by Debra Webb
“Nothing new yet.” He carried the two plates loaded with pancakes and sausage links to the table. “Grab the syrup.”
She set the glasses on the table and returned to the counter for the syrup. Old-fashioned maple, her favorite. “Will the police keep me updated on their investigation into William’s murder?” She had no idea how this worked. She’d never personally known anyone who was murdered.
“The two detectives will contact you as necessary. They don’t like to give up too much information during the course of an investigation, so don’t expect a lot of interaction—unless they need information they believe you have.”
Since she’d told them everything she knew, she didn’t expect to hear from them anytime soon unless it was to do the formal statement. They ate for a while without saying more. There really wasn’t a lot more to say. It felt as if they were in a time warp, and everything relevant to the out-of-control situation had suddenly stopped.
Her cell vibrated. She stilled. Lowered her fork to her plate and reached into her hip pocket. Please don’t let it be him.
Blocked Call.
Dread swelled in her belly, pushing away her appetite and making her heart thump harder. “It’s him.”
Lacon gave her a nod. “Answer it.”
God, she did not want to. What if he demanded that she go to another scene like the one she’d gone to yesterday?
She accepted the call and immediately set the phone to speaker. “Marissa Frasier.”
“I need you, Dr. Frasier.”
His voice, cold, calculating, twisted her insides. Without giving her time to question his demand, he stated the address and severed the connection.
She stared at the phone for a moment, her stomach churning, threatening to rebel against the few bites of breakfast she’d taken.
“We’ll need forty minutes to get there,” Lacon said.
Nodding slowly, she tucked her phone away. “Do we tell anyone?”
He stood. “Never make a move in an op like this without keeping your backup informed. That mistake is the fastest way I know to get yourself dead.”
Nothing like another dash of reality to undermine her bravado.
* * *
FIVE MINUTES LATER they were en route. Lacon gave Ian Michaels a heads-up. Michaels would coordinate with their contact at Chicago PD. Issy spent the better portion of the drive lost in thought, or maybe she was mentally preparing herself for what she might have to do.
Don’t let it be like last time. He didn’t want her to have to go through that again.
Lacon liked this plan less and less. He didn’t see an end to Anastasia’s use of her as a pawn. The bastard was far too careful to get himself caught in a trap so easily foreseeable. Bottom line, something had to give soon. Every event like the one they were about to walk into endangered her life.
While every night they spent together tested his ability to maintain control.
That kiss. That damned foolish idea that he could scare her off by making a move. Damn it. All he’d accomplished was to fan the flames already blazing inside him. He wanted to know her...every inch of her.
Backing away from that perilous cliff, he focused on the here and now. Their destination was a small older convenience store located at the corner of Hirsch and Kildare. He parked near the front entrance. There were no other cars near the store. They were probably parked in the back.
From the outside, the store looked closed. He emerged from the car, scanned the area and moved around to the passenger side. Issy was already climbing out. As they approached the front entrance, the single glass door with its steel bars opened. Like the thugs from yesterday, the man wore a mask. Fury had Lacon gritting his teeth. He hoped like hell these bastards got what they deserved.
Soon.
The goon took Lacon’s weapon, locked the door behind them and then led the way to the storage area at the back of the building where stock was kept. Two men lay on the vinyl-tiled floor. Both were dressed in black, sans the masks. Their battered faces appeared to be the least of their worries. Blood had soaked their shirts and leaked onto the floor. The most telling aspect of the situation was that neither of the two masked thugs was aiming their weapons at them. The injured were part of their team. One of them, the one farthest from where they stood, kept trying to raise himself up onto his elbows.
“It’s about damned time,” the injured guy doing the moving growled. “What the hell took you so long?”
“What happened?” Issy moved toward the first of the two victims and lowered to her knees. She didn’t bother responding to the other guy.
“A disagreement over a debt,” the second of the masked men said.
Lacon recognized the voice. Same top thug as before. Bastard.
He surveyed the space. This time a bag of medical supplies sat on the floor next to where the men lay. Issy tugged on a pair of gloves then passed a second pair to Lacon. “I may need your help.”
“You got it.” He pulled on the gloves and crouched down beside her.
“Have they been given anything for pain?”
Since the two weren’t howling in agony, Lacon was reasonably sure they’d been given something to take the edge off.
Top Thug confirmed it. Issy shot him a disgusted look and then prepared to open the shirt of the first victim. From the slit in the fabric, it was evident he’d done a little dance with a knife. When the shirtfront was pulled apart, a nasty laceration about eight inches wide made a bloody smile across his abdomen. There was a lot of blood, and the guy grumbled about needing something more for the pain.
“I need to explore this wound to ensure the penetration didn’t reach into the abdominal cavity and nick an organ.” She nodded to the other guy. “Have a look at his injuries for me. If there’s a BP cuff in the bag, check that for me, as well.”
The guy who wanted to sit up spewed a few more curses.
Lacon moved into position next to the grumpy patient. “Be still,” he ordered. When the guy had relaxed onto the floor, Lacon ripped open his bloody shirt. Two bullet holes to the torso. There was a lot of blood still oozing from the wounds. “Two entrance wounds just above the naval.” He rolled the guy forward just enough to check for any exit wounds, prompting some angry curses. “Got one exit wound to the lower back.” He pushed the damaged shirt a little higher up his back. “Don’t see a second one. Looks like a .38.”
When he allowed the man to settle back against the floor, the thug kept his mouth shut. His face had paled, and he seemed to have lost interest in complaining. “You want me to check his BP?”
“Try to stop the bleeding,” Issy ordered. “I’ll cover this wound and change patients with you.” She nodded toward the grumpy guy who’d decided to keep quiet for now. “I need to have a closer look at him before I finish here.”
Lacon applied pressure to the two wounds that were no more than two inches apart. The bleeding eased somewhat, but the glazed look in the guy’s eyes told him things were going south. “That’s probably a good idea. I don’t think he’s doing too well.”
Dividing his attention between Issy and the two thugs hovering over them, he noticed one of the bastards appeared to be videotaping the whole thing like an episode of some reality show. Probably an order from Anastasia. His increasing interest in Issy was more than a little troubling.
Issy quickly peeled off the bloody gloves and stretched on a new pair. She hurried around to get into position next to Lacon. “Keep an eye on the other guy. I’ll want that bag closer so I can grab what I need from here.”
Lacon scooted the bag next to her. When he’d changed his gloves and covertly taken what he needed from his pocket, he knelt down next to the guy with the laceration to the gut. He made a show of checking his injury, ensuring that the fingers of his right hand dipped into the man’s trouser pocket.
“She gonna finish pat
ching me up?” he asked.
Lacon gave him a nod. “As soon as she takes care of your friend.”
Issy tore a scalpel from its packaging and used it to make an incision between the wounds to facilitate getting a closer look inside his gut. She shook her head. “I need more light.”
“There’s one of those headlights in the bag,” Top Thug told her.
Lacon reached across the two injured men and dug around until he located the headlight. He turned on the spotlight and held it in place. Judging by Issy’s face and her voice when she’d asked for the light, the situation was deteriorating quickly.
She mumbled a thanks as she carefully examined the area she’d opened. Lacon monitored the guys with the guns. Blood abruptly oozed far faster from the wound she was probing. She swore and worked to find the source. The seconds ticked off, and her attempts were futile. The blood just kept coming. The patient was obviously going into shock from the blood loss. He’d gone still as stone and barely blinked.
“We need to get this man to the ER!” she shouted at the two thugs. “I can’t do what needs to be done for him here.”
“No hospital,” Top Thug tossed back. “It’s your job to fix him. Now. Here.”
Tension rifled through Lacon. She was losing this battle. Blood continued to pour out of the man now.
She looked up at Lacon. “Call 911 or we’re going to lose him.”
He reached for his phone just as a muzzle bored into the back of his skull. “Move and I will blow your head off.”
Issy swore again as she fought to get the bleeding under control. “He’s dying,” she snapped. “I cannot make the necessary repairs using what you’ve given me to work with!”
“Can I help?” Lacon said, the phone in his hand seeming to burn his palm. He should call the guy’s bluff. Make the phone call.
“Check his pulse,” she ordered. “You may need to start CPR while I...”
Her words trailed off but Lacon didn’t hesitate. He pulled the headlight around his head so he could still direct some light toward the injury, tuned out all else and focused on finding that rhythmic beat at the base of the man’s throat.
Nothing. “No pulse.”
“Begin CPR.” Her entire focus was on the wound and stopping the bleeding.
Lacon tossed his phone aside and began the chest compressions. His instincts said it was too late, but he would do whatever Issy told him to do until she made that call.
Two or three minutes later, she sat back and shook her head. “It’s over.”
The look of defeat, of desolation on her face tore Lacon apart.
“What about me?” the other guy shouted.
“Move away from the body,” Top Thug ordered. “And take care of him.” He waved his gun toward the other man.
The thug who had been recording the ordeal tucked his phone away and waited for Lacon and Issy to move away from the dead man.
The defeat gone now, replaced by absolute fury burning from her eyes and hatred etched in her face, Issy stood and peeled off her gloves. Her T-shirt and jeans were a bloody mess. “And what about infections? I can make the necessary repairs to your friend here, but he’ll need an antibiotic, and even that might not be enough. Don’t you understand this is not a sterile environment?”
“Just do it,” Top Thug commanded.
Lacon stared at the man, hoping he saw the intense need to tear him apart in his eyes as he peeled off his gloves. He itched to kick this guy’s ass. For Issy’s sake, he restrained the urge. This guy wasn’t worth risking her life.
With clean gloves, she made quick work of cleaning and closing the laceration to the man’s abdomen.
As soon as a dressing was applied, Top Thug ordered, “Get out.”
When she’d removed her gloves, Lacon pulled Issy tight to his side as he ushered her toward the front of the store. Just outside the door, Top Thug returned his weapon and slammed the door shut, locking them out. Lacon guided her to the car and settled her into the passenger seat. He fastened her seat belt and hustled around to the driver’s side. Rage roared inside him.
There had to be a way to stop this insanity.
For her.
He glanced at Issy repeatedly as he drove. She didn’t speak, just stared out the front window, barely so much as blinking.
She couldn’t take much more of this.
They’d barely gone a dozen blocks when she spoke. “Stop the car.”
He glanced at her. “What’s wrong?”
Dumb question. Right now the whole world was wrong. She’d had to watch a man die because she didn’t have the necessary tools to save him. Her pleas to call 911 had gone unheeded. The dead man’s blood was all over her, the smell thickening inside the car.
“Stop the car,” she repeated, her voice so low he could scarcely hear her.
He pulled over at a gas station that had closed down. Windows and doors were boarded up. Gas pumps were missing.
She flung the door open and hurried to the edge of the parking lot where old broken concrete hit grass, and dropped to her knees.
Lacon got out more slowly, surveying the area for any trouble. When he felt confident they were safe, he lowered to his knees next to her. He held her hair back as she vomited. When the heaving had stopped, she sat for a long moment. He squeezed her shoulder. “You okay?”
She nodded.
He helped her up and they walked back to the car. She said nothing else, and he wished like hell there was more he could say or do.
Her ex-husband had screwed her over, had thrown away his own life and left her to clean up the mess.
Lacon slid back behind the wheel and drove. To his way of thinking, there was only one way to end this—a bullet right between Vito Anastasia’s eyes. The sooner the better.
He hoped like hell he was the man who got to pull the trigger for that one.
Maybe that tracking device he’d tucked into the trouser pocket of the guy with the knife wound would provide the first step toward that end.
Chapter Eight
Colby Safe House, 10:08 a.m.
Marissa stood in the middle of the bathroom. She couldn’t seem to make herself move. She stared at her hands. Blood still stained the lines and creases, no matter that she’d washed them twice already. That man—in spite of the fact that he had been a criminal and had likely done terrible things—hadn’t deserved to die on the floor from injuries that could very likely have been taken care of in the proper medical setting.
How many times had William done this for that son of a bitch Anastasia?
For years she had recognized his lies, knew he kept secrets. Why had she stayed so long after realizing the sort of man he had become?
Her body started to shake. She really had no idea how long she had been standing here in this same spot. Lacon had driven her back to the safe house and ushered her through her room and into this bathroom so she could shower. He’d said he would be back to check on her after his shower.
How long ago had that been?
She told her body to move, to do what needed to be done, but she couldn’t seem to make it happen. What she really wanted to do was collapse onto the floor in a pathetic heap and cry until there was no more regret, no more pain and no more fear of what might be coming next. But how would that help anything? If she fell apart, she would be no good to anyone else, let alone herself.
She needed to shower. She stared at the blood soaked into the clothes she wore. It was mostly dry now, though the smell was sickening. But she didn’t care how it smelled. Not really. She was too tired to care. What hurt was the reality that all the blood represented a lost life. Part of her just wanted to go to the bed and crawl under the covers.
She stared down at her feet. Somehow she’d managed to toe off her shoes and peel off her socks. She’d left them by the sink downstairs in the laun
dry room when she’d tried to scrub the blood from her hands—an effort that hadn’t worked too well.
Forcing one foot in front of the other, she walked toward the shower. She reached inside and turned on the water. Her fingers found their way to the hem of her T-shirt. All she had to do was pull it up and over her head but somehow she could not. Images of the man who had died this morning flickered in her head. The face of the other man—the one Anastasia’s people had murdered after she took care of him—joined the stream of images. She should have done more for both of those men. They were dead, in part, because of her.
She opened the glass door and stepped into the shower. Didn’t matter that she still had on her clothes. She no longer cared. She leaned her head against the cool tile wall and allowed the hot water to pound against her back. Her eyes closed and she struggled to hold in the sobs, but they would not be contained.
Wilting helplessly against the wall, she slid down onto her knees. The steam rose, swirling around the sobs echoing from her throat that were tearing at her heart.
The door opened, drawing the heated air out and allowing the cooler air to rush in. She opened her eyes but she didn’t move. Didn’t care if Anastasia himself was coming for her. She just wanted this nightmare to be over.
Lacon crouched next to her, the water raining down on his blond head, slipping down his muscular shoulders and chest, soaking into the waistband of his jeans. She blinked just to make sure she hadn’t imagined him.
“Come here.” He helped her up when all she wanted to do was let the hot water melt her and wash her away. “I’ll take care of you,” he whispered.
His hands found the hem of her T-shirt and pulled it upward. She instinctively raised her arms so he could pull the sticky T-shirt up and over her head. He tossed it onto the built-in bench on the other side of the shower. She closed her eyes and let the hot water patter against her chest. His hands unfastened her jeans. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she watched his long fingers and broad hands work the wet jeans over her hips, down her thighs. She raised one foot and then the other for him to pull the denim free. The stained jeans landed next to the T-shirt.
