by Norris, Kris
As opposed to the one who was quick-stepping down the alley. Blending in with the shadows. Narrowing in on the back entrance. He spotted Wilson’s first guy standing by the door. Asshole wasn’t even trying to hide. Probably had something to do with the second guy patrolling by the dumpster off to his right. The sniper Wilson had poised on the roof. The one who seemed to think his head wasn’t visible above the edge of the building.
He checked his watch. Thirty seconds.
Took him two more to eliminate the sniper—move into position on the opposite side of the door. The guy by the dumpster turned, went down without making a sound. Another two seconds, and Cannon was at the door, watchman in a choke hold. Fingers clawing at Cannon’s arms—trying to loosen his grip.
At ten seconds, the asshole was unconscious on the cement, hands zip-tied. Mouth taped shut. One leg twitched, but it didn’t matter. It would be over by the time he came to.
Cannon eased the door open, scanning the short hallway then darting inside. He got three steps in when another man popped out of the darkness, eyes wide, mouth gaping open. He turned then dropped, blood splattering across the wallpaper on the far wall. The suppressor keeping all but a dull whoosh from alerting the rest of the crew. Cannon grabbed a leg and yanked the guy back, leaving him in the shadows. Voices sounded from the other end of a long hallway, too muffled to make out.
He moved up the corridor, tossing a knife at another man standing in the kitchen door. The guy gasped as he stumbled back, tripping against a counter. Cannon slipped inside, silencing him with a quick jab to the side of the head. He crumpled, barely making a sound as Cannon caught most of his weight then slowly lowered him to the floor.
Sixty seconds.
Which meant Jericho was out of time.
He returned to hallway, cursing when her voice echoed through the air. She was laying out the options—buying him more time. Smart lady. He hadn’t been joking. Men like Wilson liked to be in control. Show off. And that was their downfall—talking when they should be shooting. There was a single shot that damn near stopped Cannon’s heart until he heard her voice, again. Then, he was moving. He was zoned in. Primed. He took four steps and was at the corner. Saw the assholes standing next to Wilson raise their guns. Saw Jericho off to the left, half-hidden behind a small wall. Her reflection in the glass mapping out her actions. The flex of her muscles as she pulled the trigger.
She caught both men before they could fire, bodies flipping backward. Hitting a counter then falling to the floor. She was aiming at Wilson—was a breath away from shooting him, when two men she couldn’t see aimed at her.
Cannon moved. Capped both men before they got their fingers inside the guards. Took out two more as they turned—attention divided. In less than ten seconds, it was over. Wilson was on the floor. Bloody patch on his shoulder and chest. Gun lying useless beside him.
Jericho twisted—aimed her gun his way before inhaling. She stood there, frozen for two heartbeats before nodding and lowering her arms. He scanned the room, slowly moving toward her, gun at the ready. He kicked some guy lying beside a wall when he looked as if he might be reaching for his gun—or maybe he was trying to shift to breathe better. Didn’t matter. Movement meant a possible threat, and he didn’t leave any of those alive or unbound to bite him in the ass later.
Jericho glanced at his gun then back to him, brow arched as she motioned toward the children cowering in the far corner. He sighed, slowly holstering it, when something flashed behind her.
“Jericho. Move.”
She reacted instantly, dodging left as the report boomed through the room. She spun as she hit the set of windows, but Cannon already had his knife drawn. Had tossed it at the fucker behind her, catching him in the throat. The guy’s feet shot forward as he reeled backwards, landing in a spray of blood. He made a muffled gurgling sound then stilled.
Cannon had his gun back out and was at Jericho’s side before she could do more than stare at the downed man. He knew she didn’t want to scare the patrons in the room, the kids, but they’d have to deal with it until backup arrived. He shouldered up to her, still watching the room. “Area’s not clear, yet. At least, not that we know for sure. Stick to my back until your unit arrives.”
Another nod, followed by a hiss. He glanced at her, noting the patch of blood on her arm. Not big but just seeing the red highlighted against the white made his stomach roil.
“You hit?”
She looked at him then down at her arm—as if just now noticing—before motioning him off. “Just a scratch. I’m fine. Especially considering how this could have turned out.”
He frowned at the raised pitch of her voice. The waver. Similar to how it had been on the phone. Again, it wasn’t something most people would pick up on. But he wasn’t most people. And he’d heard it. It wasn’t fear, this time. Shock mixed with pain. Adrenaline dump. A combination of all three. Either way, she needed to decompress before it hit her any harder.
“Okay, we’ll get everyone calmed down, then go room by room.”
“I’ll—”
The door crashed open, glass splintering through the room. Men dressed in black gear, the words U.S. Marshal printed out in yellow block letters across their vests, swarming through. They had assault rifles sweeping the room, yelling at everyone to get down. Four men circled him and Jericho, muzzles pointed at their chests, expressions hard.
Cannon raised his hands, allowing them to take his gun, turn him toward the windows. This was just part of the process. A way of keeping the unit safe, even if he was one of the good guys. But, having been in their shoes—not knowing who to trust. If one of the armed assailants was masquerading as help in order to make a run for it—he didn’t resist. Jericho grunted as she hit the wall beside him, hands braced to either side.
Cannon glanced at the men over his shoulder. One guy seemed more edgy than the rest, even for a specialty officer. Someone caught in the current situation. It made Cannon antsy in return—wondering if the guy had something to hide. “Are you so damn blind you don’t even recognize one of your own? Jericho’s a Deputy Marshal, you dumb twats.”
That guy grabbed Cannon’s vest and rammed him harder against the windows. “If I were you, I wouldn’t give me a reason to shoot you. The Supervisory Deputy will be here in a moment. He can clear everything up. Until then, everyone’s a suspect. And, if you so much as twitch, I’ll kill you. Both of you.”
Cannon nodded toward the families cowering on the floor. “Pretty sure the ten-year-old isn’t part of the crew.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Actually, son, I doubt he would be. Not after all he’s witnessed.” Art moved into view. “They’re both clean. And Mr. Sloan’s right. You should recognize Jericho, Andrews. Show some respect.”
Andrews eyed them then left, making the rounds of the downed men.
Art shook his head. “Sorry about that. SOG guys tend to take everything to the extreme. Andrews, especially. Guy’s got a pretty short fuse. But that’s kind of the point of having them around.” He motioned to Jericho’s arm. “You okay?”
She grimaced but nodded. “It’s only a graze. I’ll be fine.”
Art waved a medic over. “See that gets cleaned and bandaged. God knows she won’t do it, herself. Lest she admit she’s not bulletproof.” He turned to Cannon. “I’d like to say I’m surprised to see you here, but… I’m going to need statements. From everyone. And we’ll all need to take a trip to the office. Straighten out the details. Afraid I’ll have to keep your gun until we can run a ballistics test. Yours, too, Jericho. Strictly routine. You’ll have it back tomorrow.” He leaned in closer to Cannon. “You do realize you’re not authorized to shoot people, don’t you, Mr. Sloan?”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time. Authorized or not.”
Jericho brushed off the medic’s hand. “Art. This is on me. You know I called him.”
Art waved it away. “Let’s just get this cleaned up. We’ll talk back at the offic
e. I’ll have someone drive your Wrangler. You can ride with Cannon—see you both make it there…” He paused when Dave stormed through the door. “Faraday. Nice of you to show up.”
Dave glanced at Cannon then Jericho. “Jesus Christ, I pull up, expecting to have a drink, and all hell’s broken loose. What the fuck happened? And why is he here?”
Art stepped in front of Dave, holding him back. “We’ll figure this out back at the office. For now, just help with the statements. The cleanup.”
Dave huffed but moved off, joining the other marshals working their way through the patrons.
Art turned to her. “Stop giving the medic a hard time. Once he’s finished, have a seat. Catch your breath. I’ll be back when it’s time to leave.”
Cannon snagged a chair then stared at Jericho until she begrudgingly sat. He pulled one over for himself, ensuring they weren’t in front of the windows—just in case. He watched the marshals work the crowd, constantly checking on Jericho. She seemed distant. Strangely quiet. Not that he blamed her. What she’d just gone through…
Which was why he didn’t ask her the multitude of questions racing through his mind. Why she’d been at Malone’s. Why Dave was just showing up, now. If she felt half as edgy as he did. But not from the shootout. It was her.
Sitting there, worrying if she was really okay. If she’d somehow gotten mixed up in something dangerous without realizing it. If she wanted him to hold her as much as he needed to. That not putting his arms around her, taking her hand in his, was using up a year’s worth of restraint. That he wanted nothing more than to hike her up over his shoulder and march out—take her home. Love away the shadows beneath her eyes. The white cast to her skin.
Instead, he sat there. Unmoving. Silent. Minutes. Hours. Days. It didn’t matter. He’d wait. He hated waiting. Considered himself a man of action. That’s what he’d been trained for. Constantly adapting. Staying ahead of the threat. Never giving the enemy time to regroup. But, sometimes, that required doing nothing at all. Staying in the same four-foot box for days on end, observing. Calculating. He didn’t like it, but he was good at it.
So, he sat there, close enough she felt his presence—the heat from his body. The steady whisper of his breath—but not touching her. Stimulating her because that was the last thing she needed. Her eyes were still wide, overly white. As if the irises had shrunken down to small pinpoints of intense green. And he didn’t miss the way she fisted one hand—banged it on her thigh as it bounced a bit.
She was edgy. Hyper aware. Of sounds, smells, sights. Touching her, now, would be the equivalent of scraping a knife across her skin. Which brought him back to where she needed to decompress. Somewhere quiet. Limited lighting. Not that she would probably get a chance. But he’d do what he could.
The medic gave her the okay then headed toward the gathering of people. Jericho gazed over at him, gave him a small smile, then tapped her phone. She stood, despite his encouragement to keep her ass on the chair, walking a few steps away as she spoke into the cell. He caught a name—Uncle Jack—before the background noise drowned out her voice.
Not exactly how he’d envisioned the night would go. Though, looking around, it struck him how much worse it could have ended. How easy it was to picture Jericho on the ground, her shirt covered in blood. Eyes dull. Unseeing. He’d seen ten lifetime’s worth of death, and knowing he could have lost her…
He closed his eyes, opening them when her hand landed on his shoulder. He didn’t even need to see her to know it was her. The faint scent of her perfume, the way her fingers curled around his muscles. The distinct pattern of her breathing. He knew.
He smiled as he stared up at her—still so fucking beautiful—covering her hand with his. He waited to see if even that was still too much, but after her initial sharp inhale, she settled.
She motioned to her boss. “Art said we can head back to the office.”
He stood, shifting her hand into his. He didn’t care if people were looking. What they might think. All that mattered was her cold hand pressed against his. Proof he hadn’t failed.
He palmed the small of her back with his other hand, still keeping his touch light. “I’m parked a block away. I’d suggest we go out the back but…”
“But there are probably a bunch of dead bodies in the way, right?”
“I didn’t have time to be choosy on how I eliminated them. Just that they went down.”
“God, Cannon. I’m not judging. I mean, you…” She swallowed. Noisily. As if it took more effort than usual. “We can walk around.”
“Then, follow me.”
Chapter Six
God, his hand was so large. So strong. So…warm.
Jericho sighed when Cannon gave her fingers a squeeze, slotting them around his as he gave her one of his killer smiles then headed for the front door.
Killer. It took on a whole new meaning, now. Not that she hadn’t known what he was capable of before. She’d talked to her uncle. Knew other veterans. Hell, her father had died in the service. But nothing compared to seeing Cannon in action.
He’d just appeared. Shadows one second, his body stepping out of them the next. He hadn’t hesitated—taking the assailants down with his M9. One shot. That’s all he’d used on each man. Though, he’d told her to go for the torso—something she would have done, regardless. Biggest target. Guaranteed to drop them unless they’d been wearing armor, which she’d been pretty damn sure they hadn’t—he’d tapped them each in the head. And he hadn’t even blinked.
Hadn’t been sweating when he’d tossed the knife at the guy who’d snuck up behind her. A flash of silver and a thump. That’s all she’d seen or heard. Then, he’d been at her side—putting himself between her and any possible attack—all the while still scanning the room. Hands steady.
Her hands were steady, now, too. At least, the one he was holding was. The other…
She tucked it in her jeans’ pocket. She didn’t want to know if it was trembling. If she was merely cold because the weather had changed. Had started raining. Or if it was something else. She needed to believe she was just as calm, just as detached, as Cannon appeared.
For a moment, she’d thought he’d been worried. Had looked at her as if he hadn’t thought he’d ever see her, again. Eyes wide. His skin slightly pale. Then, it had vanished. The way she knew he could if he wanted. That he could have been long gone before the SOG team had arrived. But he never would have left her. Not even if he’d been convinced the threat was over. He’d made that clear. He’d rather go to jail than leave her side.
He wouldn’t go to jail. She’d seen to that, personally. Had done the one thing she’d sworn she’d never do. Had avoided since she’d decided to go into law enforcement. First, as a cop, then the shift to the Marshal Service. But… It was Cannon. And he’d saved her life. Had been willing to die for her. She needed to return the favor, even if it meant asking for help.
“Sweetheart?”
She gave herself a mental shake, coming back to her senses as he leaned toward her. She glanced around. They were at his Chevy. Though, she didn’t remember walking down the alley. Wasn’t sure how long they’d been standing beside the passenger door. Waiting.
She sighed. “Sorry. I was thinking.”
“I’m familiar with the feeling. Let’s get you inside and warmed up. You’re shivering.”
She was? His coat settled around her shoulders. Heavy. Warm. Infused with the aroma of pine forest and man. His scent. She frowned. Hadn’t he been wearing a vest?
She arched a brow. “You don’t have to give me your coat because you’re a guy and I’m a girl, ya know.”
Another smile that flip-flopped her stomach. Made her slightly lightheaded. “Then, I’ll give it to you because I’m the boyfriend, and you’re my girl.”
Boyfriend? His girl? Had he seriously just said that? Or had she imagined it? Words wrought from stress and wishful thinking. She went to question him, but he had the door open and was lifting her in before s
he could get any words to form on her tongue. Then, his door opened, and the engine turned over—heat already pouring out the vents. Had it still been warm from when he’d driven back from Montana? How long had they been inside the restaurant?
Damn, she was zoning in and out. Losing track of time. Something she never did. It’s not as if tonight had been her first firefight. The first time she’d had to shoot someone. Been shot at. There wasn’t any reason that it should be different. Other than the fact she’d honestly thought she was going to die. That Cannon wouldn’t make it in time. Or he’d decide she wasn’t worth risking his career—his life—over.
Maybe that’s why she felt off. Guilt, over not fully believing in him. Though it had only been coffee dates, a few stops by her office—he’d never, once, let her down. And she’d harbored doubts when it had mattered the most.
Looked like another test she’d failed.
His hand covered hers. “You want to talk?”
She gazed over at him. Lips pressed together, eyes narrowed—he looked lethal. No suave secret agent. He was pure warrior. A hard man who was accustomed to doing hard things. Yet, the way he held her hand—brushing his thumb along her knuckles… She wasn’t sure any man had touched her that gently. As if he knew she was overly sensitive.
Cannon sighed, alternating his attention between her and the road—when had they started moving? “It’s normal.”
“What’s normal?”
God, her voice sounded raw. All low and scratchy. As if it had taken all her strength just to get those two words out. But if he’d noticed, he didn’t show it. Didn’t react. Instead, he let go of her hand for a second to turn the heat up a bit more then clasped her fingers in his, again.