by Maggie Price
Terror screaming through her, lungs bursting, her throat crushed beneath the unyielding metal, Tory swung the hammer in a desperate arc behind her. Rippling pain shot up her arm when one of its sharp steel points rammed into a solid mass.
“There’s her Taurus!” Bran shouted when Nate swerved his car into the parking lot amid a squeal of tires and smoking rubber.
Bran bailed out before they rolled to a stop. Glock aimed, blood boiling like a demon possessed, he went in low, advancing toward the car’s rear.
The back window was fogged over, obscuring his view of the interior.
Seconds later, Nate stepped beside him, automatic clenched in his hand. “I’ll take the passenger side,” Nate murmured.
Dread pounded in Bran’s brain. Training battered with the urge to rush to the car, but he held himself back. He wouldn’t be any good to Tory if he got himself shot. Staying low, he crept toward the rear door. Over his cell phone, he had heard her scream. Heard a man’s vicious, “Bitch, this is from Vic.”
Bran gritted his teeth. He would hunt Heath down and kill him with his bare hands. If it took the rest of his life, he would find the bastard.
The car’s side windows were less fogged than the back. Bran raised up enough to peer into the shadow-laden back seat. He saw a man’s booted feet and jeans-clad legs stretched across the seat. His upper body was slumped, face-down in the passenger-side floorboard. Heath? Bran wondered. His pal who helped him escape, maybe?
Nate pulled open the rear door, his automatic trained on the man.
Bran edged to the driver’s door, checked through the window. His throat tightened when he saw the front seat was empty. He pulled open the door. Tory’s tote bag lay on the passenger seat, its contents spilling across the upholstery. Her cell phone was still plugged into the converter in the dash. A paper cup lay in a puddle of coffee on the floorboard.
“She’s not here,” Bran said, and saw in Nate’s grim face that their thoughts were on the same wavelength. There was only one man in the back seat, which meant either Heath or his pal was still out there. Maybe he had Tory. Maybe he was close, waiting to ambush both cops when he got a clear shot.
Nate held his gun steady on the still figure while he pressed his fingers against his throat. “DRT,” he said, using cop shorthand for dead right there. He angled to get a look at the man’s face. “I don’t think its Heath,” he added before keying the mike on his handheld radio.
Staying low, Bran dashed toward the nearest grouping of parked cars. Only minutes had passed since Tory first answered her cell phone. Surely if Heath had grabbed her they couldn’t have gotten far.
Bran had just reached the front of a white SUV when he heard the faint clank of metal against metal. A croaking sob followed.
Gun aimed, he peered around the SUV. Relief surged through him when he spotted Tory. One palm pressed to the pavement, she knelt between the SUV and another car. Her Sig lay near her hand. She’d fled the Taurus, he theorized, fearing another attacker might be nearby.
It took a split second for him to register the jerky movement of her shoulders. Another to realize her free hand was clawing at her throat.
“Tory!” He rushed to her, his pulse spiking when he saw the chain looping her neck. He realized immediately the metal links were tangled in her long hair. The more she struggled, the tighter the chain pressed against her windpipe.
“Stop!” He dropped his weapon, grabbed her hands. “Tory, stop.”
“Get it off!” Her voice was a panicked rasp on the cold air. “Get it off, get it off.”
“Hold on.” His fingers squeezed hers. “Just hold on.”
Lungs heaving, she leaned into him.
Kneeling over her, he tried not to think. About the blood that slicked the metal links. Or the precious seconds lost because his fingers trembled so badly. A lifetime later, the chain slithered to the blacktop with a clank.
While sirens wailed in the distance, he eased her into a sitting position. Barely breathing himself, he watched her body shake as she dragged in short, rusty breaths.
“You’re okay,” he said, for her benefit as much as his. “I’ve got you now. You’re okay.”
He took a few drags of icy air while he watched her. She was one of the toughest women he knew, yet she looked fragile, terrifyingly so. Her face was drawn and impossibly pale; her eyes bright with fear. Bloody furrows marred her throat. Already, a necklace of dark bruises bloomed around the furrows.
“Tory….” His chest tightened. Heath had come after her because of him. She had almost died because of him. Bran wanted to pull her into his arms, hold her, yet she was gasping for air, her body trembling. He settled for placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”
As if his touch flipped a switch in her she broke, simply broke. Sobbing, she surged into his arms, her face against his chest, her tears soaking into his sweater.
“Just let it out,” he said, stroking her hair. He had never seen her cry. Never seen her even close to tears. Now, the sound of her raspy sobs, combined with the knowledge of how close she’d come to dying nearly overwhelmed him.
She was down to shuddering breaths when she said, “I thought…I was…going to die.”
“I know.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I know.”
“Did you…get him?”
Bran realized she didn’t know she’d killed her attacker. That news could wait until she was steadier. “Yeah, we got him.”
Still stroking her hair, he glanced across his shoulder when a siren whooped nearby. Four black and whites and a crowd of onlookers now filled the lot. If Heath had been in the vicinity, he was gone.
An ambulance barreled into view. Emergency lights pulsed. Bran settled his hands on her shoulders and inched her gently back. “An ambulance is here. Let’s get you out of the cold.”
She nodded, looking up at him. Her blond lashes were spiky, her eyes swollen from tears.
He settled his hands on either side of her waist, lifted her to her feet. When she swayed against his chest, he tightened his grip.
“Let me carry you.”
She raised a hand, her trembling fingers brushing his cheek. “I…can…walk,” she croaked. “Need to…walk.”
Even now she wouldn’t allow herself to lean on him. For the space of a heartbeat he loosened control on the emotion roiling inside him: the need to protect her, to comfort her, the blind rage against Heath for nearly killing her.
She was alive solely because she was brave and a fighter. She hadn’t needed him to stay alive. Didn’t need him to carry her to the ambulance.
“Okay, you walk.” He pressed his lips against her forehead. “I’m a step away if you need me.”
Keeping one hand locked on her elbow, he swept up his Glock, holstered it. Her Sig went into a pocket on his parka. He was about to retrieve the chain when he felt her shudder.
“Forget walking.” He swept her up gently and headed toward the ambulance. “I’m taking care of you, Tory. No one is going to hurt you again.”
“Thanks…for the lift.” When she trembled convulsively, Bran tightened his arms around her.
Gonna eat your heart out. The threat that Heath’s mother had hissed at the funeral home—and that he’d heard coming over Tory’s cell phone during the attack—replayed with new meaning in Bran’s head. One officer’s husband was dead. Another’s wife was missing. Bran didn’t know yet if Heath had gone after the wife of the fourth cop involved in the credit-union shootout, but he figured he had.
It was clear now that Heath had planned all along to hit the families of the cops who’d killed his brother and cousin, not the cops themselves. What better way to eat someone’s heart out than to target their spouse? It was the ultimate twisting of the blade, a way to deal unending, excruciating, lifelong agony to the cops.
Grim-faced, Nate strode toward them. Bran inclined his head toward the spot where he found Tory. “There’s a chain back there. It needs to go into evidence.”
“A chain?”
“The scum had it wrapped around Tory’s throat.”
Nate nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
A pair of EMTs pulled a gurney into view at the same instant Bran reached the rear of the ambulance. He sat Tory down gently on the stretcher, kept his hands locked on her shoulders. He looked into her eyes, felt the tremors that still shook her. “I’m riding to the hospital with you.”
She rubbed a hand over her mouth, nodded.
He stepped back to give the EMTs room to work.
The pain of seeing her hurt was the equivalent to a razor slashing at his heart. Because that pain threatened to overwhelm, he went with anger.
He hadn’t known what Heath had been planning, but he’d known damn well he would try something. Just as Bran now sensed with cold, hard certainty the bastard would make another attempt on Tory.
“Try it.” The violence bubbling in his blood transformed his voice into a lethal hiss on the cold night air.
He spotted Nate, saw the blood-slicked chain dangling from his brother’s fingers. Bran forced himself to take a long, measured breath. Rage, he knew, clouded the mind. So he would throttle his back. Keep it under control. Do what he had to do.
Bran stepped to the ambulance, swung up into the back.
Tory was still his wife. His to protect. His.
And he had just become her shadow.
Chapter 4
During the two hours following the attack, Tory’s neck was poked, prodded, X-rayed, then wrapped in gauze. Now she lay in a hospital bed, her brain and body growing more sluggish by the minute, compliments of the sedative a nurse pumped into her.
Despite her hazy state of mind, Tory was keenly aware she was under the watchful eye of every McCall who lived within a hundred-mile radius. Although she cared deeply for her extended family, she felt overwhelmed with her cramped, antiseptic-scented room packed with warm bodies.
Adding to her unease was that she was still a McCall solely because Bran had yet to scrawl his name on a couple of dotted lines.
Still, whenever a McCall’s gaze shifted in her direction, she saw open caring, grim concern and a glint of hard-edged fury that one of their own had come under attack.
That same deep caring shone in her mother-in-law’s eyes when Roma McCall stepped to the side of the bed. “I’ve shooed everyone out so you can get some sleep.” Her face taut with worry, Roma placed a hand on Tory’s and squeezed. “We’re all thankful you weren’t hurt worse.”
Feeling woozier by the second, Tory managed a half smile. “Thanks…for…coming,” she croaked, then winced. Her throat felt as if someone had dragged sandpaper across her vocal cords.
“Don’t talk, dear,” Roma cautioned. “Rest.”
Roma was a tall woman, sturdily built, with dark hair, flawless olive skin and shrewd brown eyes. Those eyes flicked upward when her eldest son stepped beside her. “Brandon, you’re staying close by Tory tonight?”
“I’ll sleep there,” he said, dipping his head toward the recliner angled into a corner.
“Good. Call in the morning to let us know how she’s doing.”
“Will do.” Bran wrapped an arm around his mother’s waist and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Thanks for being here.”
After another squeeze to Tory’s hand, Roma turned and disappeared out the door.
The click of the latch had Tory realizing she and Bran were alone for the first time since the ambulance had delivered them to the ER.
Gazing down at her, he brushed her hair back from her cheek. “Can I get you anything?”
She blinked. Her vision had taken on a medicated, shower-curtain haze. “Water,” she rasped.
“Coming up.” He retrieved a plastic cup from the nightstand. Leaning in, he slid the straw between her lips.
“Slow,” he cautioned when she sucked greedily.
Despite her mental fog she could see the worry in his face. The cold, hard glint at the back of his arctic-blue eyes. Fury, she knew. Fury that she’d been hurt by a vicious escapee bent on revenge against him.
“Not…your…fault.”
“Don’t talk.” He set the cup back on the nightstand. “Sleep.”
His words might have been comforting, but the tone was much too controlled. She could almost feel the emotion slicing at him.
“Bran, wasn’t…your…fault.”
“Quiet.” He pressed his fingertips gently against her lips. “The doc said you’ve got bruised vocal cords. Meaning, I get to tell you to shut up, and you have to mind.”
Not even the sedative oozing through her system could numb the awareness from his touch that punched into her stomach. Her internal thermostat clicked up several degrees.
Great. She’d almost died a couple of hours ago. Her throat felt like a construction zone. She had enough drugs in her system to fell an elephant. Yet all it took was one touch from her sexy, soon-to-be ex and her body shifted into sizzle-and-burn mode.
She made a feeble attempt to draw her defenses together. The task, she discovered, was impossible with a brain marinated in drugs.
“You’re safe.” He ran a thumb over her lower lip while his fingers stroked her cheek. “No one’s going to hurt you again. You have my word, Tory. Never again.”
Her last thought before sliding into oblivion was that the ache in her throat had shifted to her heart.
His fingers still caressing her cheek, Bran watched her eyes flutter shut as the drug pulled her all the way under. Her long hair was a golden tangle around her shoulders, her skin as white as the sheet that covered her. This was not the Victoria Lynn Dewitt McCall he knew. This woman looked weak and fragile. Too weak, too fragile.
The image of her kneeling in the parking lot, the chain garroting her throat while she struggled for air scraped him raw. She was lying in a hospital bed because of him, hurt because of him. It was all he could do not to smash his fist into the wall.
He thought about Officer Susan Garcia, whose husband had been shot in the Jaguar. Bran closed his eyes. While Tory had been in the ER, he had checked with his captain. The body of Zelewski’s Realtor-wife had been found inside one of the vacant houses she had a listing on. Tory could so easily have died tonight, too.
Cops didn’t talk about the dangers of the job. They just lived with them. But not the dangers to their families. Knowing that Heath had sent one of his scum pals to kill his wife was something Bran had no intention of just living with. The need for revenge twisted into a dark, keen thirst that had his fingers trembling against her cheek.
Sensing the door behind him swing open, Bran pivoted, his hand going to the Glock holstered at the small of his back. His eyes narrowed when Danny Dewitt stepped into the room.
Tall and lanky, Tory’s brother was clad in well-worn jeans, a tattered T-shirt and a scruffy denim jacket. His brown boots were scuffed beyond redemption, his black hair pulled back in a stubby ponytail. Since Bran had called the kid, he knew the sight of his eighteen-year-old brother-in-law shouldn’t put his teeth on edge.
But it did. Always did.
Danny rushed to the bed, his eyes filled with concern. “Tor?” When she didn’t answer, he gave his sister a long, silent examination, then met Bran’s gaze. “You said she’s not hurt bad, right?” he asked, his words aching and unsteady. “She’ll be okay?”
“Yeah.” Because the kid’s face had paled and there was pure fear in his eyes, Bran softened his voice. “The doc said she’ll be good as new after a couple of days of rest.”
“Okay. That’s a relief.” Danny looked back at his sister. “What about the guy who hurt her?”
“We got him.” He hadn’t yet told Tory she’d killed her attacker. If she wanted her brother to know, she could tell him later. “There’s one still on the run. He probably has some pals hiding him so he won’t be easy to find. But we’ll get him eventually.” If it took his entire life, he would find Heath. “Until then, Tory will be with me. I’ll make sure she’s safe.”
Bran noted that the look in his green eyes had transformed from concern to calculation. “For as long as it takes. You have a particular reason for asking how long?”
“Yeah.” Danny jabbed his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans. “I’ve had some…unexpected stuff come up. Now that I’ve got my driver’s license back I need some wheels in the worst way. The worst. Do you think it’d be okay if I use Tor’s car until she’s back on her feet?”
“Her car’s a crime scene,” Bran snapped. The question stoked the anger already simmering inside him. “Dewitt, your sister almost died tonight. Are you getting this? She almost died. I called because I thought you cared about her. After all, she raised you. Supported you. Turns out, all you’re concerned about is getting your hands on her car.”
“I love her,” Danny shot back. “I get what happened to her.” His face tightened with anger. “You’ve already said she’ll be fine. That you’ll protect her.”
“Bet on it.”
“I am. It’s just that….”
“Go on.”
“Tor’s not the only person I’m worried about right now.”
Bran raised a brow. “You get yourself jammed up again with the law?”
Danny stuck out his chin. “It’s not me I’m talking about. Look, just forget I asked. I’ll find another way to get around.”
“Good idea.” Bran gave his brother-in-law the dead-eyed-cop stare he had used on countless suspects over the years. “Visiting hours are over, Dewitt.”
“You’re still here.”
“I’m her husband.”
Danny’s snort was accompanied by a derisive look. “Some husband. You look at me like I don’t have a brain. Fine, I admit I’m not the smartest guy around. Just remember, you’re the idiot who walked out on the best woman you’ll ever find.”
