God, he loved fire.
Re-routing his thoughts—he did have to stay on his toes for a few minutes longer—Rusty turned toward Xander. “Your sister sounds hot,” he said, laughing at the protective sneer that moved over the guy’s face in response. “I wish I had time to get to know her better before we all part ways. Too bad.”
“How did you know?” Xander asked. Rusty kept the Glock trained right at center mass—they were well outside of earshot and eyesight of anyone who might be errantly passing by, and the building took up so much room that it was the only thing on the entire block, the businesses surrounding it all long-since closed for the night.
They had two minutes to wait for said hot sister to show up, all girl-power in shining armor, or whatever. Rusty supposed a little chit-chat couldn’t hurt.
“What, that Kennedy is your sister? I almost missed it, to be honest. You two didn’t make it easy, and I’ll tell you, I actually believed you really were out at that bar doing recon, at first. It’s the only reason I didn’t kill you two nights ago.”
He’d learned his lesson, for sure. He’d have to vet his people way better next time. “But then I did some digging, just to be sure,” Rusty continued. “And I stumbled across an article about this hockey fundraiser held at The Crooked Angel last month. Imagine my surprise when I saw that the bar manager’s last name is the same as yours, and that she has so many personal friends who work for the department. After that, I had McCory’s source at the RPD take a look-see at the system—under the radar, of course—and what do you know? Your name was on the list of freshly-minted confidential informants.”
Xander huffed out a sound Rusty supposed was meant to be a laugh, but there was no happiness in it.
“Fine,” Xander said, although he’d gone noticeably paler in the glare of the ambient streetlight filtering in from beyond the construction barricades, a sheen of sweat dotting his forehead and giving away his fear. “I turned on you, and you caught me. But leave Kennedy out of this. She’s not the one who made the choice to go to the cops. This doesn’t have anything to do with her.”
Anger pulsed through Rusty’s gut. “It has everything to do with her. She’s leverage. See, the best way to torture you before I kill you, is to torture her first. And honestly, I’m dying to know which one of you screams louder and smells sweeter when I douse you both with gasoline and set your double-crossing asses on fire.”
Footsteps echoed at the building’s front entryway, the one Rusty had cut the lock off of to ensure Kennedy would indeed find her way through. The owner of said footsteps didn’t try to quiet them, just walked firmly yet carefully across the wooden planks of subfloor over concrete, and yesssss. “Looks like we can get this party started.”
Rusty pointed the Glock at Xander with purpose, putting enough space between them that he’d see any movement coming, yet still close enough to ensure he had a kill shot if he needed it, waiting for Kennedy to get close enough to do the same with her.
“Xander, are you okay?” she asked, her stance defensive but her eyes wide, and Rusty cut off any answer Xander might offer up, taking quick control of the conversation. She wasn’t in charge here, nor would she be at any time before he killed her.
Although, he’d bet Xander screamed louder than her when it came down to brass tacks.
“Hey, sweet cheeks. See you found the place. Do me a favor and shrug out of that jacket of yours, nice and slow. That’s a good girl,” he added as she glared and did what he said, dropping her jacket to the dusty floor. “Now, lift up that shirt and give us a spin. Don’t be shy.” He used the Glock to gesture for her to lift the hem of her T-shirt higher. The cotton was tight enough for Rusty to know she wasn’t packing, but man, he was enjoying the show of her toned abs and firm, fit ass.
“I’m not carrying, you fuckwit,” she said. “I just want to keep my brother safe.”
“So touching,” Rusty replied, making a gagging sound. “You two should make that into a Hallmark movie. Of course, it’ll have to be posthumous, but hey. The sentiment is so there.”
“Rusty,” Xander started, but Rusty had had enough of this shit. It was time to set the wheels in motion. He missed his lover. His boss. His best friend.
He needed to set something on fire, and he needed to do it now.
“No more talking. Now, both of you, move.” He pointed to the service elevator sitting at the bottom of the open framework of the building, the nighttime breeze filtering in just enough to make him smile at the knowledge that it would soon be filled with sweet, sweet smoke.
“We’re headed up.”
“Can’t this fucking bucket of bolts go any faster?” Gamble growled at Isabella. He was dimly aware that he’d spoken with a complete lack of decorum, but at this stage in the game, pleasantries were the last thing on his mind.
Scratch that. If Kennedy had left when she’d ended their phone call, then she had, in all likelihood, reached Skyline Tower two minutes ago.
Gamble had already gone out of his mind, and everything else at this point was either instinct or insanity.
“I’m going to chalk that one up to your concern for your woman and let it slide,” Isabella replied, not even hinting at moving her focus from the windshield of her Camaro, which she’d admittedly used to break at least a dozen traffic laws since she and Gamble had jumped in and aimed themselves at Skyline Tower, with the rest of the intelligence unit speeding along right behind them. “But to answer your question, if I could, I fucking would.”
Gamble took a swing at an exhale and whiffed. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Don’t be. I get it. I was a lunatic when that psycho DuPree had Kellan last year. But we had that, just like we have this. Speaking of which”—Isabella paused to make a hard left that made Gamble grateful he hadn’t eaten a big dinner—“you’re still carrying, right?”
“Of course I’m carrying,” Gamble said. He’d told Sinclair as much when they’d all met up tonight. His Kimber Custom M1911 had been holstered just above his hip ever since he and Capelli had set up coms.
“Good. You might have to fight Sinclair on this, but I know better than to try to keep you out of that building when we get there.”
“Sinclair’s going to have to shoot me himself if he wants to keep me out of there,” Gamble swore. “Even then, it might not do the trick.”
Isabella nodded, her brows punching down at the sound of her radio beeping with an incoming call.
“Capelli to all intelligence units, be advised. The smoke detectors at Skyline Tower have just gone off on floors two and three. The RFD has been advised to standby before responding.”
“Jesus,” Isabella said. “He set the building on fire already?”
“Drive faster,” Gamble told her.
But even then, the fear in his gut told him what his brain already knew.
No matter how fast they went, it wouldn’t be enough.
The sharp tang of smoke reached Kennedy’s nose, filling her senses and tempting her to panic. But Rusty wouldn’t set the place on fire and stick around if there wasn’t time to get out, and—ugh—the asshole was totally still right there, standing a few feet away and pointing that gun at her and Xander, who stood side by side.
“Okay!” Rusty said with diabolical glee. The emergency lighting built into the steel beams overhead illuminated the open level of the building just enough for Kennedy to make out his creepy features. It wasn’t the scar that freaked her out; on the contrary, she wouldn’t have given it a second thought if it hadn’t been flanked by Rusty’s eerie smile and evil, soulless stare.
“So, here’s the plan. We have about seven minutes before the RFD shows up, and, yeah, probably all your cop buddies, too, which means I have exactly six minutes to have a little fun with you two.”
Stall. Stall. We have to stall. Kennedy tried to telegraph the message to Xander, wrapping her arms around her bare arms to try and ward off the wind whipping through the wall-less building. Thank God she wasn’t sca
red of heights.
“I don’t get it,” Xander said, stepping in front of her, although whether it was to block the wind or put Rusty’s focus on him rather than her, she couldn’t be sure. “You don’t want to get caught. You obviously don’t want to go out in a blaze of glory if you’re planning to get out of here before anyone else shows up, and you’re smart enough to disable the fire alarms. Why call the fire department?”
Rusty cocked a brow, but still didn’t move the gun. God, there was no way they’d be able to overpower him without at least one of them becoming Swiss cheese.
“You know, it’s almost a shame that I have to kill you. You’re turning out to be kind of smart. Anyway, to answer your question, I called them out here because I want them out here. See, I’ve spent the last three hours wiring the lower floors of this place with my ignition devices and the upper floors with enough C-4 to make it fly apart like it’s made of Tinker Toys. C-4 and fire don’t play nice, so I had to keep them far enough apart to give myself a bit of time, but once I hit the detonator, this building is going to burn all the way down to the bricks.”
Rusty paused to let a smile twist over his face. “I won’t be here when that happens, but I’ll be close enough to watch your buddies shake and bake, and that’ll be fun,” he said as Kennedy’s heart wedged itself in her throat and made breathing pretty much a no-go. Oh, God. Oh, God, Gamble was on his way here. There was no way he wouldn’t come running into this building like fucking gangbusters, because that’s exactly what she’d asked him to do.
“But you don’t have to worry about it,” Rusty tacked on, “because you’ll be pretty crispy by then. Speaking of which, I really don’t have all night, so which one of you is going to go first?”
“I am,” Xander said, and wait, what?
“No!” Kennedy half-gasped, half-shouted. “Are you fucking crazy? Nobody’s going.”
“Kennedy,” Xander warned. “I’m not letting you do this.” He turned back toward Rusty, planting his hands on the hips of his baggy sweatpants. “You want someone to torture? Let it be me.”
“Okee dokee,” Rusty said with a shrug.
And then he grabbed Kennedy’s arm and pulled with a yank that rattled her from molars to marrow.
“Ah!” she cried out, stumbling along with Rusty, closer to the open edge of the building. He’d taken her by enough surprise that she’d had no time to react. Not that struggling against a gun would get her very far.
“What the fuck?” Xander yelled. “I told you me first.”
“Right, but in order to torture you”—he pointed with the square nose of the Glock—“I have to burn her first. Here we go.”
Reaching down, he pulled a red plastic container from behind a pile of drywall sheets, and fear formed an icy ball in Kennedy’s stomach. Rusty held the gun steady on Xander, who looked as furious as Kennedy had ever seen him, and tipped the bright yellow nozzle until a cold stream of liquid poured out and onto her jeans, then the bottom of her T-shirt.
Kennedy coughed, her eyes burning and watering at the pungent scent of the fumes. Her lungs compressed, but she lifted her chin to draw in as much clean air as she could.
They were close. Gamble was close. He’d promised to help her.
Even if he couldn’t save her, he could at least save Xander.
“Rusty,” Xander growled, and whoa, when had he closed the distance between where they’d started and the spot where Rusty had dragged her, so much farther away from the safety of the middle of the building?
Rusty was so focused on his task that he hadn’t seemed to notice Xander’s change in position. Whatever her brother had in mind, she wanted to be ready—she wasn’t going down without a cage match. Kennedy started to struggle, but God, Rusty was stronger than he looked, finally slipping his grasp up to yank her by the hair and haul her to his side.
She fought the tears forming in her eyes, her body beginning to tremble as Rusty pulled a pack of matches from his jacket pocket. “See, I told you, Xander. All it takes is a gas can and a match,” he said with a laugh.
But Xander edged closer still. “Not today, motherfucker.”
Then, three things happened in the span of a blink. Gamble and Hollister appeared in the shadows over Xander’s shoulder, both of them with guns drawn and pure menace on their faces as Hollister yelled, “Remington PD, lower your weapon and get on the ground! Now!” Xander rushed toward Rusty, his feet leaving the floor in a full-body launch.
And Rusty let go of Kennedy long enough to turn his gun at her and pull the trigger.
31
As Gamble watched the scene unfold in front of him, once again, time proved exactly how not-in-charge he was. He saw Rusty’s arm lift, recognized the instinct with which both his and Hollister’s winged up in return.
But Rusty was faster.
The bullet from Rusty’s gun knocked Kennedy back so hard, she spun halfway around before she crumpled to the ground, and no, no. No. For just a second—or maybe it was a year, for all it felt like—Gamble heard only nebulous clips of sound, muffled yells, shuffling. Someone was screaming, and he realized belatedly that the someone was him.
And then, time snapped back like a giant, vicious rubber band, thrusting him forward, and there he was, at her mercy. The primal part of him now dominating his thoughts and movements wanted nothing more than to go to Kennedy, but somehow, Gamble knew he had to ensure that the scene was secure, that the threat had been neutralized, first.
He swung toward the now-empty space where Rusty had stood, his eyes telling his brain that Xander was still standing, that the room was swarming with detectives, each one of them with guns drawn.
Good enough, he thought, and not even the temptation (and, oh, it was strong) to murder Rusty with his bare hands was enough to keep Gamble from Kennedy. Six sloppy steps brought him to the spot where she had slammed down to the subfloor, dangerously close to the edge of the building. Reaching out to cradle her in his arms, he slid her to a safer spot out of sheer instinct. His brain knew the directives—check airway, breathing, apply pressure to the wound—but even as he performed them, he only had one true thought.
I will save her. She will come home.
“Kennedy?” Gamble asked, not giving one shit that his voice broke over her name. “Can you hear me, baby? I need you to talk to me.”
Her eyes remained closed, her skin already frighteningly pale. Gamble forced himself to slap his fingers over her jugular, relief crashing through him at the presence of a pulse, fear skidding into it as he registered how thready and weak it was, and he ripped his T-shirt over his head, clapping it over the blood flowing freely from the bullet hole on the right side of her chest.
“Kennedy, listen to me. Xander’s safe. Everyone’s safe. But I need you to come back to me, okay? I need”—he broke off, and even with all the chaos and the smoke and the insanity around him right now, all he saw was her—“I need to you to come back. I love you, baby. I’m right here with you. Just come back.”
“Gamble!” Hollister shouted, racing up to him and dropping to his knees on Kennedy’s other side. “We have to get out of here, man. The second and third floors are on fire, and there’s a fuckload of C-4 in this place. We can’t wait for paramedics. We’ve gotta go now.”
Adrenaline punched through Gamble’s system in a fresh, cold burst. Kennedy wasn’t stable. Christ, she was barely breathing. One wrong move and she could bleed out. She could die, and he’d be the only one of the two of them to survive.
And now her fate—whether or not she went home or went into the ground—was in his hands.
32
Kennedy...I need you to come back…
Come on, baby…
I love you…
Come back. Come back. Come back…
Kennedy’s chest felt like someone had driven a freight train through it.
Her brain was hazy, like all of her thoughts were slow and full of wet cement, and wait, was she dreaming? No, her dreams never hurt like th
is, with so much pressure on her chest that she was sure it would cave in, and every last muscle in her body feeling like it had been used for batting practice by a whole team full of major league all-stars. Her head hurt, too, although in more of a thudding, far-too-much-tequila kind of way, and wait, was that why she felt so bad?
Why couldn’t she remember? And why couldn’t she see?
Trying not to panic, she searched her memory, calling up the last thing she could think of. Okay, yeah. She remembered seeing Gamble and Xander, remembered that they were supposed to do something important…a job, right? Yeah, that was definitely it. Okay, good. She remembered being at The Crooked Angel, being worried, and then her cell phone had rung…smoke…something had been on fire…
Oh, God.
“Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa,” a familiar voice ground out as white-hot pain careened through her rib cage like a wrecking ball on crack. “Take it easy. Don’t try to sit up or the nurses will have a fit, babe.”
Her eyes blinked open, and ugh, why was everything so freaking hazy? “X-Xander?” she croaked, slowly registering the salmon-colored walls and monitors and machines that all screamed hospital room! Damn, even her throat hurt like crazy, as if someone had spring cleaned the hell out of it with 40-grit sandpaper and industrial-strength bleach.
“Right here. Totally fine,” came her brother’s voice from her other side, and only then did she give up the I’m-getting-up ghost and lie back on…whatever it was she was lying on.
“W-w-where…” Yep. It was all she had.
Thankfully, Gamble translated well enough. “You’re at Remington Memorial. You’ve kind of been through a lot, so do us a favor and try not to move right now, okay?”
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