by Sharon Sala
“That’s just it,” Rachel said. “I’m just as sure I won’t.”
Griff couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Never in his entire privileged life had he been thwarted so royally, or turned down so succinctly.
The skin of his face turned pale, and when the color came back, it was a dark, angry red. It took him every ounce of his control to keep his voice calm and his thoughts collected.
“I can’t say I’m happy about this,” he said. “But, as I always say, life isn’t fair. I suppose I have to understand your feelings as dearly as I understand mine.”
Rachel went weak with relief. This had been easier than she’d imagined, and because the load of guilt was off her shoulders, her voice was lighter than she might have intended when she said, “I’m really sorry, Griff.”
“Yes, so am I,” he said.
“Thanks for being so understanding,” she added, and when she disconnected, she practically danced a little jig of delight at having conquered something that had been weighing on her mind.
I don’t understand anything yet, Griff thought, as he hung up the phone. But before I’m through, I will.
When Boone awoke, rain was hammering against the window. He yawned, then stretched, savoring the feel of clean sheets and his own king-size bed. Last night had been a close one. Walking cold into a buy where the odds were three to one wasn’t smart, but it had happened just the same. His expression darkened as he faced having to go back to Razor Bend. He was sick and tired of that roach-infested trailer, of listening to Snake and Tommy Joe’s incessant chatter, and, most of all, he was sick of being Boone MacDonald.
But leaving Razor Bend also meant leaving Rachel Brant, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. As long as he worked under cover, he could never go back as himself, and even if he did, what would it gain him? She had a boyfriend and a life that didn’t include him, and that was the way it would have to be.
Angry with himself and the fact that he’d let hormones interfere with business, he rolled over, then got out of bed, walking to the window to stare out at the busy traffic on the Northwest Expressway just visible beyond the rooftops below.
Water was running swift and deep on the pavement and in the gutters. Experience warned him that some streets were bound to be flooded. It was all the excuse he needed to stay indoors, rather than check in at the office with Captain Cross, and going in and out of DEA headquarters in his undercover guise was risky, at best.
The thought of coffee, strong and black, pulled him away from the window and sent him into the kitchen to start a pot brewing. A short time later, when he exited his shower, the fresh-brewed scent filled the rooms.
He took a cup with him to the desk and sipped as he thumbed through his notes, making corrections as he went, before he made his call. There wasn’t a lot to tell the captain apart from what she already knew, but she was his connection with reality, and accepting his reality was what was keeping him alive.
Chapter 5
A night and two days had passed since Boone had sent Tommy Joe home on three wheels. The way he figured it, he’d given Denver Cherry something to think about and Tommy Joe time to get over his mad. If he’d guessed wrong and Denver kicked him out of the gang, he almost didn’t care. He was tired of playing cat and mouse with the entire bunch.
And the weather wasn’t any better than Boone’s mood. A cool front had stalled over the entire southern half of the state. For the past two days it had seemed that every time the hour changed, so did the weather. He’d driven south out of Oklahoma City in sunshine, but for the past two hours he had been driving in and out of rain.
He glanced at the mile marker and frowned. Only minutes away from Razor Bend; it was time to crawl back inside the head of a drug runner. No more Mr. Nice Guy. Boone MacDonald was back in town.
Puddles shimmered in the uneven roadbed, splattering the underside of his truck as he drove through them. A slight mist still lingered in the air, enough for him to keep the windshield wipers on low. The day was gray and showed no signs of getting better. Low-hanging clouds, heavy with rain that had yet to fall, darkened the sky, bringing an early end to a miserable day.
Boone was driving on autopilot. His body was in perfect control of his truck, but his mind was sifting through possible scenarios for his coming confrontation with Denver Cherry. When a small compact car suddenly came out of nowhere, passing his truck at high speed, it startled him.
“Crazy kid,” he muttered as the car sailed through a puddle of water, showering both sides of the road with displaced spray. “If he isn’t careful, he’ll hydroplane that thing.”
The couple in the front seat were laughing and talking, seemingly unaware of any danger. Boone continued along behind, watching the way the young woman would reach out to the driver, as if talking to him weren’t enough, as if she needed to touch him, as well. Although the couple were sitting apart, their affection for each other was impossible to miss.
It kindled a longing in Boone to have someone like that of his own. Someone who cared when he was sick. Someone who could laugh with him. Someone who was willing to wake up beside him every morning for the rest of their lives.
At that moment, an odd sensation came over him. He felt lost, as if the road he was on had nowhere to go. Yes, he was going to Razor Bend, where he had a meeting with Denver Cherry that he knew could get sticky. But after that...what came next? Another bad guy? Another gang to be taken down? Another town, another identity, another lie to be told? For the first time in his life, Boone thought past tomorrow, and he didn’t like what he saw. He didn’t want to wake up one morning and find out that while he’d been living his lie, life had passed him by.
Rachel Brant.
The woman’s name came unexpectedly. Boone snorted softly beneath his breath and shifted in the seat.
What about her? Why did he persist in fabricating the mere idea of a relationship with a woman who didn’t know he existed? He’d never thought of himself as a masochist, but he was beginning to wonder. He’d either been under too long, or alone too many nights.
“Forget about a woman you can’t have,” he muttered. He had reached down to turn up the radio when everything before him began to come undone.
The first thing he saw was a quick flash of brake lights on the car in front of him, a bright red warning that something was wrong. In response, be tapped his own brakes and began to slow down, but unlike the driver in the car up ahead, he hit them easy to decrease his speed.
Boone had seen the aftermaths of plenty of wrecks and had even been involved in a couple himself, but he’d never been a witness to what he was seeing now.
The little car spun completely around more than twice before it started to roll, and when it did, Boone winced and then groaned. Even though his windows were up and he was still a distance away, he heard the small car literally coming apart. Metal crunched; glass cracked, then shattered. One wheel came off and rolled down into the woods, out of sight, as the car settled upside down. Smoke and steam began to boil from under the hood as hoses popped and wiring was torn.
Boone felt shock and then a fleeting sorrow that happiness could so easily be destroyed. But there was no time left for emotion, only a reaction to the tragedy he’d seen. He grabbed for the phone lying next to him in the seat.
Because he was a cop, he made it his business to always know the number of the police department within his undercover operation. For him, it was nothing more than a little added insurance, but right now he was thankful he knew who to call.
As he punched in the numbers, his mind began to focus. When the dispatcher answered, Boone’s words were clipped, but his information was concise.
“There’s a wreck just off the highway about four miles northwest of Razor Bend. Two people inside. Need an ambulance and a wrecker, stat!”
The dispatcher’s voice faded in and out as Boone came to a sliding stop. He repeated the information at the top of his voice as he left his truck.
“No,
no other cars involved!” he shouted, and when the dispatcher signed off, he tossed the phone into the seat and leaped from the pavement to the grassy slope and started running and sliding toward the upended car.
By the time he’d reached the wreck, he’d already made a mental inventory of what he could possibly do before medical personnel arrived.
The car was on its top. The right front wheel was still spinning as steam poured out from beneath the hood, filling the inside of the car and eliminating what visibility Boone might have had. The silence was eerie. Except for escaping steam, the only sound he heard was the rapid pounding of his own heart.
“Hey in there, can you hear me?” he shouted.
When no one answered, he circled the car on the run, making sure that the steam he saw was coming from the radiator and not an impending explosion or fire.
At the passenger’s side, he got down on his hands and knees and thrust a hand through a shattered window, remembering that they would very probably be upside down, and began feeling for the woman he knew should be there. At first he felt nothing. He scooted closer to the car, extending his arm farther into the space. Seconds later, his fingers touched fabric, then hair, then warm, damp flesh. In spite of his years of training, he jerked in reflex.
“Lady! Lady, can you hear me?” he shouted.
She didn’t answer. He leaned forward, accidentally thrusting his fingers into a mop of wet, matted hair. He shuddered. Dear God. Seconds ago she was laughing.
Gently he traced the curve of a cheek, then the slender column of her throat. To his relief, he felt a pulse, faint but sure. When he did, he jumped to his feet and began pulling at the bent and folded metal. Seconds felt like an eternity as he struggled, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge the door. It was no use. He gritted his teeth, then leaned down again.
“Help is coming,” he shouted, then ran to the other side of the car, thinking maybe he could get to them from that side.
That window was gone, too. Steam billowed out of the opening in long, cloudlike puffs, sending signals of peril spiraling up into the gray, misty sky. Boone dropped to his knees, trying to crawl inside, but the driver’s inert and pinned body was blocking the exit.
It didn’t take long to see that the driver was dead, pinned in place by a crumpled piece of the dash. Through the smoke and steam, Boone had a fleeting glimpse of the young man’s face, of his eyes, wide open, frozen in the horror of his last sight on earth.
“Damn,” he muttered. He had started to back out of the window when, out of the smoke and steam, a small hand emerged, locking onto his fingers in a surprisingly firm grip A tiny bracelet slid down a fragile wrist, and Boone felt what seemed to be charms dangling against his skin.
Oh my God! There’s a child in here...a little girl!
He wrapped his hand around her grasping fingers then gave an easy, reassuring tug. As he did, he realized that she was strapped into some sort of child seat, because she was hanging upside down.
“Hey there, baby,” he said gently, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. “Are you hurt?”
At the question, the child started to cry. Not a loud, frightened wail, but a soft, helpless sob that tore at Boone’s heart.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said quickly. “We’re going to get you out. I promise. Yes, we are, we’re going to get you out.”
“Mommy. Want Mommy,” the little girl sobbed, and tugged even tighter on Boone’s hand, as if trying to pull herself out of confinement.
Boone thought of the woman and her faint, fading pulse and prayed for the ambulance to get there in time.
“Mommy’s resting right now,” he said quickly. “Don’t cry, sweetheart...we might wake her up...okay?”
“Daddy...want Daddy.”
Boone’s heart ached. She was so small. Chances were she would never remember the daddy who’d brought her into this world. He would be nothing more than a name and a face in some old family pictures. Damn it all to hell, he thought. There was no justice in any of this.
“Daddy’s asleep, too, honey.”
Her grip tightened, almost as if she sensed that this man was her only line to safety. He began to wish she would scream or shriek from the fear she was bound to be feeling. She was too passive, too quiet. At that point, he realized that she very well might have internal injuries. He didn’t even know her name, but for him, her living had suddenly become paramount.
Please, God. Don’t let her die.
To his overwhelming relief, he began to hear a siren. It was a distance away, but it was the first sign he’d had that help was truly on the way.
“Do you hear that, baby girl? They’re coming to help us. Don’t be afraid.... They’re going to help us all.”
Then the tiny fingers started to slip from his hand, and Boone knew a moment of panic.
“Hey!” he said loudly, and his fear eased when she tightened her grip. He didn’t even mind that he’d made her cry again. As long as he could hear her, he knew she was still alive. Gently, so as not to hurt what might turn out to be a broken or dislocated bone, he gave her fingers a soft but urgent tug.
“What’s your name, honey? Can you tell me your name?”
“Out. Want out,” she sobbed.
“I’ll tell you my name if you’ll tell me yours,” he urged. “My name is...” He paused. Lying at a time like this almost seemed unholy, but then he shrugged off the thought. Names didn’t count. It was the sound of his voice that she needed to hear. “My name is Boone. Can you say that? Can you say, Boone?”
“Boo,” she repeated.
He didn’t bother to correct her. She could call him anything she pleased. Then he heard her choke, and his heart nearly stopped. He had no way of knowing if she was gasping for breath or just choking on sobs.
“Sweetheart... can you tell me your name?”
She didn’t answer.
“Honey... it’s Boone, remember? Can you tell me your name?”
And then she spoke, and to Boone it was the sweetest sound in the world.
“Punkin!”
His throat swelled and his eyes began to burn.
“Punkin, huh? That’s a real pretty name. I’ll bet you’re a real pretty girl. Are you, baby? Are you a real pretty girl?”
“Daddy’s girl,” she said softly, and Boone lowered his head on his outstretched arm, fighting back tears.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered to himself, praying for the ambulance to hurry.
More than once he tried to crawl past the man to get to her. He needed to see her. He wanted to feel her breath on his face and know that she was going to live long past this rainy September day. But the car had caved in, and the man was wedged between them like a block in a vise. Without help, Boone had gone as far as he could go.
And then the ambulance was suddenly there, lights flashing red and blue atop the boxy white truck, while the dying sounds of a siren choked into silence.
For the past few minutes Rachel Brant had been the farthest thing from his mind, but now, suddenly, she was on her knees beside him, grabbing his arm and asking for information. He started talking in shorthand, wanting them to know everything he knew before it was too late.
“Driver’s dead. Woman on the passenger side. Alive...or was when I first got here. Can’t open the door. Child trapped between them.”
Rachel put her hand on his shoulder, her eyes wide and fixed on his face. “Sir, I’ll need you to move back,” she said quickly, and started to move him aside.
Boone frowned, afraid to let go of that small, trusting hand. “She won’t let me go.”
“Please, sir,” Rachel said, pushing her way past his bulk. “I can’t get to her with you in the way.”
Reluctantly Boone turned loose of the little girl’s fingers, and when he did, he felt a part of himself going with her. And when he did let go, the scream he’d wanted to hear earlier came, and in full, panicked force. The baby’s shrieks echoed within the confines of the small, crumpled cab, and Boo
ne could only imagine how afraid she must feel, losing touch with her last and only lifeline, while hanging upside down in a world filled with smoke.
In spite of her smaller size, Rachel couldn’t get past the driver’s body, either, and despite several attempts, she couldn’t communicate with the child, because she was screaming with every breath she took. Rachel backed out the same way she’d crawled in. Her touch on Boone’s arm was brief, but her instructions were to the point.
“Sorry,” she said quickly. “See if you can calm her down. We’ll have to get to her from the other side.”
Boone went to his knees and thrust his arm into the car, more than willing to reach out to a child in fear,
“Hey, Punkin, it’s me, Boone. Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m here. I’m still here.”
To his relief, the small, flailing arm came into contact with his hand. He caught her, feeling the bracelet, then the tiny fingers that had been clutching at nothing but smoke.
The child latched on to his hand in desperation, and moments later her shrieks had subsided to thick choking sobs.
“Boo...want out. Want out,” she begged.
“Damn it, hurry up!” he shouted. “She’s hanging upside down in here.”
The tone of his voice was angry, but Rachel knew that came from fear. She was well aware of the little girl’s position, and the danger she could be in. Neck and head injuries were always serious. In a child that small, dangling in an insecure position could easily make things worse.
She circled the wreck, running to where Charlie was working on the other side, trying to focus on the task at hand and not the fact that she’d recognized the man on the other side of the car. He was the man from the Adam’s Rib Café.
“Can’t get this door open,” Charlie said between grunts, tugging at the frame.
“The rescue squad was right behind us,” Rachel said. “They should be here any minute. I’ll get the KED, and a collar. We’ll have to stabilize her before we can pull her out.”
“I’ll get it,” Charlie said, and ran to the ambulance.
Rachel thrust her hand past the shattered glass, reaching down toward the woman inside. Thankfully, the steam was starting to subside and the victims were becoming visible. She felt for a pulse. It was there, but faint.
