by Karen Leabo
Neil was shaking his head frantically.
Marissa was amazed. Clint knew exactly what he was doing. Eddie wasn’t into martyrdom. He’d take prison over hell, and hell was exactly where he’d be going if he died.
She’d seen the brute force and physical prowess Clint’s job required, but she’d never seen this side of it—the intelligence, the cunning, the finesse, and the instinct. Clint was gifted.
She felt wicked for the awful things she’d said about him, to him, about his chosen profession. Being an FBI agent wasn’t anything like being a gangster. She’d been wrong to equate the two. The first chance she got, she would apologize. And she would tell him she loved him.
It didn’t appear she would get that chance any time soon. Clint was ignoring her, as was every other man flocking around the control center. It was just as well, she decided. She was lucky to have been allowed to stay.
Eddie had been silent a long time. Most other men would have filled the silence with something, anything, but Clint simply paced and stared at the phone. He was testing Eddie’s nerve.
“Clint?” It was Rachelle’s voice.
“I’m here.”
“Something’s wrong with Eddie. He’s fading in and out, and he’s not making a lot of sense.”
“It’s the blood loss,” Clint said casually. “Not enough blood to the brain. Is he hallucinating? Delusional?”
“I don’t know what you call it, he’s just talking crazy. He doesn’t even hear me anymore.”
“Then I suggest you use this opportunity to escape.”
“No! I mean, he might shoot me. He’s still pointing the gun at me.” She paused. “Well, anyway, if I leave him, you’ll kill him.”
That was a telling remark, Marissa thought. Rachelle had pretty much admitted she wasn’t being held against her will.
Clint softened his voice. “I give you my word, Rachelle, that we won’t kill him unless he starts shooting first. If you really want to save his life, you’ll encourage him to surrender. Otherwise he’s going to bleed to death.”
Another long pause, then, “Oh, God, Clint, he’s not moving. I think he’s dead!”
“Then it’s over. Come out, and as soon as you’re safe, we’ll send in medical help.”
“I’m not coming out! I’ve got Eddie’s gun, and I’ll kill anybody who comes after me, I swear it.”
“Rachelle, you’re making this way harder than it has to be.” Clint savagely punched the mute button, then abruptly strode out of the command center.
Marissa was out of her chair in an instant. “Clint, what are you doing?” she called after him. But she knew. The idiot was going to get himself killed. She started to run after him, but immediately there were three pairs of hands holding her back.
“No, you don’t,” Neil said. “You couldn’t stop him, anyway.”
Marissa realized Neil was right. Clint had never fully believed Rachelle would help in a plot to kill him. No matter what the evidence, he still had faith in his ex-wife. Now he was going to test that faith, and there was nothing Marissa could do about it. She allowed Neil to lead her back to her chair, but she steadfastly refused to look at the video monitor. She refused to watch him die.
THIRTEEN
Clint had heard Marissa’s voice behind him, but he’d steeled himself to ignore it. He knew what it would take to end this standoff, to save Rachelle’s life and possibly Eddie’s, if he wasn’t dead already. Now that everyone realized Rachelle wasn’t a hostage, her life had become a lot more expendable to the trigger-happy sharpshooters and eager-beaver young agents. But killing her wasn’t necessary. He knew Rachelle, and he intended to call her bluff. She wasn’t capable of killing him.
He pushed past the ring of cops and agents who stood behind their cars or boldly strolled around in bulletproof vests. No one stopped him. He strode purposefully toward the rickety wooden barn—a makeshift storage facility for contraband, he guessed—where Rachelle was holed up. Another few feet, and he’d be within pistol range.
“Nichols?” Someone was calling him through a bullhorn. “Get the hell back.”
He ignored the order. What would they do to him later, pull his badge? Like he cared.
He stopped at about thirty yards. “Rachelle?” he called. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” she called back. Her head bobbed in the window, then disappeared. “Don’t you come any closer.”
“I’m unarmed, sweetie. I just want to talk, and I want to see how bad Eddie is.”
“All—all right. Come ahead, slowly.”
That’s a girl, Clint thought as he closed the distance between himself and the building. When he reached the huge double door, it opened a crack. He pushed it the rest of the way. A flashlight resting in a corner was the only illumination, casting macabre shadows on the walls. The large enclosure was almost filled, floor to ceiling, with shoe-box-size packages wrapped in plastic—hundreds and hundreds of them. Clint had never seen such a quantity of cocaine, if that’s what it was.
Rachelle stood several feet away, a gun trained on Clint as he entered. “Eddie’s over there,” she said, nodding toward an inert figure on the floor.
Clint carefully approached Eddie, mindful that this whole thing could be a trick. But the blood was real, and there was a whole lot of it. Clint bent down and felt for a pulse in Eddie’s neck. It was there, but barely.
“He’s still alive,” he said. “But he won’t be for long unless he gets to a hospital. So what’s it going to be, Rachelle? Will you have his death on your hands? How about mine?” He approached her slowly. She backed up until she was against the far wall.
“I’ll kill you,” she said.
“I don’t believe it.” Another two steps, and the gun was in reach.
A woman’s scream rang out in the muggy half-light of the barn, but it wasn’t Rachelle’s. It came from behind, from the door. The noise distracted Rachelle for the split second Clint needed. She turned and pointed the gun away from him. He reached out and snagged it. The moment she realized the balance of power had shifted, she crumpled.
“Oh, Clint, I’m so glad you’re here. It was awful. Eddie made me do it. He was going to kill me—”
“Save it for the trial,” he said harshly as he grabbed her by the arm and twisted it behind her none too gently. Only when he had her firmly under control did he turn toward the door, toward the scream.
“Marissa?” He couldn’t believe it! But there she was, standing brazenly in the doorway. “What are you—How did you—” He stopped, collected his thoughts. “Ease back out that door, slowly. Keep your hands in plain sight. I don’t want any last-minute heroes taking you out by mistake. I’m right behind you.”
The aftermath took longer than the actual siege had taken. Marissa, who’d previously been ignored, invisible, suddenly became the focus of Neil McCormick’s unwelcome attention. She’d been hustled away from the action, isolated, not even allowed to speak to Clint, which was just as well. Maybe her anger would cool before she confronted him.
Back at FBI headquarters, in a tiny interrogation room, she explained what had happened over and over to Neil. She’d been sitting obediently in her folding chair at the command center, peeking at the video monitor. When she realized Clint, the idiot, had actually gone into that warehouse unarmed to face a couple of crazy people with guns, and no one seemed to be doing anything about it, she’d decided she couldn’t sit idly by.
No one had been paying her the slightest bit of attention, so she’d calmly risen, left the command center, and melted into the darkness around them. She’d been halfway to the warehouse before anyone noticed her, and by then it had been too late to stop her.
When she arrived and peeked through the doorway, she’d seen Rachelle holding the gun practically shoved in Clint’s chest, and she’d done what now seemed like the stupidest thing in the world—she’d screamed. As it turned out, she’d provided exactly the distraction Clint had needed to overpower Rachelle. Somehow, she do
ubted he would shower her with appreciation.
After a couple of hours, Marissa’s eyelids were drooping and her words were starting to lean toward incoherence. She was also beginning to despise Neil McCormick.
“I know you have this driving need to settle every detail before sunrise,” Marissa said, trying not to sneer, “but would it be too much trouble to get me some coffee? An injection of caffeine, and I might be able to go another few hours.”
Neil wasn’t amused by her sarcasm. He sighed as he stood up. “I’ll see if I can find you some coffee.” He left her blissfully alone.
A few minutes later, the door opened again and a man walked in with a foam cup full of a steaming liquid. It took a few moments to realize the man was much taller and broader through the shoulders than Neil.
“Clint!” She didn’t know whether to jump up and hug him or slap him silly. She settled for folding her arms and glaring.
He set the coffee on the table beside her, then pulled a chair uncomfortably close. “Let’s talk.”
“I’ve done enough talking tonight, thanks,” she said primly, taking a sip of the black coffee. It had to be the worst coffee she’d ever tasted. “Good Lord, do you drink this stuff on a daily basis? No wonder your brain is fried. This stuff is more corrosive than battery acid.”
“My brain? Who is it that escaped police protection and ran into the middle of a hostage situation without a clue?”
“How does it feel when someone you care about risks their life for no good reason?” she countered.
“I had a good reason, a plan, a strategy. I’ve known Rachelle for nine years. She wouldn’t have killed me. I took the only course of action that could have saved her life, and Eddie’s too. Now they’ll both be around for trial. You, on the other hand, had no idea what you were stumbling into. And yes, it felt lousy,” he added.
“Eddie’s okay?” she asked.
“Still alive, last I heard. Our man who got shot is okay, too, just a flesh wound. Oh, and the airplane ran out of fuel a few miles over the Gulf. The Coast Guard picked them up.”
“Then the operation was a success!”
“By certain standards. But let’s not change the subject. We could file charges against you for interfering with a police investigation, you know.”
“Clint, really! Is that supposed to scare me, after everything that could have happened?” When he continued to glare at her, she decided a little humble pie was in order. “All right, so maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done. But I knew I had to help, if I could. I couldn’t stand there and watch the man I love commit suicide.”
“You’re damned right it wasn’t smart—what did you just say?”
She smiled faintly. “You heard me. I’m not crazy about your job, but I think there’s room for compromise there.”
He stared at her for a few tense seconds. Then he grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her senseless, long enough to make her dizzy. “You mean it, Marissa? You think you can stand me?”
She shrugged and looked down at her lap. “I guess I could work on being more tolerant and having a little more faith, if you’ll work on not trying to kill yourself on a daily basis.”
“That sounds fair,” Clint said, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Then, yes, I’m willing to try. Either that, or I’d be kicking myself the rest of my life, wondering why I let you get away.”
Clint put his hand behind her head and kissed her again, more gently this time. Marissa felt herself melting into a puddle of acquiescence, and she would have made it there, too, if the door to the interrogation room hadn’t opened again.
They pulled apart abruptly. Neil stepped in, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “You two might remember there’s a one-way mirror looking into this room.”
Marissa gasped. Clint, to his credit, at least looked uncomfortable.
“I’m finished with you both for the night. But I think you should know that our security risk people don’t think either one of you is safe. There’s at least one person on the outside who’d like to see you both dead. We’ve received some threatening phone calls … claiming some very strange things, I might add.”
Clint and Marissa exchanged a look.
“He had an odd, high-pitched laugh. Ring any bells?”
Rusty! Marissa looked at Clint to see if he would surrender any information about Rachelle’s brother.
Clint shook his head.
“We can get you transferred to another field office, Clint. Say, Butte, Montana?”
Clint grimaced. “That’s okay, Neil. I think I’ll be taking a leave of absence, maybe a permanent one. I’ve saved up some money, and I was thinking of buying a charter sailboat out in California, maybe Baja.”
Neil’s smile faded. “That sounds … nice.” He switched his gaze to Marissa. “What about you, Ms. Gabriole? You’ll probably be required to testify at the trial, but until then I’d recommend you leave the area.”
“What, you guys won’t protect her?” Clint exploded.
“If she insists on staying in Houston, we’ll do what we can, but it’s not an ideal situation.” He turned back to Marissa. “Any family you can stay with?”
“I don’t have any family except for Jimmy,” she said. “But that’s okay, I was thinking of moving out of Houston anyway. I can run my little accounting business from anywhere … even a boat in Baja.”
Clint raised his eyebrows. He actually looked hopeful.
Neil smirked. “We can work out the details later. For a couple of days, anyway, you can keep the Doubletree room. I’ll figure it into the budget somehow.” He stood and started to leave, but Clint halted him with one last question.
“Um, Neil, there’s this family of fishermen who had their boat stolen. If there’s anything the Bureau could do, you know, to help them out, I’d really appreciate it.”
Neil closed his eyes and put his finger and thumb at the bridge of his nose, as if he was getting a really bad headache. “I don’t even want to know what that’s about.” He left the room.
Clint looked at Marissa. “I thought you’d never set foot on a boat again.”
“Oh, I might … for the right incentive.”
“How about a marriage license?”
Now Marissa was speechless. Did she dare tell him she’d have settled for great sex and a year’s supply of Dramamine? Nah. “If that was a proposal, this is a yes.” She climbed into his lap, put her arms around him, and kissed him for all she was worth. From somewhere distant—or perhaps on the other side of the mirror—she heard a cheer go up.
The Editor’s Corner
Welcome to Loveswept!
April might bring showers, but over at Loveswept, we’re more than happy to fill your days with sunshine and romance with this month’s irresistible original stories.
If you’re looking for a new small-town contemporary romance, look no further than Plain Jayne, a funny, heartfelt story about best friends who reunite—only to realize that being “just friends” isn’t good enough anymore. Juliet Rosetti keeps readers swooning—and laughing—with Mazie Maguire and her hot boy toy, Ben Labeck, in the delightfully fun Tangled Thing Called Love. And Bronwen Evans delivers another scorching story in A Promise of More, the second Disgraced Lords book where a marriage rooted in convenience and revenge turns into something so much more.
And sure to brighten any gloomy days are classic romances like Sandra Chastain’s richly sensuous tales from the Wild West: The Outlaw Bride, The Mail Order Groom and Shotgun Groom. Also deeply satisfying is Iris Johansen’s unforgettable story Man From Half Moon Bay and Karen Leabo’s sexy and thrilling The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea. Linda Cajio’s Me and Mrs. Jones is another wonderful tale of passion you can’t miss. And you can never go wrong with Andrienne Staff and Sally Goldenbaum: check out the beautifully rendered Banjo Man by these two superstar writers.
∼Happy Romance!
Gina Wachtel
Associate Publisher
Lov
e stories you’ll never forget
by authors you’ll always remember
eOriginal Romance from Random House
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