Colder Than Sin (Cold Justice - Crossfire: FBI Romantic Suspense Book 2)

by Toni Anderson

  “Oh, hell,” Haley said, staring into the room.

  It was carnage, but Quentin didn’t allow himself to acknowledge the blood or gore. He looked for signs of life. No one moved.

  He smashed a glass pane in the door with the butt of his rifle. Reached through with the borrowed knife and sliced the plastic tie, shoving the doors wide open.

  Smoke billowed out, and they both fell back, coughing. The fire intensified from the direction of the main building.

  “Keep low,” he told her.

  Beams had already fallen in the lobby, blocking the main entrance to the hotel. Showers of sparks spat into the air.

  He darted behind the bar, stepping over two dead bartenders—the terrorists had killed everyone—before dunking two towels into a sink full of water. He wrung them out and handed one to Haley and tied the other around his nose and mouth.

  “We can’t stay here for long.” The heat was intense, and the roof might collapse. “Check for pulses. See if anyone’s alive.”

  Haley immediately went from victim to victim, touching the necks of people who’d been having a quiet drink when hell had rained down on them. He did the same. Mostly they were guys, tough guys. Hardened men who’d spent years in combat zones, both looking for and avoiding trouble.

  Quentin tried not to think about them as people he’d spoken with a few hours ago. He’d been so nervous about giving the keynote thanks to his dyslexia, but now it barely mattered. They’d never had the chance to talk themselves out of this onslaught.

  The first five people he checked were dead. A lot of them had gunshot wounds to the torso but also shots to the head, as if someone had gone around execution style. Bullet casings were everywhere.

  The sixth person he checked made him pause. It was Tricia Rooks. She was hidden beneath an overturned table and a dead guy. He rolled the dead guy off with a silent apology. Unlike the others, she didn’t have a gunshot wound to the head but was bleeding from a chest wound.

  He pressed his fingers more firmly against her warm skin. Was that his imagination? There it was again, the faint murmur of a pulse.

  “Haley, this woman is alive. Help me drag her onto the lawn.”

  Haley ran to him, eyes reddened from the smoke in the air, hair streaked with soot. They weren’t gentle, but they didn’t have time to do anything except heave Tricia out by the arms and leave her lying on the grass in the fresh air a good distance from the burning building. He immediately returned to the bar. Flames were moving closer now, and the idea of someone surviving a massacre only to burn to death gave him chills.

  “Hey!” Haley shouted above the noise of the flames. She pointed at the hotel entryway. “Chris. It looks like he’s trapped back there, but I think I saw him move his arm.”

  Quentin squinted at where she pointed. Sure enough, Chris was a little beyond the doorway. Flames licked the walls around him, the staircase was engulfed. Haley grabbed Quentin’s arm as another beam fell. “You can’t go back there. The roof is going to come down.”

  Chris was now trying to drag himself across the tile floor, but he was stuck or wounded, or both.

  “I can’t leave him to die.” They’d been through too much together over the years. Quentin shoved away the fear of burning to death. Not how he wanted to go. “Stay here. See if anyone else is alive.”

  Quentin handed Haley his weapon and ran past the bodies of other victims, bypassing overturned tables and chairs and broken glass. He scrambled over a large beam that had come down, half blocking the double doors, while trying to avoid long nails and searing flames alike.

  He reached Chris, knelt down and the other man met his gaze. There was a Glock near his hand as if he’d been trying to fight back. Quentin scooped up the gun and stuffed it in his pocket.

  Chris grabbed Quentin’s pant leg. “My foot’s trapped.”

  Quentin worked his way down the guy’s body to the large piece of what had previously been ceiling pinning Chris to the floor. Heat seared his skin and made the air too hot to breathe. God knew how Chris felt, but at least he was on the ground out of the toxic black smoke that was starting to crowd the room.

  Coughing continuously, grateful for the wet towel over his face, Quentin lifted the obstruction, and Chris desperately clawed himself across the tiles until he was free. Blood soaked his neck and shirt. The only actual wounds Quentin could see were what looked like a gunshot to the top of the guy’s left arm and a contusion that was bleeding profusely from his scalp.

  He looped Chris’s arm over his shoulders, and they staggered awkwardly over the beams and furniture, stumbling into the bar the way they’d drunkenly stumbled out of so many in the past. Haley had put the weapons down and was dragging one of the servers across the floor and down the steps, trying to keep the man’s head from hitting the flagstones.

  Chris staggered to his knees. “How did you get out?” he rasped.

  “Luck,” Quentin replied, attempting to get the man back on his feet again.

  “Reminds me of Baghdad,” said Chris.

  Except they’d had Nick laying down covering fire and saving their asses in Baghdad.

  Haley came back inside and helped support Chris. He wobbled, and Quentin gripped him tighter, wondering how much blood his friend had lost and how hard he’d been hit on the head.

  They got him outside, but it wasn’t easy, even with the two of them putting their backs into it. Chris was a big guy.

  Quentin didn’t have time to do anything else for him. He needed to get back inside to find more survivors.

  Haley moved to come with him, but he stopped her. “Stay here and treat the injured.”

  He ran to the door, but she followed him in anyway. He almost smiled, but the last thing he wanted was for her to burn to death or get crushed by falling masonry. Shit.

  She really was stubborn. It made him like her even more.

  They found another man who was still alive despite terrible wounds. Quentin picked him up and put him over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. A terrible shudder ran through the whole building, and one of the ceiling fans crashed to the floor. Fire started to rain down from above as the smoke started to ignite.

  Haley shouted and gestured at him. “Use this window. Quick.” She opened it wide and jumped through. Quentin looked around at the bodies lying on the floor of the bar, wishing they had more time, but flames were everywhere now, the heat ferocious. He used a chair to access the window and, as he stepped through it, the entire roof collapsed behind him. He leaped, and Haley helped steady him on the other side. She caught his arm and pulled him away from the flames, and they stumbled onto the lawn. Quentin laid the injured man down on the grass and fell to the cool earth, exhausted.

  He and Haley lay next to one another panting heavily, trying to catch their breath. Her hand found his and gripped him tight. “Is it over?”

  Smoke filled his lungs and made his voice rasp. “I think so.”

  Then a shadow detached itself from the darkness and pointed a gun at them both.

  Quentin swore.

  The bastard yelled something at the top of his lungs. Quentin didn’t understand what he was saying. What he did realize, deep in his bones, was that despite everything they’d endured and overcome, they were still going to die.

  * * *

  “Get up.”

  The stranger’s voice jabbed at Haley like a sharpened stick, but she laughed. Hysteria, probably. Despite her troubled teenage years, she’d never been this close to losing her mind.

  Quentin stood, pulling Haley to her feet, shielding her with his body. She tried to stand beside him, but he wouldn’t let her. She was too mentally exhausted to be annoyed. It had been a long time since she’d experienced anyone being chivalrous towards her, but when did she give anyone the chance? Alex and Dermot knew better than to try.

  The man with the gun took something out of his pocket, a crumpled piece of paper. “FBI?”

  Haley gasped softly against Quentin’s back. His finger
s squeezed hers. It was obvious this militant was looking for Savage specifically. Unfortunately, the gunman didn’t look like a rescuer. He was dressed exactly like the men who’d tried to rape her in the woods.

  This couldn’t be good.

  Quentin appeared to weigh his choices. “Yes. I’m FBI.”

  The man’s face lit up. Then his gaze went to where she stood behind Quentin and hardened. “Away.” He instructed, raising his weapon.

  Quentin tensed, and his grip on her wrist tightened, silently telling her to stay put. “No. If I move aside, you’ll shoot this woman.”

  The man seemed to understand exactly what Quentin was saying, even if his English wasn’t perfect. “No hurt pretty lady, FBI. Away.” The voice went from friendly to sharp. The gun barrel jerked rapidly, indicating he wanted them to separate.

  Haley’s gut churned, and a fresh wave of terror washed over her. “It’s okay, Quentin. We better do as he says.”

  Savage shook his head firmly. “No.” He grabbed her other wrist, pulled her so she was flush against his back, arms wrapped around his waist and unable to move. “Pretty lady is with me,” Quentin told the gunman.

  He inched them forward. Toward the militant with the deadly weapon pointed right at them. Quentin was going to attack the guy and probably die doing it.

  “Quentin, let me go,” she said frantically, trying to pull free. It was over.

  His grip was relentless. He kept easing them forward. The terrorist’s eyes widened, and he started shouting at them.

  “Don’t move!”

  Or what? He’d shoot? Haley wanted to guffaw, but none of this was even remotely funny.

  Suddenly more shadows spilled out of the darkness and whatever hope Haley might have harbored about getting out of this alive withered and died.

  There was a rapid exchange in Indonesian. A burly man stepped forward. “What’s your name?”

  “Quentin Savage. This is my wife, Haley—”

  The sounds of helicopters in the distance made everyone raise their heads and look north. The man in charge shouted at his men, and they rushed her and Quentin, dragging them apart, pulling a sack over her head that made it hard to breathe. Her heart hammered as she braced herself for a bullet. They wanted the FBI agent, and it was painfully clear from the death toll they didn’t care about anyone else.

  The sound of a bullet had Quentin screaming her name and then what sounded like a scuffle. “Son of a bitch!” Quentin managed to push past their captors and grab her arm.

  “It’s okay. I’m not dead. Yet.” She might have peed her pants a little. Or someone else’s pants. Crazy laughter echoed inside her head.

  Then her mouth went dry as she realized they’d probably shot the injured man Quentin had risked his life dragging out of the burning building.

  The bastards didn’t want any witnesses.

  She braced for the shot that would end her life. God, she hated them, their casual violence and total disregard for human life.

  Her smoke-damaged lungs struggled to find oxygen through the thick, musty hood. It was hard to breathe, and even more difficult to think, to sort any of this into a compartment in her brain that made sense.

  She was hurried along but tripped constantly, being almost completely blind. That alone was terrifying. Someone dragged her roughly to her feet, and their fingers bit into her upper arm. It hurt, but she did not complain. Were they going to shoot her, or weren’t they? What were they waiting for? What was happening? Why did they want Quentin? It couldn’t be good…

  “Move, quickly now, or we put a bullet in your wife.”

  She realized they were using her as a threat to get Quentin to do as he was told.

  Who knew how long that would last—until they reached the boat or other means of escape? Until they got to wherever they planned to take Quentin? Maybe they wanted to kill him on camera and probably her too. The idea made her want to puke, but the only option right now was to keep moving forward.

  She wished she’d had more time with him—wished she’d gotten to know him better. Wished she’d maybe finally allowed herself to take a risk.

  But she didn’t have the time or mental energy for regrets right now. She was shoved forward again. Her entire existence compressed into the next few seconds. Tomorrow didn’t matter. All the meetings she had planned for next week didn’t matter. She tried not to think about how excited she’d been to see Alex and Mallory’s baby. She had to take it one second, or minute, at a time. Everything else was wishful thinking.

  She made herself keep up, in spite of her ankle twisting painfully on the uneven ground. She dared not slow the troop, even though slowing them down might give whoever was headed their way in the helicopter time to catch up and rescue them. Chances were the terrorists would either shoot her or use her as a human shield.

  She did not want to die.

  She stumbled down a small embankment and went down on her knees in the sand with a scream.

  “Haley!” Quentin called out sharply. He was still worried that they were going to kill her. So was she.

  “I’m here,” she said softly, but the grunts and sounds of metal hitting flesh told her their captors were beating him. “Stop! Please, please don’t hurt him. Quentin!” A fist hit her in the stomach, so hard bile rose up in her throat. Then they were rifling through her pockets, and one of them found her cell phone and took it away. She’d hoped to keep hold of it, knowing Alex would be able to track the signal.

  She ignored the despair at its loss.

  One step at a time.

  Right now, she was still alive, and so many other people weren’t. Arms hauled her up by her arm and threw her into a boat. She landed in a heap on top of another person lying on the bottom of the rigid hull.

  Quentin?

  It was Quentin. She could tell from the scent and shape of him. She pressed herself against his back, trying to soundlessly offer her support and thank him for saving her life.

  He didn’t move.

  She slipped her arm around his chest in the darkness to check he was breathing and sagged in relief when she felt his lungs fill. He was alive but definitely hurt. Unconscious.

  Men climbed in beside them, and she tried to protect Quentin from being stepped on, but they didn’t care, and she held back a cry of pain when some asshole trod on her sore ankle. The boat was pushed into the water, and someone started an outboard motor. Another engine started up nearby.

  Two boats. RIBs probably. She’d used them while scuba diving. Fast and nimble.

  The hulls bounced wildly over the surf and then pounded against the surface of the water in a hard thwack, thwack, thwack as they traveled fast. Every bone-jarring motion sent pain running through her body. She tried to press Quentin down so he wasn’t thrown about or injured even more. She slipped her arm beneath his head to provide a cushion, ignoring the painful bangs that she knew would leave bruises, if she lived long enough. Sea spray splashed them and collected on the floor of the boat, soaking through their clothes. The cold was a welcome relief after the heat of the fire, but it didn’t take long for the seawater to start to itch.

  She didn’t know how long they traveled. It seemed to be forever. Hours and hours of being battered by the elements.

  Eventually, the boat scraped along the sandy bottom of the seabed. Men began shouting as they jumped overboard. Someone pulled her with them, and she fell into the water, taking in a mouthful of ocean before staggering to her feet.

  Impatient hands pushed her along like she was oxen. She fell again, and a man muttered, “Stupid whore.”

  “I can’t see where to put my feet,” she snapped, bitterly. You try it, asshole.

  The hood was whipped off her head. She blinked in surprise. A man—one of the terrorists—wore a bandana over his mouth and nose. Dark eyes glared at her. She glanced over his shoulder and saw a spectacular bay in the moonlight with a white crescent beach and dark blue water. A small yacht at anchor. Then she spotted two men dragging Quentin
along by his arms.

  “Please, let me help my husband.” Words she’d never expected to utter, but the lie had already saved her life, she had no doubt. She was going to keep up the pretense for as long as possible, as long as necessary until they got out of this hellish situation.

  “Move.” The man shoved her along, not even bothering to threaten her with his gun. She was on an island somewhere in the middle of Indonesia, thick jungle rising up all around. She stumbled ahead, following a dirt track through the trees and up a long incline. Up and up until her legs wobbled with fatigue, and her lungs hurt, but she didn’t complain. Finally, when she thought she couldn’t go on any farther, they came upon a small group of huts. Haley was pushed through a low doorway, and relief filled her as Savage was dumped on the cot beside her.

  But he was still unconscious, and she was terrified he might be dead.

  Chapter Eight

  Eban Winters had his feet up on his boss’s desk, sipping a fresh cup of java. He was holding down the Crisis Negotiation fort, even though it was crack-of-dawn early on the weekend. Dominic Sheridan was on leave after his girlfriend had been shot. Quentin Savage, his boss, was keynoting an important conference in Indonesia. Charlotte Blood had flown out last night to Washington State to see what the latest Freemen insurrection was all about. It wasn’t a full-blown incident, but it wasn’t something they wanted to ignore, either. The Bureau had a lot more success with long, drawn-out sieges nowadays than they’d had at Ruby Ridge or Waco, mainly by avoiding full-scale confrontation and watching and waiting for people to be reasonable.

  Wasn’t easy.

  The ability to think critically and rationally appeared to be getting rarer every day.

  Nor was their new approach newsworthy, which was both good and bad. Good, that the media didn’t incite an escalation in hostilities—on either side. Bad, because failures of the past were never replaced by successes in the public eye.