Unlawful Contact

by Pamela Clare

  His head jerked as if in surprise, his reaction betraying him. “Addison’s death was ruled a suicide, and the girls overdosed—”

  “On fefe you and your buddies gave them! The same fefe you all put in my car and Megan’s room at the halfway house! Did you hold them down and force it into them, or did you give it to them and just not warn them it was laced?”

  “All we did was offer it to them. Well, I think Addison made sure the balloon had a hole in it, but the little whore swallowed it all on her own. King even managed to get a blow job out of it.” He seemed to find this amusing, his indifference so cold that it turned Sophie’s stomach. “Unfortunately, I’m going to have to kill you outright. Not that I regret it entirely. You might be a hot piece of ass, but like every other reporter you’re a bleeding heart, wasting your time on trash like the Rawlings girl.”

  “She was fifteen!”

  “She’s a thief and a drug user!”

  “She has the same right to respect and dignity as the rest of us!”

  “Enough of this bullshit.” Harburg’s gaze twitched toward the cabins again, and he slowly raised the gun. “Think I can kill both of you with one shot?”

  The breath left Sophie’s lungs on a sob, her knees about to buckle, terror buzzing like white noise in her brain. “P-please, the baby! Y-you can’t hurt the baby! She’s innocent!”

  “Just you, then.” Harburg adjusted his aim. “Don’t worry. A clean shot to the head, and you won’t feel a thing.”

  And Sophie knew she was dead.

  BAM!

  She heard her own scream and the baby’s terrified shriek—and saw Harburg spin to his left, grabbing at his side.

  “Goddamn it!” He looked toward the house.

  Stunned to be alive, it took Sophie a moment to realize what had happened.

  Connie!

  The preacher’s wife stood in the shadows of the house beneath the iced-over eaves, holding a shotgun, struggling to reload.

  “You should have used something bigger than bird shot, stupid bitch!” Harburg shifted his aim toward Connie, his free hand still pressed against his side.

  “No!” Sophie’s muscles tensed, some thought of kicking him and knocking him off balance half formed in her mind. If only she could—

  “You fucking son of a bitch!”

  Hunt!

  He lunged out from behind the garage, charging out of the darkness straight at Harburg, his wrists still cuffed, murderous fury on his face.

  But his shout had given him away.

  Harburg spun toward him, gun in hand, finger on the trigger.

  “Hunt, watch out!”

  Marc heard Sophie’s shouted warning, but this was exactly what he’d wanted—to draw Harburg’s attention away from the women to himself. And he was more than ready, seven years of pent-up hatred mixed with pure adrenaline. He jumped, pivoted, kicked—and felt the heel of his boot connect with Harburg’s temple in a bone-jarring moment of satisfaction.

  With a grunt, Harburg sprawled sideways in the snow, the gun falling from his grasp and disappearing into fresh powder.

  Marc might have been able to finish him off right then, but the snow was slick and his hands were still cuffed. He landed off balance, slipped, and fell flat on his back.

  Way to kick your own ass, dumbshit!

  By the time he was on his feet again, Harburg was on his hands and knees, fingers closing around the handle of the pistol.

  “You want it, don’t you, asshole?” Marc leapt forward and drove his boot into Harburg’s jaw. “Sorry. Can’t have it.”

  Harburg gave a stifled shriek, his head snapping back, his jaw obviously broken. A kick to the gut, and he toppled over in the snow, dead or unconscious, weapon in his limp hand.

  Marc took the gun, retrieved its twin from the shoulder holster inside Harburg’s jacket and tucked the pair—a couple of Glock 37 .45 G.A.Ps—into the front of his jeans, his gaze seeking Sophie. “You all right?”

  His heart still slamming, he did his best to keep his voice calm, though he’d never felt less calm in his life. He’d run as fast as he could, afraid he was already too late. He’d planned to sneak up behind Harburg, but then he’d seen that bastard pointing a gun at Sophie, heard the shot fire and—Jesus Christ!—his heart had nearly crashed through his chest. If it hadn’t been for the old lady and her shotgun…

  It had been so close—too goddamned close.

  Sophie gave a wooden nod, rocked the crying baby almost absentmindedly in her arms, and he could tell she was in shock. “I-I thought you were dead.”

  “I’m fine—Darcangelo and Megan, too.” He didn’t want to take his eyes off her, needed more than anything to hold her, to comfort her, to feel her alive in his arms. But there were other priorities. He hurried over to the preacher. “Looks like he took a round in the back.”

  “Harburg came up behind us.”

  Marc knelt down beside Pastor John, pressed his fingers against the old man’s carotid—and felt a thready pulse. “He’s alive.”

  But he wouldn’t be for long if they didn’t get him to the hospital.

  Knowing he needed to work quickly, Marc reached down to pull off the pastor’s coat, then remembered he was still in handcuffs. Goddamn it! He’d need a crowbar to get the damned things off thanks to Darcangelo, who had double locked them. He glanced over his shoulder to Connie, who shuffled toward them, dragging the shotgun in the snow, her face pinched with grief and shock. “Your husband’s alive, Connie. Can you help me?”

  She nodded, sank to her knees in the snow beside them. “What do I need to do?”

  “Help me get his coat off.”

  The round had penetrated just beneath the pastor’s right scapula, leaving a bleeding wound that bubbled with each shallow breath. The bullet had clearly torn up his lung and God knew what else—but it hadn’t left an exit wound.

  Anti-personnel round. Hollow-point. Made for one purpose—to kill.

  Marc wadded up the old man’s scarf and pressed it hard against the wound, trying to seal it off. “He needs direct pressure.”

  “How do I do it?”

  “Like this.” Marc guided Connie’s hands, showed her the kind of pressure that was needed, sure she would cope better if she were able to do something to help her husband. “We need to slow the bleeding and keep him from drawing more air in through the wound. You’re doing great. Just keep that up.”

  She muttered the words of a prayer, her voice a whisper.

  Marc got to his feet and glanced over to where Sophie stood, crooning to Emily, a dazed look on her face. He knew he ought to go see what was keeping Darcangelo, but he didn’t want to leave the women alone. He stepped over the pastor, walked toward Sophie, unable to keep himself away from her one moment longer. “You should go inside. It’s cold out here, and it will take a while before…”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement.

  He turned and found Harburg propped up on one elbow, slack-jawed and bleeding, another gun in his hand, its barrel pointed straight at him.

  And he’d thought the fucker was out cold.

  Marc’s hands itched to pull one of the Glocks from his jeans, but he knew he’d only provoke Harburg into shooting. And since Harburg’s weapon was already clear—where in the hell had that come from?—that meant Harburg would get his shot off first.

  You should’ve done a better job patting him down, dumbass.

  He met Harburg’s gaze. “Shoot me if you want, but it won’t do you a damned bit of good. The truth is out. Whether I’m dead or alive, they’re going to throw your ass in a cage.”

  One side of Harburg’s mustached mouth turned up in a twisted smile, then he shifted his aim, pointed the gun at Sophie, his gaze darting back to Marc, his unspoken message as clear as if he’d said it aloud.

  I might go down tonight, but I’ll hurt you by killing her first.

  With no time to do anything but react, Marc threw himself into the line of fire, drew the gun from his jea
ns, and pulled the trigger.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  He saw a round hit its mark, felt something punch into his chest, driving the breath from his lungs and throwing him onto his back. He lay still for a moment, tried to breathe, but couldn’t, blinding pain and pressure hitting him all at once. And he knew he’d been shot.

  Shit!

  But Harburg was down.

  Sophie was safe. She was safe.

  Better you than her, Hunter.

  Yes, better him.

  Time seemed to stop. Or maybe he blacked out.

  The next thing he knew, Sophie was there beside him, tears streaming down her cheeks, her hands pressing something against the entry wound. “Please, Hunt, stay with me!”

  He drew a labored breath, the pain and pressure excruciating, his heart pounding erratically in his chest. Unable to move his right arm, he tried to reach for her with his left, but his wrists were still cuffed. “Please…get them off…Get them…off.”

  He didn’t want to die in chains.

  He felt someone fiddling with his wrists, felt the steel slide away, and the cop’s head swam into view. “Hang in there, Hunter. Flight for Life’s on its way—ETA seven minutes.”

  But Marc didn’t need a doctor to tell him that his chances of lasting till the chopper arrived were slim to none. He’d seen enough death to know what it looked like, how it felt. He reached for Sophie, wanting to feel her, needing to tell her what he ought to have told her twelve years ago. “Sophie…I…”

  But he was drifting again.

  “God, no!” Sophie watched Hunt’s eyes close, fear twisting slick and dark in her belly, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I love you, Marc Hunter! I love you! Please wake up!”

  “Let me.” Julian knelt beside her, nudged her hands aside, pressed the blood-saturated cloth she’d torn from Hunt’s T-shirt against the terrible wound in Hunt’s chest. “Six minutes, thirty seconds.”

  Hunt’s blood on her hands, Sophie scooted around a weeping Megan to Hunt’s left side, looking to Julian for some sign that he believed Hunt would make it that long. Instead, she saw only worry.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be him.” She took Hunt’s cold fingers in hers, tried to rub life into them. “It wasn’t supposed to be him.”

  “He knew what he was doing, Sophie. He’s a Special Forces veteran, a former federal agent. He made a choice. Don’t blame yourself.”

  Julian was trying to comfort her, she knew, but it didn’t work.

  One minute she’d thought the ordeal was finally over. The next, Hunt had thrown himself in front of her, gun drawn and blazing. She hadn’t seen the danger, hadn’t known anything was wrong until that moment. And then it had been too late.

  He’d taken a bullet for her, saved her life.

  And if he didn’t get help soon, he would die.

  If they catch me, they’ll probably bring me back in a body bag.

  “Six minutes.”

  As Julian counted down the longest few minutes of Sophie’s life, she held Hunt’s hand, spoke to him, caressed his face. She could tell he was in pain even when he was unconscious, his forehead furrowed, cold sweat trickling down his temples, his jaw clenched. His respiration was uneven, the muscles of his bare chest straining with each labored breath, his body shivering.

  “Shock,” Julian said. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  A couple of sheriff’s deputies arrived, spoke with Julian, and went off to see to the others, calling for additional backup and a second chopper when they discovered that Harburg was still alive.

  “Four minutes.”

  Then Hunt opened his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “Sophie?”

  “I’m here.” She leaned in so that he could see her, forced herself to smile.

  He met her gaze, gave her fingers a squeeze, then spoke haltingly. “I’m sorry…Dragged you into this.”

  “Shhh!” She ran her knuckles over his cheek, trying not to cry and failing miserably. “You just rest now. Save your strength.”

  “Don’t cry…No happy endings…not for us…not this time. But for you…you’ll find happiness…the right man.”

  “Don’t you even say that, Marc Hunter, damn it!”

  “You helped me…find Megan. Thank you…is not enough.” He looked to where his sister sat crying quietly, the baby clutched in her arms. “I love you, Megan…Promise me…no more drugs. Be…a good mom. Tell Emily…I love her, too.”

  “I-I promise.” Her face contorted with grief, Megan gulped back a sob and held the baby out so that he could touch her, Emily’s little fist closing around his finger.

  “Cop…” Hunt’s gaze shifted to Julian. “Watch over Sophie. Megan and Emily, too.”

  “You know I will.” Julian met Sophie’s gaze. “Three minutes, thirty seconds.”

  “Sprite?” Hunt took another shaky breath, his pale face a mask of pain, his gaze searching for her.

  “I’m here, right here.” She squeezed his hand, but this time he didn’t squeeze back.

  His seemed to relax when he saw her. “I…love you…Always have…Every day…you. My fairy sprite.”

  “I love you, too, do you hear me?” She sobbed the words.

  His mouth curved in a weak grin. “I…hear you.”

  Their gazes locked, the love she saw in his eyes undimmed by pain. And for a moment it was just the two of them—just her and Hunt.

  “You mean everything to me, Marc Hunter. Everything.” She leaned down, pressed her lips to his, her palm pressed against the rapid thrum of his heart.

  He answered her kiss, his lips like ice.

  Then the distant beat of a helicopter drew her gaze to the sky.

  By the time she looked down again, his eyes were closed.

  HUNT’S BLOOD STILL on her hands, Sophie drifted through the drive back to Denver and the interrogation that followed—bright lights, faces swimming in and out of her vision, voices. She was barely aware of the coffee the victim’s advocate brought her or the questions Chief Irving asked her or the shouting match that Chief Irving and Julian had right in front of her, her thoughts scattered except when it came to Hunt.

  Had they relieved his pain? Was he in surgery? Was he still alive?

  God, please let him live!

  “You’ve lost your objectivity on this one, Darcangelo. She’s already got felony charges pending! I don’t like it anymore than you do, but we need to detain her until we can get this clusterfuck of a case sorted out!”

  “I’m telling you she can’t handle that! Look at her! Jesus, Irving, not only are the felonies completely bogus, but she’s just lived through fucking hell!”

  “In your opinion does she require medical attention?”

  “She’s in shock! Can’t you see that for yourself?”

  But Sophie didn’t care whether Irving threw her in a cell or threw her to the lions, her mind wrapped tightly around an unceasing prayer for Hunt.

  Dear God, please let him live! Please let him live!

  He hadn’t opened his eyes again, not even when the chopper had landed, blinding everyone with its searchlights and sending up a blizzard of snow. The paramedics had put him on oxygen, strapped a blood pressure cuff to his arm, stuck electrodes on his chest, and started IVs in each arm. And what they’d said to one another had terrified her.

  Can you get a pulse?

  Hell, I don’t know. The machine says it’s 146.

  He’s trying to breathe. Open those fluids wide, and get another Lactated Ringers ready.

  Have you ever started a jugular?

  No.

  Shit. Me neither.

  BP is forty over nothin’. Fuck! He’s crashing.

  I’m going to intubate.

  They’d traded an oxygen mask for a handheld ventilator, pumping air into his lungs, breathing for him. Then they’d packed and run, loading him into the chopper beside Pastor John and taking to the sky.

  Sophie had watched the helicopter disappear, sending prayers to
chase after them, then found herself huddled with Megan and Connie, a chilling fear settling inside her that made it impossible even to cry.

  He has to live. Please let him live!

  Julian knelt down in front of her, interrupting her thoughts. “We’re taking you to the hospital now, okay, Sophie?”

  “Okay.” But Sophie didn’t really care.

  They transported her in an ambulance, then checked her in to the ER under guard. She did what the nurses told her to do or at least went through the motions, undressing, putting on a hospital gown, letting the doctor examine her. She barely felt the IV and broke down only once—when they made her wash her hands, Hunt’s lifeblood sliding down the drain.

  Please, God, keep him alive! Let him survive!

  But when they tried to give her a sedative, she refused.

  “I don’t want to sleep! I can’t!” she shouted at the nurse, knowing full well that she must sound crazy. “If I sleep I won’t be able to pray for him or help him! I won’t know what’s happening with him! I need to know—”

  “I’m sorry, but doctor’s orders. If you struggle, we’ll put you in restraints.” The nurse gave her a sympathetic look—then injected the drug into her IV.

  CHAPTER 31

  SOPHIE STRUGGLED TO open her eyes, feeling strangely groggy and disoriented. Daylight streamed through a wide window to her left, the sky outside bright and blue. A little blue plastic pitcher sat on a bedside stand with her last name written on it. In the back of her left hand was an IV. Why was she in the hospital?

  For a moment it made no sense.

  No happy endings…not for us…not this time.

  And in a heartbeat, the night’s memories crashed in on her, riding a surge of panic.

  “Hunt!” She sat bolt upright. “No!”

  She hadn’t meant to drift off, hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but they’d sedated her, and now she had no idea—

  “It’s okay, Sophie.” Tessa sat beside her, dark circles beneath her eyes, a book resting in her lap. “Rest easy. You’re safe.”