ten minutes,” she said.
“Guess I’ll take what I can get.”
He led her through the front doors, then down the hall and up the stairs to his second-floor suite. It was a small, one-bedroom deal, prefurnished and practical. Clearly intended for short-term stay.
“Sorry about the lack of luxury,” he said. “Laval isn’t home for me, usually.”
“It’s okay.”
He waited for her to add something else. A personal detail about her own home—wherever it might be—but she just stood in the center of the adjoining kitchen and living room, like she wasn’t sure where to go. Admittedly, it felt funny to Brooks, too, to have company. He’d been treating the apartment more like a hotel room than like a home, barely unpacking his suitcase or adding any personal touches. Of course, this was the first time he’d even been conscious of that fact.
“Sit down,” Brooks suggested. “Coffee?”
“I’m fine.”
He stifled a sigh. The pain in his shoulder was back with a vengeance, and it was worsening his mood. He didn’t feel much like being patient, but the last thing he wanted was for her to bolt. And from the way her eyes kept twitching toward the door, he was sure she was counting the seconds until she could do it.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked.
Why would I? she signed.
So I can help you, he replied.
“I doubt it’s possible,” she said aloud.
“Try me.”
“Tell me something first,” she said.
“Okay.”
“Why did you help me?”
Brooks said the first thing that popped into his head. “Women in distress. Personal weakness.”
Silent Rescue Page 3
