by Jett Munroe
“All the deputy marshals outfitted with these will be out of sight. Only two of my deputy marshals will be out on the concourse or at curbside. One’s already in a janitorial uniform and the other looks young enough to be a college student. Both of them have tactical communication devices that look like everyday iPod earbuds. It’ll look like they’re listening to music. And if I know them, they’ll be doing some dancing and singing out loud to sell the illusion.” He slapped Beck on the shoulder a couple of times and turned toward the door. “They’re good. Dujardin won’t make ’em.”
“He’d better not.” Beck didn’t care that he was, in essence, threatening a federal law enforcement officer. This was too important to him, to Delaney, for it to fail.
Vega asked to be given an earbud as well. MacMillan assured him that he’d send one of the deputy marshals in with one and left the room while Beck pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and once again dialed Ty. As soon as his friend answered, Beck told him, “I’m kitted with a device that’ll keep me in communication with the feds. How’s it goin’?”
“We’ve verified the earbud you gave Alex works, so we’re good. I’ve given your go bag to Quincy, who’s already put on one of your dress shirts over his tee. It’s a little snug, by the way. You might get it back missing a couple of buttons. Either you need to work out more or he needs to work out less.”
Beck gave a snort.
Ty went on. “He went to the gift shop and bought a University of Arizona ball cap and T-shirt. He also got a pair of nerd-style sunglasses, of which he proceeded to pop out the lenses. Now he’s in the security line with a white dress shirt that’s untucked, a baseball cap, and fuckin’ Buddy Holly glasses on.”
Beck shook his head. He wasn’t sure if the big lug would fit in with the crowd or stand out even more.
“For what it’s worth, nobody’s givin’ him a second glance,” Ty muttered. “He’ll go through the full-body scanner, get pulled aside to be wanded, where he’ll keep an eye on the other people goin’ through the line, wait for that crowd of folks to move through, then he’ll do it all over again. No sign yet of Dujardin.”
“Then we wait.” Beck blew out a breath. With a glance at his watch he said, “We still have at least a couple of hours, probably, before he shows. I don’t want to run down the battery on my phone. You keep in touch with the others; I’ll be in communication with the marshals. As soon as it looks like it’s go time, I’ll call you.”
“Got it. This is the hard part, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
* * * * *
Two hours later Beck watched yet another taxi pull up to the curb for Delta departures. When he saw an athletic shoe followed by a jeans-clad leg come out, he sat back, figuring it was just another American traveler. But then he got a better look at the man climbing out of the taxi and sat up straight. He dialed Ty, clicked the earbud to open the line to MacMillan, and when Ty answered, he told both of them, “Dujardin is just now getting out of a taxi. He’s curbside at the Delta departure section, getting a duffle out of the trunk.”
“My deputies are on the move,” MacMillan said.
“Quincy and Alex are close,” Ty told Beck. “Alex saw him the second the taxi pulled up.”
Sure enough, on the surveillance screen he saw Alex approaching from the sidewalk to the rear of the cab and Quincy coming out of the terminal. A young woman, walking down the sidewalk and clicking her fingers to the beat of music coming from earbuds or, at least, appearing to, was heading toward the front of the cab. From another door came a man in a janitor’s uniform. As Dujardin took his duffle and stepped up onto the curb, she stopped pretending to listen to music, ducked around the front of the taxi, and approached him from behind.
As soon as Beck saw her and the other deputy marshal bring the bastard down, Alex and Quincy with weapons drawn, he was out of his chair, out of the room, and pounding toward the exit, barely aware of Vega behind him. He burst through the doors just as MacMillan hauled Dujardin to his feet.
“Germano Dujardin,” the supervisory deputy US marshal intoned, “you are under arrest—”
Even with his hands cuffed behind his back, Dujardin was able to twist out of his captor’s hold. His movement brought him closer to a uniformed police officer. Before any of them could react, he somehow managed to grab the officer’s service weapon and brought it around, hands still behind his back, gun pointed sideways, pulling the trigger as he turned.
Beck felt a bloom of fire in his shoulder just before he heard the crack of the shots and the explosion of glass. Around him people were screaming. Officers, both federal and local, shouted at Dujardin to drop the gun. Airport police, federal marshals, and Beck’s men all had their weapons trained on him.
He looked at Beck with hatred in his eyes. “Bâtard!” he spat. “She was an innocent, just like your Delaney. She did not deserve to die.”
Beck couldn’t respond. He stood there holding a hand to his shoulder, feeling blood seep around his fingers, and stared at the man who had turned from a general enemy of his country to a personal enemy of Beck’s. And it was Beck’s fault.
Because he’d killed Dujardin’s woman.
When he’d walked out to see Delaney holding that bomb and she told him it was from Germano Dujardin, the parallel had not been lost on him.
“What’ve you been smokin’, man?” Ty had his pistol trained on Dujardin’s head. “I was there. She pulled a gun on Beck. She was gonna shoot him. It was self-defense.”
“Drop the weapon, Dujardin,” MacMillan said, his tone terse.
The Frenchman ignored him. “Look at your associate and tell me if you think that’s what he believes,” he said to Ty. His lips curled in a sneer and he glared at Beck. “I would have killed for her. I would die for her.”
Beck felt a few eyes turn to him, but he kept his own gaze on Dujardin. “I had no choice,” he said hoarsely.
“Nor. Do. I.”
The Frenchman twisted his bound hands, trying to bring the gun back up to fire at Beck. He had to have known he never stood a chance.
When Beck’s ears stopped ringing, he saw Dujardin’s body sprawled on the concrete, lifeless eyes staring up into the bright-blue sky. He felt a hand come down on his good shoulder and heard MacMillan say quietly, “He wasn’t going to let us take him alive, you know. This isn’t your fault.” His fingers squeezed. “And neither was she.” He moved away, talking into his phone.
Vaguely Beck heard Vega barking orders at his officers. Beck couldn’t take his eyes off Dujardin. Juxtaposed on the scene was the body of Dujardin’s woman and the Afghani family the Frenchman murdered.
It had never set right with Beck, killing a woman. And even though it had been in self-defense, as Ty said, Beck couldn’t get rid of the guilt he felt. He also couldn’t get past the guilt for not being able to save that family. A bullet in the shoulder was the least of what he deserved.
Ty took him by his good arm and steered him over to a chair someone had brought outside and placed in the shade provided by the portico. “Sit down before you fall down,” Ty said. He pushed Beck’s hand away from his shoulder. “Let’s get this off and take a look.”
Beck helped as much as he could, gritting his teeth as Ty worked his suit coat off. Ty pulled a switchblade out of his boot and gently slashed through the collar of Beck’s T-shirt, then let out a whistle through his teeth as he ripped the shirt to expose the wound.
“Well, it’s not as bad as it could’ve been,” his friend said as he put the material back over the wound and put pressure on it. Beck hissed with pain. “Pansy,” Ty muttered. “It’s your left shoulder, and since you’re right-handed, that leaves your dominant side uninjured. But, man, a few inches lower and that’d be you on the pavement with your toes cocked up.”
An ambulance arrived and the paramedics rushed over. Ty moved out of the way as they got to work. Fi
ve minutes later Beck was loaded onto a gurney, the paramedics lifted the gurney into the back of the ambulance, and the vehicle was on its way to the hospital.
* * * * *
Delaney exited the elevator onto the surgical floor, flanked by Rafe and Gabe. As soon as she saw Ty, she made a beeline for him, barely aware of Quincy and two other men nearby. “He was shot by a man who had his hands cuffed behind his back?” She rocked to a halt in front of him and latched on to his shirt with her fists. “He shouldn’t be in this kind of business,” she cried.
“Now, Laney, that could’ve happened to any one of us,” he told her, curling his hands lightly over hers, his tone as gentle as she’d ever heard it.
She gave him a shake. “And if it had happened to any one of you, I’d tell you the same thing. If a man with his hands tied behind his back can shoot you, you should not be in this business!”
She heard a snicker and turned her head to see a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and soulful, brown eyes, which the humor displayed on his lips did not reach. When he realized she was staring at him, he sobered and said, “Pardon me. You must be Beck’s girlfriend. I’m Supervisory Deputy Marshal Kai MacMillan.” He held out his hand. When she placed hers in it, he squeezed her fingers and held on to her hand as he said, “Beck’s injury isn’t severe, but they did have to operate to remove the bullet. You have a very brave man in there, I hope you know that.” He let go of her then and moved away to the other side of the room.
“I’ve never questioned his bravery,” she muttered. “Just his sanity.” She closed her eyes briefly, shaking her head. Looking once again at Ty, she said, “I didn’t mean that. I wanted him to go after Germano. I did not want him to get hurt.” She swallowed. “Germano’s really dead? It’s over?”
Ty nodded. He put one arm around her and led her to a row of chairs in the waiting room outside the surgical suite. “It’s over.”
He sat beside her in one of the two love seats in the small room, keeping an arm around her. It helped, not only because the air-conditioning seemed set to arctic temperatures but also because she needed the support. Even so, she couldn’t stop tears from welling up. A box of tissues was thrust under her nose and she looked up, blinking, to see Quincy standing there. She gave him a wavering smile and took the box. Yanking a tissue out, she tried to mop up the waterworks, but it just kept on flowing.
Quincy sat down in a chair next to her. “He’s gonna be all right, Laney,” he whispered. “He may be a bastard, but he’s a tough bastard.”
That surprised a laugh out of her and she quickly regained control.
Ty introduced her to the other man in the room, an old friend of Beck’s named Alex Kemp. She was happy to meet him and surprised to hear he and Beck had known each other since grade school because Beck had never mentioned him.
He sat on the other side of Quincy and started sharing stories of him and Beck from when they were kids. When he told them about Beck’s parents dying in a car accident when he was ten and him going to live with Alex and his parents, who’d been named as his guardians, something inside her withered. That seemed like such an important event in Beck’s life, and such an easy thing to share. Yet here she was, hearing for the first time that Beck had been orphaned at ten years old.
She blew out a sigh. Of course. This was merely another instance of Beck not sharing his past with her, even though it was clear Alex was still close to him.
When Gabe had told her that the Frenchman had managed to shoot Beck before he’d been killed, her breath had stopped while her heart had begun to gallop. Even if her mind hadn’t come to a decision about Beck, her body seemed to know he was integral to its well-being.
Now, sitting in this room, waiting to hear how he was, her mind was back in control and she was just as torn as ever. This situation had made her realize that she wanted to be with him, even if he was doing a job that could get him killed. What he did helped others, and she was proud of him. One thing that the day had accomplished was making her realize she’d grown in the last three years and was strong enough to survive without Beck.
She didn’t want to.
And so she’d decided to take him as he was. He could keep her shut out of his past, keep his demons close, and she would love him and accept what he gave her. It had taken him getting a bullet in that big, beautiful body of his for her to come to that decision, but she’d finally gotten there.
It was two hours before the surgeon came out into the waiting room. “Beck Townsend?” he called, asking for his family.
Delaney shot to her feet. “I’m his fiancée,” she lied through her teeth. “How is he?”
“He’ll be fine,” the tired doctor assured her. “There’s no major damage. He’ll be in recovery another couple of hours; then you can go in and see him. One at a time,” he cautioned. “He’ll still be very groggy from the effects of the anesthesia.”
She nodded and thanked him then sat back down with a thud. He was all right. He was going to be all right. Thank you, God.
It was another two hours before a nurse came out and called for Ty. “Mr. Townsend is awake and asking for you,” she said. When Delaney came to her feet, the nurse told her, “Just Mr. Thorne.”
Delaney watched him go with the nurse and moved into the hallway to see which room Ty went into. After waiting another five minutes, she couldn’t wait a second longer. As she started down the hall, she heard Gabe’s cautionary “Laney…”
She stopped and looked at him. “I’m just going to poke my head in the door,” she told him. “I won’t interrupt them. I just have to…” she bit her lip, “…I need to see him awake and breathing.” She turned and kept going.
As she reached Beck’s room, she heard him say to Ty, “I don’t want Laney to know about that. Ever. Your word, brother.” His deep voice was slurred, no doubt from the effects of the drugs still in his system. What exactly didn’t he want her to know? She went from wanting to see him alive and kicking to wanting to kick him herself.
“She won’t hear it from me, buddy,” Ty responded evenly. “But you’re not doin’ right by her. She’d understand.”
“She might,” Beck mumbled. “Can’t take the chance she won’t. She fell apart over the bomb incident. Who knows how she’d react to that situation?”
What situation? She willed one of them to actually mention what it was she wasn’t supposed to ever know about.
“Cut her some slack,” Ty said. “It was her first bomb. Nobody reacts well to their first bomb.”
Beck chuckled. Delaney almost went into the room then because he sounded so weak. But he said, “Go get her, would you?”
“Sure. You need anything?”
Delaney grimaced and hoofed it back to the waiting room, trying to look innocent and ignoring the narrow-eyed look she got from Gabe. She turned toward Beck’s room and hoped that, when Ty came to get her, she’d just look like she was hanging out, waiting for her turn to see her boyfriend.
And that must have been the case because he didn’t appear to think anything was amiss when he made it back to the waiting room. “He wants to see you now,” he told her.
She gave a nod and headed back to Beck’s room, heart in her throat, palms sweaty. When she went into the room and saw him lying in the bed, the head of it slightly raised, she had to swallow a cry. His face was nearly as white as the bed linens and he had an IV port attached to the back of one hand and a pulse oximeter on the index finger of his other hand. He looked weary and worn, a fallen warrior, and her heart nearly burst with the love she felt for him.
She approached the bed quietly. It appeared he’d fallen asleep again, and she didn’t want to wake him. As she settled into the chair at his bedside, he didn’t stir. She gingerly slipped her hand between his palm and the bed and curled her fingers gently around his hand, careful not to dislodge the pulse oximeter.
As she watched him
sleep, she said another prayer of thanksgiving. Over the next hour Gabe, Rafe, Quincy, and Alex poked their heads into the room, saw that Beck was sleeping, and finally told her they were heading out but would come back later. Ty was staying in the waiting room and would take her back to the condo whenever she was ready. She hated to have him sit around like that, because she didn’t think she’d ever be ready to leave Beck’s side.
Chapter Twenty
Beck swam to consciousness. The first thing he became cognizant of was the vicious ache in his left shoulder and the dryness of his mouth. Then the soft touch of a hand curled around his filtered into his awareness. He turned his head on the pillow and opened his heavy eyes to see Delaney’s dark head resting against the bed, her hand holding his.
“Laney.” Her name came out in a gravelly husk, but she heard it and lifted her head.
Her eyes were soft with love and relief. “Oh, Beck,” she whispered and came up out of her chair to lean over him, never letting go of his hand. She reached out and stroked her fingers down his jaw.
He heard the rasp of the stubble on his face and wondered just how long he’d been out. God, his mouth was so dry. “Water,” he croaked.
“Just a few sips,” she said as she held the cup up and put the straw to his lips. After he’d drawn on it a couple of times she pulled it away.
“More,” he whispered.
She obligingly brought the straw to his mouth again, this time waiting until he tipped his head back, signaling he was finished. She set the plastic cup on the narrow overbed table. Leaning down, she kissed him, a soft, sweet meeting of lips that was over too soon. He might be down, but he wasn’t dead.
He noticed her bloodshot eyes. “You okay?”
“I should be asking you that,” she said.
He grimaced. “Shoulder hurts, but I’ve had worse.”
She sat back down but retained hold of his hand. With a scowl, she muttered, “Oh yeah. The bitch fiancée.”
He had to grin. She was so damned cute. When her scowl didn’t lessen, his smile faded. “Laney?”
