by Norris, Kris
A chiming. Like bells. Were they near a church? No, the door. Someone had opened the door. Voices. Two. Words she couldn’t make out. Then, footsteps. Heading away. Fading into the pain. The darkness.
Was something ticking? Because it sounded like that. A clock counting away in the background. Jericho opened her eyes. Blinked. The dots were still there, only not as many. More like a gray film over her vision. She blinked, again. Cleared part of her view. She was in the car, leaning against the door. A man was slumped over the steering wheel, dried blood smeared across his head, down the side of his face. She couldn’t hear him breathing. But she couldn’t really hear anything other than the thready pulse echoing inside her head.
And that ticking.
She moved, nearly blacked out from the pain, but managed to clear her mind a bit. There was something dark stuck to the windshield. Numbers flashing with every tick. The first one was a three. That’s all she could make out.
A bomb. It registered, now. As if her brain was playing catch up. The sound. The numbers. The words from before—set the timer for five minutes. That’s what he’d meant. He’d set a bomb. Destroy any evidence. Kill her.
You’re already mostly dead.
But she wasn’t. Not yet. She looked down, thought she was going to puke from the motion. The slide of the world left then right. She held her breath, waited for the scenery to stabilize. Pain flared as she shifted in her seat, managed to unclip the seatbelt then lift her arm—place her fingers on the handle.
Two more breaths, and she pulled on the lever. Only engaged it halfway until she pulled, again. The door opened, and she tumbled out, landing hard on her side. Another wash of black. Of pain cutting out the rest of the world, until the ticking drew her back. She wasn’t sure if she actually heard it or if it was playing in her mind. Her subconscious counting down until the moment she’d die.
Not like this. Not while she was still conscious. Still breathing. She did her best to roll, push onto her knees then stumble to her feet. She swayed, the floor of the warehouse tilting beneath her. It took a moment, then she was moving, tripping her way toward the back of the warehouse. Toward an entrance that led to the water. A few pallets were stacked near the wall. Not tall, but enough to deflect the blast. Keep her safe.
She used whatever was available to lurch her way toward the back. The wall. An old metal cabinet. A stack of cardboard boxes. Each item became another tether point. A place to brace one hand then launch herself forward. Each step felt painfully slow. As if she was wading through water. Just moving her legs made her vision erode at the edges. More of those black dots eating away the light. She tried to count off the seconds in her head but couldn’t seem to get above seven before losing focus. Having to start, again.
Was the clock still ticking? She was too far away to hear anything. Her surroundings reduced to the drag of her legs. The bloody drops she left with each step. The rasp of her breath as she fought to keep walking. Had it ever been this hard to breathe? The pain in her left side flared with every inhalation.
So, she took shallow breaths. Just enough to keep her going. Keep from igniting the pain, because if she stopped—if she paused to try and push it down—she’d never start up, again. She knew it. She’d simply stand there until the blast either knocked her down or incinerated her. Maybe both.
It was taking too long. She was sure she’d used up all of the three minutes she’d seen on the clock, and she wasn’t at the pallets, yet. Had it really been a three? She couldn’t be sure. Everything was getting fuzzy. Where she was. How she’d gotten hurt. The only constant was the slow scrape of her feet across the pavement. The view of the pallets getting closer.
Another two counts of seven, and she was there. Stepping behind the wood. Leaning against the wall to prevent her knees from buckling. Water lapped in the background, the scent of brine heavy in the air.
She bowed her head, tried to get control of the pain, when the vehicle exploded. The rush of air knocked her sideways. If it wasn’t for a window ledge on her right, she would have hit the ground. But she managed to stay upright. Avoid getting burned as smoke filled the room, the black cloud billowing to the rafters.
She coughed, doubled over from the pain, then pushed back up. Heat blasted the air, burning a line down her throat as she tried to breathe. She wouldn’t last in here much longer. The door knob rattled in her hand, refusing to turn. She frowned, realized there was a deadbolt, then focused on lifting her hand. Turning it then turning the handle—tumbling into the fresh air. A cloud of smoke followed her out, fading into the evening fog.
Jericho leaned against the wall, still trying to muddle through what needed to be done. But her thoughts were fuzzy. Not connecting like they should. An idea would spring to mind then just derail before becoming coherent. Maybe it was the pain throbbing through her temples. The one only slightly better than the burning sensation in her side. Had she hit her head?
She managed to brush her fingers across her forehead—stared down at the blood smeared on her fingertips. She’d definitely hit her head. Though, the bleeding wasn’t bad. Not like her side. The bottom half of her shirt was soaked. The excess dripping onto the floor. Which meant, even if she didn’t die from the blood loss, she was leaving a trail. A giant arrow pointing directly to her. To where she was heading. She couldn’t remember exactly why she needed to remain hidden, only that she did. That someone might come back—kill her. She needed to stem the bleeding.
Of course, needing to and being able to were distinctly different. Just getting her hands to move—to slip off her jacket—took three tries. Unbuttoning her shirt was impossible, so she just ripped it open. Flung the buttons in all directions then got it off, too. She balled it up—layered it over the wound. Fought through the excruciating pain tying it in place with her jacket sleeves.
It wasn’t perfect. Didn’t completely stanch the flow. But it slowed it down. Prevented it from collecting on the pavement beneath her. It would have to do. Hopefully, she’d find something else to press against her side, or maybe a first aid kit.
There was one in the trunk of the car. She remembered that much. She glanced over her shoulder, staring at the fire burning inside the building. How had she forgotten the car had exploded? That her only resources were on her back—in her pockets?
She reached for her phone. Nothing. No badge, no gun. Just the shifting scenery and the wound on her side. The whirling feeling inside her head, making it impossible to focus. To think clearly.
More stabbing pain, which meant she still had time. Once it numbed—became indiscernible—it would be too late. She needed to move. Go…
Cannon.
The name broke through the haziness. The foggy feeling clouding her thoughts. Just appeared like a beacon in the dark. His office wasn’t too far. A few miles. Surely, she could drag herself there. He’d know what to do. Would keep her safe. She was sure of that. Felt it settle inside her. Cannon was the answer. All she had to do was reach him.
Chapter Nine
“Are you sure we’re in the right place, buddy?”
Cannon grunted a reply, scanning the street. A light fog crept in off the sea wall, highlighting the crumbling buildings and charred brick. The place looked more like a set from The Walking Dead than a section of the wharf. And definitely the last place he’d ever envision Jericho stopping during a prisoner transfer. “Industrial fire took out a city block six months ago. It’s scheduled for demolition. Some shipping company bought the whole thing.”
Jericho had shown him the plans for the new development. Definitely an improvement and part of the reason he’d gone with her suggestion and rented a space in the area for his office. It wasn’t so trendy his crew would stand out—or the rent was too high—but it was slowly being gentrified.
His partner, Brett Sievers, aka Colt to his buddies, snorted. “Must have been one hell of an explosion.”
“Took four days to put out, from what I’ve heard.” He glanced at Colt. “This feels—�
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“Wrong? Yeah. Who would use this route to transport a prisoner?”
“No one. Which is why we’re here. Something’s off.”
Colt shouldered up beside him. “And you’re certain her GPS pinged here?”
“Jericho’s smart. She doesn’t break protocol, and she doesn’t make stupid mistakes. She told me, outright, that she couldn’t text or call during a transfer. If she broke ranks so she could share her location—she did it for a reason. None of which are good.” He gave Colt a slight shove. “And yeah, I’m sure. I checked it a dozen times. Signal began just off the interstate, traveling west then north. It seemed steady for a few minutes then stopped.”
Brett nodded, still scanning the area. “Is that when the signal vanished?”
Cannon’s chest tightened at the thought. That’s when he’d gone into full soldier mode. He’d been…concerned when his phone had chirped—when he’d read the notice. Jericho Nash is sharing her location. Had instantly gone on alert. But it had seemed so benign, at first. Just her in what was obviously a vehicle, traveling in the primary direction of her office. Sure, he’d noted the area. Thought it odd that they’d ventured off the interstate, but…
What the fuck did he know about being a Deputy U.S. Marshal? True, he knew about routing. Had run enough convoys in his time to recognize a good plan from a bad one. Traveling the industrial area—definitely a bad choice. It opened them up to endless opportunities for someone to either hijack them or simply take them out. One RPG from the top of a warehouse, or a well-placed IED under a manhole cover, and it was game over.
But, he didn’t have all the intel. Didn’t know marshal protocol—an oversight he planned on rectifying—or if they were meeting up with auxiliary forces. Maybe local law enforcement. Fuck, for all he knew, the Marshal Service had a safe house tucked away out here. Maybe Ty Brown had decided to make a deal, after all. Was being placed in Wit Sec.
It wasn’t until the little blue blip had stopped moving for a couple of minutes, then vanished without any kind of text or explanation from Jericho, that he knew she was in trouble. The kind that left behind a bloody trail or mangled bodies.
That’s when he’d grabbed Colt and jumped in his truck. He might not know marshal protocol, but he knew a damn SOS when he saw it—in any form. And he wasn’t about to let her down. Worst-case scenario, he could say he hacked her phone—followed her. Lose his Special Deputy status. Hell, they could toss his ass in jail if he was wrong.
But he wasn’t. He felt it. Sensed it like he had on countless missions. A shiver along his spine that had warned him of a pending attack. Or had stopped him in the middle of an op to just…wait. Outlast the ambush he’d known was there but couldn’t see. Couldn’t explain outside of the clenching in the pit of his stomach. The nagging voice in his head. This was no different. Jericho needed him.
Colt gripped his shoulder, looking him in the eyes. “Do you smell that?”
Cannon snorted. “The stench of brine or piss?”
“Smoke. Wind’s blowing the wrong way, but…it’s there.”
Cannon inhaled, and fuck if Colt wasn’t right. “Can you tell what direction it’s coming from?”
“Must be close to the pier to mask it this well. It’s probably blending in with fog. It’s thicker over the water.” Colt pointed at a broken down warehouse off to their left. “I’d guess on the other side of that line of warehouses. The row that backs onto the sea wall.” Colt grabbed Cannon’s wrist, when he took a step. “You sure this isn’t a set-up? You’ve made a lot of enemies over the years.”
“Jericho wouldn’t set me up.”
“Cannon.”
“I know how to read betrayal, and she’s clean.” He scoffed when Colt just stared at him, fingers still digging into his muscle. “If she wanted me dead, she could have killed me at the restaurant, last night. Instead, she called her uncle and got me a pass. And that’s not taking into account the kiss in my truck.”
Colt chuckled. “You’re risking our lives based on a kiss? Must have been one hell of a kiss.”
“I am, and it was.” He sighed. “She’s…different.”
Different. That was an understatement, and not nearly a suitable explanation. But…how did he explain what he felt for Jericho when it seemed crazy, even to him? A month of coffee dates, two takedowns, and a kiss shouldn’t have him this worked up. Emotions didn’t belong on missions. Had a way of getting good men killed. Every soldier knew to lock them in a box they could examine later—after they made it back alive. True, this wasn’t a mission, but even trying to recon a place without his head fully in the game…
It made him a liability. And if Jericho was hurt…
He shut down that line of thinking. Couldn’t go there. Not and be the man she needed him to be. He had to shove it all away—block out the images of her bleeding. Dead. Because that wasn’t an option. Not after finally finding her. Admitting to himself she meant more to him than anyone else had. Ever. He hadn’t labeled it love, yet, but damn it, if this wasn’t love—this out-of-control, head spinning, need-to-hold-her-now feeling—then he wasn’t sure what was.
Colt merely nodded. “Good enough for me. So, if this isn’t a set-up, then this was her calling for backup. And you know how much I hate letting a lady down. We should go along the side of that building. Stick close to the walls. Re-evaluate from there. But don’t worry. If she’s here, we’ll find her.”
Damn straight they would. And, if there was so much as a scratch on her, Cannon would make catching the bastards who’d hurt her his sole vocation.
Colt crossed the street, heading down the south side of the building. He had his gun drawn, at the ready, feet barely making a sound. He was slightly shorter than Cannon, and about forty pounds lighter. But he moved like a damn cat. All grace and power. Cannon considered himself a stealthy guy. Could climb walls, vault over fences. Parkour with the best of them. But Colt made it look easy. Like walking down the street. Guy was crazy good at tracking, too. Had once followed a tango for five miles on nothing more than bent grass and a few scuff marks. Definitely the kind of teammate Cannon was happy to have on his side.
He just hoped he wouldn’t need to put Colt’s skills to the test. Or his own. But, as they neared the rear edge of the warehouse, the scent of smoke increased. It could have been anything. Some teenagers setting fires for fun. Homeless people seeking shelter—trying to stay warm. But that feeling—the tight one in his chest…
This was bad.
Colt stopped Cannon with a raised fist as they reached the corner. The guy scanned the area, lips firm as he glanced at Cannon. “Something’s burning inside the building across the street. There’s some wreckage scattered on the pavement just outside the door. Thinking it blew up, first.”
“Can you tell what it was?”
A twitch beside his left eye.
Fuck, Cannon knew that look. The silence saying everything Colt couldn’t. “A vehicle.”
“We don’t know it was hers.”
“She breaks protocol, and now, there’re pieces of a car scattered where I lost contact. I think we both know it’s hers.” He checked his weapon. “Fuckers will pay if they hurt her. I’ll hunt them down.”
“I’ll help, but let’s not jump to conclusions, yet. Place looks clear, but…”
Yeah. Cannon knew the score. Which meant running through the possible threats. Snipers—check. Suspicious cars or items that could house explosives—check. Possible tangos hanging around—check. Took all of a minute to run through the various hazards. Feel confident they weren’t going to get jumped straight off. Then, they were running. Weaving—just in case—as they headed for the partially open rolling door.
Cannon covered his mouth as they stopped just outside. Fuck, the smell. Rubber, electronics and the unmistakable stench of burning flesh. And, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure if he could handle seeing the other side of the door.
He’d watched his teammates—his brothers—die.
Had faced more horrors than most people could imagine. Had the smell of death burned into his brain—apparently etched into his DNA. Surrounding him like a damn shroud. But just the thought of stepping inside—seeing her charred remains inside the vehicle…
Colt grabbed his arm when he went to duck under the door. “Let me go first.” He shook his head. “Cannon. I’m asking as your brother. Let me have a look.”
“Ten seconds. Then, I’m coming under this door. I won’t risk your safety because I’m scared at what I might find.”
Scared. He’d never admitted that before. Especially to a teammate. Thankfully, Colt didn’t call him on it.
His buddy held up his hand, fingers splayed. “I’ll be back in five.”
The man darted inside, reappearing just when Cannon was about to follow. Colt coughed, blinking a few times as he shook his head. “Hard to tell what happened, but there’s at least one dead. There’s a blood trail leading toward the back. Thought we should check it out together.”
“Could you…”
“I think it’s male. Harder than hell to be sure, but it was on the driver’s side. From what you said, it didn’t sound like she was driving.”
Cannon nodded. He couldn’t do anything else. His throat seized. Fucking frozen at the thought that he’d have to accept that Jericho was dead. That he’d failed her. Instead, he took a deep breath then moved in behind Colt, shadowing the man’s every move.
Two seconds and they were inside, circling the burning vehicle in opposite directions. His buddy had been right. Only one inside. Driver’s seat. No one in the passenger or the rear. Which meant the bastard in the back had most likely orchestrated the escape. Ty Brown. Now at the top of Cannon’s most wanted list, and a fucking dead man walking. It didn’t matter if Brown had mafia connections. If Cannon had to take out the entire Macmillan family to get to the guy. The fucker would pay.