by Diana Duncan
She ran down the aisle toward the front of the store, yanking cords as she went. Fear and her momentum empowered her. Reach, grab, pull! Monitors, keyboards, printers fell and shattered behind her. Pandemonium strewed in her wake. A tangle of glass, plastic and wires for him to hurdle.
He swore and scrabbled behind her. His hands snatched at her clothing. She swerved and sprinted toward the end of the aisle. Reaching her goal, she whirled and shoved over a big screen TV. The deafening explosion probably jolted the dead in the mortuary down the street. Her notebook tally was gonna go into triple columns.
Disoriented by darkness, terror and the fight-or-flight reflex ricocheting through her, she couldn’t find the exit. Panting, she hurtled around a corner and crouched behind an entertainment armoire. She tried to slow her rasping breaths and pounding heart enough to hear her pursuer. Where was he?
Footsteps, crunching glass sounded twenty feet behind her. Con was right. Sound was a dead giveaway. Con. Crushing pain swamped her, and she fought it. She couldn’t, wouldn’t speculate about Con’s fate now. She had to believe he was still alive. Had to get to him. If he was wounded, she was his only hope.
“I like party games, Fairy.” The robber’s words vibrated with amusement and sick excitement.
Great. A whack job. You didn’t have to be psychotic to rob banks, but it probably helped during the killing part. Cold sweat dampened Bailey’s skin as she weighed her options. Hide. Run. Attack. None seemed particularly feasible. Or likely to succeed.
“Come out, come out,” he cajoled in an eerie singsong, sounding closer.
She crawled along the floor, feeling to make sure she wouldn’t tread on debris and give away her position.
“Wherever you are…” His boots crunched on the broken glass.
Definitely closer!
She glanced up. There! Thirty feet ahead, the gloom lessened. The mall exit! Still crawling, she crept forward.
The robber’s footsteps followed. She heard his ragged breathing. Imagined she smelled onions. Locked in the deadly game of cat and mouse, fear threatened to strangle her. Render her helpless. She’d used humane traps to deport rodents from the bookstore, but after crawling a scary mile in their little pink feet, sympathy for the critters churned inside her.
“I’ll find you, Fairy.” Closer still. “And make you pay.”
Her fingertips brushed a metal strip, then carpet. Yes! The front of the store was carpeted. Hunkered behind another big-screen TV—intact, for now—she eased off the pack. As carefully as if she were disarming a nuclear bomb, she reached inside and lifted out the retractable clothesline from the camping store. One small, revealing noise could get her killed.
“Now I’m bored,” the robber complained.
He was about ten feet behind her, but he’d veered to the right. With any luck, she might have enough time. Though her brain screamed, hurry, she crawled slowly around the TV. Looping the clothesline, she tied a secure knot.
“I hate being bored.” He shoved something and it crashed to the floor.
She flinched. Wonderful. The whacko was now a really ticked off whacko.
Trailing the clothesline behind her, she crawled parallel to the exit until she reached the opposite side of the store.
The robber swore again. “Did you somehow sneak past me?” His rapid boot steps crunched toward her.
She quickly pulled the clothesline tight and looped the other end around a heavy metal filing cabinet. Shin high, the tightly strung plastic rope made a perfect tripwire.
Bailey re-shouldered her pack, shoved to her feet and tore into the mall.
The robber shouted. He’d seen her! His running footsteps followed.
She’d sprinted five yards along the railing edge of the balcony when he yelled, cursed and a thud vibrated the floor. She risked a quick look backward. Her pursuer lay spread-eagled on the faux marble like a sacrificial victim staked out on an anthill.
Ha. Never underestimate a woman who reads, indeed! Especially a guy who’d stood in the brawn line twice, and skipped the brains altogether.
She turned and ran toward the escalators. She had to get downstairs, to Con! Con. She stumbled. If the robber had gotten past him, Con was either wounded or…she couldn’t bear to finish. Her duty at the moment was survival. Con would want that.
He’d spent the entire night ensuring her survival.
Her exhausted limbs dragged like lead weights. The day had been long, the night even longer, and she was fighting the strain. She forced herself to keep running. Syrone. She’d head for Syrone. He had a machine gun, and knew how to use it. She could access her red walkie-talkie to warn him, and he’d ambush the guy. Then she’d find Con and help him.
Running footsteps pounded behind her, and she shot another look over her shoulder. Glacier Eyes was up and closing the distance. Fast. The fierce scowl creasing his broad forehead told her he was seething.
Her heart thundered. Dread streaked through her veins, and she poured on the speed. If he caught her, there would be no more chances.
The escalator came into sight. Almost there. Keep going.
Shockwaves exploded inside her as the robber grabbed the back of her sweatshirt and jerked her to a stop. No! Oh, no! So close!
He spun her around to face him. Red-faced, he growled, “Think you’re clever?” Iron fingers clamped her shoulders, and he shook her so hard her spine nearly snapped. “I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.” He raised his fist and backhanded her across the face, knocking her to the floor several yards away.
Dazed, gasping, she sprawled on the cold marble. Her head spun, her face throbbed and black spots swam in her vision. She licked her stinging lips and tasted blood. Down and fading fast. As helpless as baby Constance. His face contorted with hate, the robber lunged at her. Her life expectancy was about two minutes.
They would probably seem longer.
A savage war cry rang in her ears, and Con hurtled out of the stairwell. His narrowed gaze touched her briefly, and the rage in it sent her reeling.
“I’ll kill you for that, you bastard!” Running full out, Con tackled the robber.
Joy thrummed through her. Con was alive! And looking plenty healthy.
He clocked Glacier Eyes with a powerful punch to the jaw. The robber grunted and staggered. Then he rebounded and slugged Con.
She tried to scramble to her feet as the men battled, but couldn’t coordinate her disjointed arms and legs. The blow had stunned her more than she’d realized.
Glacier Eyes’ fist rammed into Con’s stomach. Con bent double and the robber whipped his gun from the holster.
“Con, gun!” she yelled.
Con’s hands shot out and clamped onto the robber’s wrist, and the pistol waved wildly between them. The men struggled for possession.
The robber aimed a vicious kick at Con’s knee. Con feinted left, deflecting the blow. The robber broke free of Con’s hold, whirled, and pointed the gun at her head. “Shut up!”
She stared into the black hole at the end of the cylinder. Stared at her own death. So, this is how her life would end.
Then everything segued into slow motion. Con wheeled into a crouch in front of her, flinging his body between her and the gun.
Three loud pops broke the silence.
Con jerked backward, then lurched sideways.
Her heart leapt into her throat. He’d been shot!
Events rocketed into fast-forward. Panic careened through her. She surged to her feet, her horrified gaze searching for blood on Con’s clothing. She didn’t see any.
The body armor! Con was okay. The vest had stopped the bullets.
As relief ebbed away her panic, Con’s arms shot out, and he dug his fingers into the robber’s shirt. Locked in the horrible dance, the men swung on the momentum and slammed into the balcony railing. For an awful moment they hung suspended in midair.
Then they pitched over the balcony and disappeared.
The robber’s scream
broke off mid-cry. Con didn’t make a sound.
She heard thrashing, felt a gust of wind and then a horrendous crash shook the walls.
Silence descended. Dead silence.
She stood paralyzed. Her breath stopped. Her heart stopped.
The world stopped.
The three-story fall had to have killed them both.
Chapter 13
1:00 a.m.
Con! Oh, God, Con!
Bailey didn’t remember running downstairs, but she was standing in front of the ruined Christmas tree. Fake pine boughs, broken decorations and torn garland littered the floor. The grappling men must have collided with the tree and ridden it to the ground. The lofty branches had slowed the descent and cushioned their fall.
The robber lay crumpled in the snow batting. Unconscious, but alive, both legs at awkward angles. Looked like he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Her fingers clenched into fists. If he had killed Con, she would personally strangle him with her bare hands.
“Con?” Her frantic gaze scanned the rubble, but she didn’t see Con. If the robber had survived the fall, maybe Con had, too. “Can you hear me?”
She prayed harder than ever before as she searched. What would she do if he was as incapacitated as the robber? Her forearm brushed the walkie-talkies at her belt, and she swallowed hard. If he were badly injured, she would call in the SWAT team.
Bailey spotted the pistol near the robber’s limp right hand. Her lip curled in loathing. She took a deep breath and picked up the barrel between her thumb and forefinger, pointing it away from her. The gun was much heavier than she’d expected. And deathly cold. Was the safety on? She didn’t know where the safety was, or what it looked like. A three-story fall hadn’t caused the gun to fire, so it was probably okay in her pack for a short time. As long as she was careful. With a shudder, she eased it inside.
“Con!” she called again, her throat tight and aching. “Where are you?”
A low groan filtered out from beneath huge, twisted boughs twenty feet ahead. She scrambled over a mountain of flattened packages, squelching the urge to claw the debris aside. Exerting supreme control over her screaming emotions, she gently scooped up crushed ornaments and shredded garland. One at an excruciating time, she lifted branches.
Con lay sandwiched between layers of boughs. His beloved face was scratched, bruised and streaked with blood, but he was conscious. Relieved tears stung her eyelids. “You’re alive!”
He groaned again. “Yeah. I can tell by the pain.”
She wanted to fling her arms around him, but didn’t dare. “Did you lose consciousness? How badly are you hurt?”
He hesitated, as if taking stock. “I’m not sure if I went lights out or not. It’s all a blur. Nothing seems broken. My chest smarts where the Kevlar absorbed the rounds. That’s SOP.”
“SOP?”
“Standard operating procedure.”
“Okay, anything else?”
“My head hurts like a mother. Oh, and I can’t see so hot.”
He couldn’t see? Panic assailed her before she realized why. “There’s a cut above your right eyebrow. Blood is running into your eyes.”
“Head wounds do that. Don’t freak, darlin’.”
“Do I look like I’m freaking?” Other than the fact that she was trembling from forehead to toenails. Avoiding the pistol, she rummaged inside her pack for bandages. Good thing she’d stocked up when she’d scavenged first-aid supplies for Syrone. “For Pete’s sake. After tonight, a little thing like a minor head wound will hardly spazz me out.” She hoped it was minor. Please, God, let it be minor.
He grinned. “That’s my slugger. Sexy and strong.”
“Here.” She pressed folded gauze to the wound. “Hold this in place.” She gently cleaned his ravaged face with a wet wipe.
“You’re still blurry.” He reached up with an unsteady hand and his thumb caressed her bottom lip. “He drew blood on my woman. That’s a killing offense.”
“Easy there, Conall. Don’t go all Clan of the Cave Bear on me.”
“He hit you.” His eyes glittered with heated fury. “I wanted to hurt him, baby. Bad.”
“I know.” Surprisingly, she’d felt the same when she thought the robber had killed Con. Even more surprising, she’d accepted it. Without shame. Without guilt. Con belonged to her, and by heaven, no one would deliberately harm him and get away with it.
She gently kissed his warm, bristly cheek. He wasn’t the only one who possessed the instinct to protect his mate. “You did what you had to. You saved my life. Given the chance, he would have killed us both.”
He blinked, his face etched with amazement. “Glad you understand. Do you know where he landed? What is his condition?”
“In the batting, twenty feet back. He’s unconscious and it appears both his legs are broken. He’s no longer a threat, and there’s nothing we can do for him right now.”
“See if you can find the pistol.”
“Done. It’s in my pack.”
“Come again?” He did a double take. “You picked up a gun?”
She’d rather eat raw worm pudding than handle a gun, but a girl had to do what a girl had to do. “I could hardly leave it there for him to shoot us with. Can you stand? We should get out of this exposed area.”
“Baby, if you can handle a gun, I sure as hell can get upright.”
She helped him sit up. Leaning heavily on her, he struggled to his feet. The second he stood, his knees collapsed and he dropped to all fours. “I can do this. Give me a sec.”
“Hang on.” She sprinted to the office chair she’d used to transport Nan. It was dented and one arm was broken. Thankfully, the wheels still worked. “Take a load off, Officer Sexy.”
“I can walk,” he insisted.
“I’m sure you can. Indulge me.”
He wobbled and staggered as she helped him into the chair. His solidly muscled body weighed a ton, and he was a lot weaker than expected. “I’m fine.”
She disposed of the soaked gauze and placed a fresh pad on his bleeding forehead. “I know you are.” She cleared a serpentine path through the rubble, skirting objects too heavy or awkward to move. Then she wheeled him through the maze of debris to the end of the mall and into Sears. Jeez, men. One arm could be dangling by a tendon, and they’d insist they were perfectly okay. However, a head cold sent them to bed, where they proclaimed incapacitation and imminent death. What was up with that?
She pushed Con to the furniture department, and parked the chair in a corner while she constructed a makeshift fortress out of furniture like he’d made for Syrone.
“Hey.” Con tried to get up, but fell back into the chair. “Stop moving all that heavy furniture around. You’ll hurt yourself.” His words had begun to slur. Maybe getting him up had exacerbated his head injury. Not good. “Let me help you.”
“It’s okay,” she soothed, tearing plastic off a queen-size mattress. “I’m almost done. Keep pressure on your forehead, or the bleeding will never stop.”
“I’m good to go.”
“And I’m gonna take up target practice,” she muttered as she tore open packages and extracted pillows and blankets. “You bet.”
“What?”
“I said, hold still while I put blankets on this mattress. Then you can rest.”
“Can’t rest. No rest for the wicked…” His insistent tone lost momentum, as if he’d forgotten what he was about to say. “I…have things to do.”
She hurriedly shook out a madras plaid comforter. He needed to be prone, and kept warm, or he could go into shock. “I know. In a little while.” She wheeled him to the bed. “Are you dizzy?”
“No.” She helped him stand and he swayed like a palm tree in a hurricane. “Maybe a little.”
“Do you feel sick to your stomach?”
“Don’t fuss. I’m fine.”
Mr. “Fine” probably had a concussion. She got him on the bed, propped a down pillow under his head, and then covered him with two
blankets and a comforter. “Let’s have a look at that cut.”
“It’s nothing. A scratch. Slap on a butterfly bandage, and it will be…”
She chimed in, making a wry face. “Fine.”
“No need to get snarky.”
Her wounded knight looked so indignant she couldn’t help but chuckle. “Sorry. You’re just so cute when you’re in macho mode.”
“Cute?” He made a gagging sound. “Now I’m nauseated.”
“I’m calling your brother.” She accessed the red walkie-talkie and switched it to voice activated. “Hello? I need the medic, please.”
“Oh no, you don’t.” Con struggled upright, and the gauze pad fell to his lap.
She planted her palms on his chest. Only his weakened condition enabled her to push him back down. “Conall Patrick O’Rourke, you stay right where I put you.” She replaced the pad. “Do not move. Or else.”
“Bossy little thing in the bedroom, aren’t you?” He chuckled and pressed the bandage to his forehead. “I have handcuffs at home, if you want ’em later.”
Though not enunciating clearly, he was lucid enough to tease her. Good sign. Some of her anxiety trickled away, and she wrinkled her nose at him. “Stop griping about my bedside manner, you pervert.”
Grady’s puzzled voice in her ear said, “Huh?”
A hot flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks. “Um…not you.”
“Drat, there goes my rep.” Grady laughed. “What do you need?”
“Tell me the danger signs for concussion.”
Grady’s tone sobered. “Who sustained a concussion?”
“Co—I mean, the Nutcracker.”
“Did he lose consciousness?” The question was sharp, all business.
“Not sure. If so, not for very long. He was awake when I found him.”
“Stiff neck or vomiting?” Grady’s voice was lethally calm. She replied in the negative, and he continued. “Good. Any severe confusion, difficulty speaking or convulsions?”
“No, but his words are a bit slurred, his vision is blurry, and he’s bleeding from a cut on the forehead.”
