by Diana Duncan
She longingly pictured the O’Rourke clan gathered around Maureen’s sturdy oak dining set. Teasing and laughter would have accompanied banter about the day’s events over filling, homey foods. As she’d told Con, she had no reason to complain. She’d never gone hungry. However, after Bailey’s dad died, meals at the Chambers’ household became damask and china affairs with menus designed for sophisticated palates. With emphasis on intelligent conversation and using the proper fork.
Ellen Chambers had invested considerable energy into raising Bailey in preparation for what she called “marrying well.” A serious, refined, Armani-clad financier or respected corporate lawyer would do nicely. Blech again. That kind of stiff sounded less appetizing than Grady’s Can-Do Casserole.
Bailey, who’d escaped her rigid, no-nonsense home life through books and make-believe, had always had a thing for gallant knights in shining armor.
Con gestured with his bag. “Here we are.”
He retrieved the packs and blankets from their hiding spots beneath a wooden bench inside the doorway. “Let’s set up camp in one of the big tents in the back. It will be warm, dry and hidden.” He piled the supplies on the bench and indicated for her to do the same. “Safety first. Come with me.”
He strode out to the mall walkway and yanked down a length of fir swag from the balcony railing. He detached a handful of glass ball ornaments from the swag and passed them to her. Then he grabbed another handful and began throwing them to the floor outside the store. The shards tinkled musically over the faux marble. “Start chucking Christmas balls, darlin’.”
She watched him, her brows knit in puzzlement. “You get a sudden, inexplicable urge to commit vandalism?”
“Listen.” He stepped on the shards, and they made a distinct crunching sound under his boot soles. “Early warning system. We can cozy up in a tent in the back, and if anyone heads our way, we’ll hear. To them, it will simply look like the swag fell under its own weight and the ornaments scattered and broke.”
Amazed, she flung ornaments. “You are one smart cookie.”
“Aidan gets credit for this maneuver. He knows damn near every survival trick in the book.”
“Speaking of your capable, hard-headed-as-a-rock big brother, what are he and the SWAT team doing now?”
“First they’ll secure the incident site and gather as much intel from as many different sources as possible. About the mall, suspects and hostages. Next, establish communication with the bad guys. Acquire a list of demands and bargain for hostage release.”
They finished smashing ornaments and moved into the store. Inside, Maxwell Moose sprawled like a petrified hit-and-run victim across three collapsed tents, his hooves pointing straight up.
There were no emergency lights, and farther in, the hushed blackness was thick and inky. Bailey retrieved a flashlight from her pack and angled the beam in a slow circle. The store was huge. The vaulted ceiling was painted like a night sky, complete with glow-in-the-dark stars and northern lights. Wall murals gave the impression of a secluded Alaskan clearing surrounded by forest. Gave the perception of solitude. Safety. A fantasy she desperately wanted to buy into. Dripping fake trees sat around the room, along with water-beaded tents. Shelves bulged with camping and survival equipment. As a hiding place, it had merit.
“How will they contact the robbers? Yelling through a megaphone seems counterproductive to peace talks.”
Con handed her the food bags and then picked up the packs and blankets. “The negotiator has a throw phone. A mobile unit he tosses out. The suspects retrieve it and take it inside. Meanwhile, armed officers have surrounded the building in both a tight inner and outer perimeter, and snipers are in position. They’ve got a miserable job. Lying on the ground, no matter the weather, waiting. Watching, staying alert, immobile for hours.”
With him following, she walked to a large tent at the back of the store. She set the food on a dry spot on the carpet near the tent, and he did the same with the packs. While she and Con would be cozy inside their shelter, the men sent to rescue them would patiently endure hours of wet, freezing exposure in the storm. Worse, they could face gunfire. Sympathy, along with anxiety for the officers’ welfare weighted her chest. She’d thought giving up her own time to help redecorate the bookstore was devotion to duty. “Are the snipers there to shoot the bank robbers?”
“Maybe, eventually.” He got out the other flashlight and propped both to cast yellow circles in the immediate vicinity. “Right now, they’re an important source of intel. They report everything they see through their scopes. They watch for a clear line of fire, but won’t shoot without a green light from command. It’s a last resort. With this many suspects, taking them all out with simultaneous cold shots is out of the question.”
She shrugged off the heavy Kevlar vest and dumped it inside the tent. She rubbed her icy hands together. “What’s a cold shot?”
“Depending on where in the body a person is shot, they can still function far too long. I’ve seen mortally wounded suspects run more than fifty yards. Continue shooting for nearly a minute. Plenty of time for them to inflict injury or death.”
He folded back the tent flaps. The interior was protected from the sprinklers’ devastation and would provide a barrier against the pervasive chill. “A cold shot is a bullet to the brain stem. It’s a small target area, between the nose and upper lip, and takes considerable skill. Drops ’em instantly. Immediate neutralization.”
She closed her eyes against the horrific mental picture, but it didn’t help. His cool recitation about snipers severing brain stems might have been about the weather. How did Con block the disturbing images, the terrible memories day in, day out? She opened her eyes and focused on the shelves lining the store. As dangerous as their situation was, the worst thing she’d witnessed was a vicious fight and Syrone’s bullet wound. She’d better prepare. As the night advanced, the risk of violence increased.
Dread churned in her empty stomach. If lethal force became necessary, could she handle watching Con kill someone? And how would she feel about him afterward?
He tore apart plastic envelopes containing the comforters and shook out the blankets, spreading one on the tent floor, folding the second into a bulky pillow and reserving the third in a crumpled pile inside the tent. “Shooting through wind, rain or glass changes the bullet’s trajectory. One miscalculation and you’ve got dead officers and/or hostages. Which is why snipers spend hundreds of hours of their own time on the firing range. A lot of lives depend on them. They’re carrying a huge responsibility on their shoulders.”
“You all carry heavy responsibility.” Her voice was thick with sadness for both the dead and the staunch officers who had to make the wrenching decisions. “Hold many lives in your hands.”
He backed out of the tent and studied her somber face. “Ah, sorry, baby. More than you wanted to know.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m beginning to see the quandaries police officers face. Imagining what your job is like doesn’t even begin to come close. It’s important for me to know the truth. Knowing the circumstances helps me understand how you react to things. Helps me understand what you do and why you do it.”
His considering gaze studied her. “A few hours ago, this conversation would have freaked you out.”
“A few hours ago, I was living in la-la land. Reality got shoved in my face.” She walked to the shelves and returned with a butane camping lantern, waterproof matches, insulated mugs and bottled water. “What else is happening out there?”
“Greene has probably called the birds for air support.”
“You mean helicopters?”
“Yeah. And the war wagon, the armored transport truck, will be parked by the command center. It’s jam-packed with battering rams, door breechers, flash-bangs, tear gas, grenades. Guns of every caliber. A shoulder-held missile launcher. Even a computer center. Everything needed for close-quarters urban combat.”
He assembled a lantern with his usual efficient g
race. “Now that I’ve signaled the position and condition of all involved, and command knows no lives are in immediate jeopardy, we can stand down for a while. We’ve done our jobs and we can let them do theirs.”
“What will they do?”
“Wait. Negotiate. Wait some more. Cold, darkness, the long dragging hours all work in SWAT’s favor. The suspects are under high tension. Uncertain of their position or tonight’s outcome. The stressful conditions are wearing on their nerves by the minute. Hell, by the end of a siege, most suspects are happy to surrender and go to a nice, warm, well-lit jail cell.”
“Most.” She carried the supplies into the tent, and he followed with the lantern. “Not all.”
“No.” He scratched a match on the box and lit the lantern. “I could have used these earlier. Too bad we were at the opposite end of the third floor.” He adjusted a knob and a soft glow permeated the tent. “There are always a few who insist on going down hard. Let’s hope we don’t come to that.”
She removed cheese, rolls and napkins from the bag, and began to tear the rolls in half. “If we do?”
He retrieved the flashlights from outside. “No need to worry in advance. We’ll handle it as it happens.”
Anxiety quivered inside her. “I’ll bet you’ve worried in advance, haven’t you?”
“Worrying and planning are two different entities. I’ve run a couple mental scenarios, just in case.”
“So, what are they? What’s our next task?”
“At the moment, our priorities are eat, rest and recharge.” He extracted the cardboard cups of soup, cocoa and coffee and transferred them to the insulated mugs she’d found. “The battle is far from over. We’ll need every iota of energy, strength and wits to survive the night.”
Busy stacking cheese on the rolls, she jerked, nearly dropping the food. “Will we survive the night?”
“Yeah. We will. One step at a time.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I refuse to consider any other option.”
Her Lancelot would never give up. Never surrender to evil. He’d fight to the last breath. Well, dang it, so would she. If, like the Cowardly Lion, she could only find her courage. She passed him a napkin holding two makeshift cheese sandwiches. “I owe you an apology.”
He handed her a warm mug of soup and a plastic spoon. “Eat.”
“But—”
“Baby, eat now. Apologize later. I insist.”
“Only because you insist.” She’d probably be more coherent after nourishment anyway.
Snuggled inside the tent, the lantern lending a soft glow, they feasted. The simple but hearty food and warm drinks lifted Bailey’s spirits and restored her energy.
Con finished his pie and coffee, stretched, and gave a satisfied groan. “That hit the spot. My stomach was starting to think my throat had been cut.”
He threw their trash into the trash can in the storeroom. Back inside the tent, he drew her down beside him, using the folded comforter as a pillow. Covering them with another comforter, he took her into his arms. “Now, the resting portion of the evening.”
She yawned. Resting sounded wonderful. She glanced around the dimly lit tent, noticing he’d positioned himself where he could see the door. He’d put her behind him, shielding her with his body. An unsettling reminder of their situation and his determination to protect her. “It’s dangerous for us to nap.”
“I’m not going to sleep. You are. I’ve trained myself to rest yet remain alert. The broken ornaments will warn me if anyone ventures upstairs.”
She nestled against his lean, warm strength and worried her lower lip between her teeth. “About that apology. I insist.”
He sighed. “Only because you insist.”
“I owe you. I reacted badly to the fight, and I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. You were suffering battle shock.”
“It’s not okay. You saved my life, and I made you think your touch repulsed me. That’s inexcusable.”
He stroked his thumb across her lower lip, and the air hitched in her lungs. He chuckled. “I’d never think that.”
“It’s just…” It was tough to think with his glowing brown eyes so close, his intense gaze ensnaring hers. His muscled body, so solid, so warm, nestled against her. “Let me explain.”
“Explain at will, darlin’.”
“I’ve always believed that deep down, there’s a shred of good in every person. Causing pain to anyone, or anything…hurts me. I imagine their suffering so vividly. Almost like their distress is my own. Inflicting hurt makes my heart ache.”
“My sweet girl.” He trailed a gentle fingertip down her cheek. “I can’t fault you for having a tender heart.”
“But I felt differently after we found Syrone, after I saw what they’d done to him. After he asked us to tell his wife and kids how much he loved them if he didn’t make it…” Her voice wobbled. “I was sick at the thought they’d shot him in cold blood. I was furious. I wanted to hurt them back. Then that made me sick. I’ve never had vengeful feelings before. It was so confusing.”
“I understand. I felt the same way. It’s tough to stay objective when the pain is personal.”
“I want to contribute something worthy to this difficult world we live in—make a difference.”
“Getting mad at injustice doesn’t make you a bad person, sweetheart. It makes you human. Don’t be afraid of your feelings.” The lantern’s aura coaxed molten gold flecks from his dark eyes. “Now, acting on them is a different story.”
“That’s the worst part. How do you know when your motives are good and when they’re not? I want to do the right thing.”
“Since you’re uncomfortable discussing my job, I’ve never shared the reason I became a cop. It’s time I did.”
“I didn’t realize you avoided discussing your job.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. I’d really like to hear why you became a cop.”
“The story involves Letty, our irrepressible neighbor. When I was twelve, she was mugged. The attack happened in our neighborhood, in daylight. She was walking home from the drugstore around the corner. The guy knocked her down and stole her purse. She cracked two ribs and was in the hospital for a few days.”
“Oh, no! How awful!”
“The physical injury wasn’t the worst. After she got home, she was afraid to leave the house. She couldn’t go shopping, stopped taking walks and wouldn’t even work in her garden.”
“She’s so independent, I can imagine how traumatized she must have been for it to affect her that way.”
“Pop’s personal mission was to catch the creep. He worked the streets and pushed hard. He knew time was against him, and went without sleep for three days. Put in as many off-the-clock overtime hours as if the case had been a homicide.”
A troubled expression creased her brows. “So your heroic tendencies are inherited—a second-generation warrior.”
“Fourth. My grandpa and great-grandpa were cops.”
She uttered another sad little sigh that made his chest ache. “I might have known. Did your dad catch the mugger?”
“Yeah.” He snarled. “A junkie. Pop put him away for a string of smash-and-grabs on senior citizens.”
“Did your father find Letty’s purse?”
“Yep. He replaced her cash himself and told her he’d recovered it with the purse. He also started a neighborhood watch and a senior self-defense class.” He grinned. “During the classes, Letty connected with her inner spunky woman. If any hapless mugger tried to victimize her now, she’d probably wallop him upside the head and give him a concussion.”
She laughed again. “I don’t doubt it. Your father was a good man. You inherited more than your profession from him.”
“Thank you, darlin’.” He smiled at her. “Dad didn’t just recover Letty’s stolen property. After he apprehended the jerk, she felt safe again. The arrest, neighborhood watch and classes restored the most valuable things the mugger stole—her confidence, independ
ence and peace of mind. Dad returned those to her. That’s when I knew for sure I wanted to be a cop.”
“I can see why.”
“Do you?” He held her gaze. “Like I said before, I stand between Letty and the bad guys. Between you and the bad guys. Between evil and the innocent.”
“You’re an incredible man, do you know that?”
“What I’m trying to explain is that when you know your priorities, and what you value most, the right decisions follow.” His soft breath, smelling enticingly of apples and cinnamon, teased her lips. “Only you know your motives. Only you will know for certain you’re doing the right thing.”
“It’s so complicated.”
“If the right thing was easy, baby, more people would do it.” His beautiful mouth moved closer, and his soft lips touched hers. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “When the time comes, you’ll know.”
She slid her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss. Empowered by the bond created by his mouth on hers, his body pressed to hers, she poured out her pent-up feelings. Trying to tell him without words how much she needed him. Valued him. Cherished him.
In Con’s embrace was exactly where she belonged.
He threaded his fingers into her hair, holding her as close as two people could be. His silky tongue teased, danced, mated with hers in a fierce, primitive rhythm only the two of them knew. His taste, his scent flooded her senses. Nothing existed but him. Nothing mattered except love. His for her, hers for him.
He lingered over her mouth, drinking her in. Cherishing her in return. Nourishing and strengthening her more than the food. The soul-deep connection thrummed like the heavy jungle beat of drums between them.
His lips kissed a hot, moist path along her jaw, her earlobe, the hollow of her neck. His ragged breaths teased her skin, raising goose bumps. The fine sandpaper brush of his beard rasped in sensual accompaniment to his talented mouth. Pleasure raced with gossamer wings over her nerve endings, dipping into every curve and hollow, then settling, warm and liquid in her center.
