Forbidden (Southern Comfort)

by O'Neill, Lisa Clark

  “Is he okay?” he heard her voice, wrecked from grief, but he couldn’t see her. Then Kim moved back, calling for an EMT, and there she was, dropping to her knees. “Oh Clay. Your arm.” She visibly paled, touched his cheek. “I thought you were dead.” And her sob was pitiful. “You just… flew into the air…”

  Unable to speak, she leaned over, tears dripping onto his cheeks to mingle with his own. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, lips a hair’s breadth from her ear. “I’m so, so sorry. God, Tate. I… I loved him, too.”

  Leaning back, Tate blinked at him, and unbelievably, started to smile. It dawned slow at first, hesitant, but burst forth into a blinding grin. “Max is fine,” she echoed Kim’s earlier declaration. “Well, maybe not fine, but he will be. In all the panic and chaos, I forgot that you couldn’t have…” She shook her head, and pointed toward a nearby ambulance. “He’s drugged, still, and we’re getting ready to head to the hospital. But his vital signs are all good. He’ll be sick, some, they said, but he’s alive, Clay. He’s…” she lifted her shoulders and then relaxed them in a heartfelt sigh. “Alive.”

  The rush of emotion was like nothing he’d ever known. Relief. Awe. Love…

  Confusion.

  “How –” he started, but then Kim appeared, medical technician in tow, two others following with a stretcher. The EMT knelt next to him, asking Tate if she could please move back.

  “Casey Rodriguez,” she explained, reluctantly leaving his side. “She was in the house. She went through the bathroom window and climbed out onto the porch roof, carrying Max. One of the snipers saw her, and radioed that they were out. That’s what your friend Kim was trying to tell you. Casey jumped, holding onto Max, and, I think, twisted her ankle, but she managed to get clear of the house.” She pushed her fingers to lips that trembled. “They’re going to be okay.”

  “Sir,” the EMT interrupted as Clay tried to sort through what Tate was saying. Casey Rodriguez had saved Max? What about Walker? “We’re going to need to get you into an ambulance,” the man continued his professional buzzing in Clay’s ear. “Your arm’s busted up pretty good.”

  Yeah, Clay was beginning to get that picture.

  “Can he ride in the ambulance with Max?” Tate wanted to know, watching the proceedings with anxious eyes.

  “That’s not standard procedure.” The man braced Clay’s neck, stabilized his arm so that they could lift him onto the stretcher. Clay felt little right now, but knew the shock would wear off and it was going to hurt like a bitch.

  “Please,” he said, grabbing the man’s arm with his good hand. “He’s… mine.”

  The EMT blew out a breath, glanced at the nods from his colleagues. “Okay. But anybody asks, we went by the book.”

  THE IV Clay was hooked to contained some pretty awesome drugs.

  He was feeling no pain, that was for sure, as Tate ran her fingers through his hair while they waited for the EMTs to wrap things up. He groggily looked over at Max, noticed Tate’s other hand clutching her son’s. Other than a few scrapes, bruises and a good bit of dirt, the boy didn’t look too worse for wear. There was the drug to worry about, of course, but if his respiration was good…

  It could have been so much worse.

  Frowning, he glanced toward the open ambulance doors.

  “Do you see Kim anywhere out there?” He wanted to know if they’d found any sign of Walker.

  “Um…” Tate shifted beside him, straining her neck so that she could see around the doors. “She’s over by that van. Do you want me to go get her?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind. Once they get me into surgery, it will be a while before I can talk to her.”

  After dropping a kiss onto both his and Max’s cheeks, Tate reluctantly climbed out from beside them. “Be right back.”

  Clay closed his eyes, feeling his body float, as if the laws of gravity could hold him no longer. And though the sensation wasn’t entirely unpleasant, he wanted to stay alert until he spoke with Kim.

  The click of the doors closing startled Clay’s eyes open, and then one of the EMTs climbed into the driver’s seat. He engaged the ignition, threw the gearshift into drive, and started to pull away.

  “Hey,” Clay called, thankful that the man hadn’t turned on the siren, because otherwise he probably couldn’t have heard him. “Could you hold off there, just a minute? We need to wait for our other passenger.”

  “Sorry pal,” the EMT called back, “I’ve waited too long already.” He laughed softly, and Clay craned his neck in the brace, trying to get a look at the man. He couldn’t see more from his position than a glimpse of dark uniform and hat.

  “Seriously.” He tried to keep his words from slurring, because those awesome drugs worked pretty damn fast. “You need to wait for the child’s mother. She’s had a pretty rough day, and she really needs to be with her son.”

  The EMT ignored him as the crunch of dirt and gravel gave way to the smooth hum of the pavement. “Buddy,” Clay said again, more forcefully. “Stop the ambulance. Now.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so, Agent Copeland.”

  Fear rushed, icy cold, and just like that, he knew.

  Jonathan Walker was driving the ambulance.

  The relentless son of a bitch. The explosion must have been a distraction…

  Clay fumbled around as unobtrusively as possible, slipping the IV needle from the back of his hand with a decided lack of finesse. He had to stop the steady flow of narcotic into his veins or he’d be out cold in a matter of minutes. Fighting to keep his breathing even, his fogged brain from slipping into panic, Clay scanned the interior of the ambulance for a readily available weapon. It probably should have galled him that he wasn’t even considering reasoning with the man, but he wanted Walker dead as quickly as possible, and to hell with any repercussions.

  His eyes lit on the various medical paraphernalia: stethoscopes, IV tubing and bags, blood pressure cuffs. Maybe he could get something around the guy’s neck, strangle him, except that his dominant arm was totally useless.

  “Whatever you’re thinking about attempting,” Walker went on, his voice decidedly friendly. It was easy to be happy-go-lucky, after all, when the situation was utterly in your control. And it was definitely in Walker’s control, alright, because discombobulated as Clay was, there was no mistaking the man’s gun. “I’d advise you against it. I don’t want to hurt the boy, Agent, but I can’t seem to feel the same compunction about you.”

  Fury erupted, hot and bright, but Clay fought it under control. If he miscalculated and got himself killed, then Max would be alone with this monster. He figured he had maybe five minutes before Kim and the others figured out what had happened. But five minutes was more than enough time for Walker to shoot them both.

  Except that he didn’t want to hurt Max.

  Clay seized that comment with both hands, trying to remember to think like a professional. His initial instinct to say Walker sure as hell had a funny way of showing it wasn’t likely to win him any points. Nor could he point out the fact that taking Max away from his mother was definitely hurting him, because a stable family life wasn’t something Walker could relate to. He needed to open the man’s emotional and psychological baggage, unfold the subconscious reasons he wanted to take Max. If he could throw him off his game, shake his confidence, just a little, he might be able to distract him enough to gain control of the gun.

  “You want to use him to recreate what you had with Donald Logan.”

  The hand holding the gun wavered slightly, but Walker laughed, a short burst of irritation.

  Clay pressed the advantage. “He was the only one who ever offered you caring of any sort, and you were bereft when he was sent to prison. However unhealthy your relationship, you miss that feeling of intimacy, of belonging to someone or something. That’s why you went to all the trouble to get Max. You want to experience that feeling again. Only this time you’d be in control.”

  “Well congratulations, Doctor Copeland.” The hos
tility underlying the amusement in his voice suggested Clay was right on target. “You’ve clearly been doing your homework. But you can spare us both the head-shrinking bullshit because you obviously don’t know shit.”

  Okay. Direct hit. Clay looked around again, weighing each object’s value as a weapon. If he just landed one solid blow on the wrist he could loosen Walker’s grip on the gun. But one blow was all that he was going to get, so he had to make sure it counted.

  “I know that Logan molested you. You were physically and emotionally vulnerable, and he convinced you that what he was doing to you was love. But it wasn’t love, Jonathan. He violated you, plain and simple.”

  The gun crashing down on his broken arm ripped a scream of pain from Clay’s throat. Even the drug coursing through him couldn’t dull the full impact of the blow. Ambulance swerving wildly, Walker’s breathing ragged intakes of fury, he hissed at Clay before using both hands to regain control of the vehicle. “You stupid sonofabitch. I was going to shoot you before I sent the ambulance in, but now I think I’ll let you drown. It’ll be slower and a lot more painful.”

  The meaning behind Walker’s words sank in just as the vehicle pulled off the pavement. He stopped the ambulance, threw the gearshift into park, and Clay knew that he had to act fast. Struggling to release the straps holding him as Walker opened the driver’s side door, he figured the man was probably looking for a stick he could lodge between the seat and the gas pedal. And sure enough, Clay heard him thrashing around outside just as he managed to get out of the restraints. He swung his unsteady legs to the side, finally managed to locate a weapon. Reaching over Max, pulling it out of its compartment, Clay fumbled to do what he needed to with his left hand before lying back down on his stretcher. Walker would shoot him in a heartbeat if he had any idea that Clay was mobile.

  So when Walker came back to the vehicle, messed around with the gas pedal until Clay heard it revving, he lay perfectly still and pretended to be the next thing to catatonic.

  Walker crawled into the back, and Clay could sense him looking at him, no doubt assessing to make certain he was out.

  But the bastard hit his arm again, just for good measure.

  It took everything Clay had not to react.

  Grunting in apparent satisfaction, the man turned away and began to remove the restraints holding Max. He obviously planned on taking him with him.

  Clay didn’t waste any time. He reached beside him, pulled the portable defibrillator from where he’d stashed it, ignored the screaming agony in his arm and delivered what he hoped were a billion volts.

  Walker yelled hoarsely, his body jumping with the shock, and fell backwards almost on top of Clay. The gun he’d been holding clattered to the metal floor beneath Max’s stretcher.

  Pushing the stunned man aside, Clay scrambled toward the weapon, pitching forward when Walker landed heavily against his back. They went down hard, knocking into Max’s stretcher, which tilted but held onto Max. Luckily Walker hadn’t managed to undo the straps before Clay hit him.

  Clay’s left hand snaked toward the weapon as his kidney seemed to explode from a short-armed punch. Gasping, he threw his left elbow back until it connected with Walker’s ribcage. Shifting his weight to his right forearm, he felt the snapped bone poke through his skin, and gritted his teeth against the liquid rush of pain that threatened to pull him under. Gray dots swimming at the edges of his vision, he groped blindly along the floor for the gun, stretching his abused fingers until he felt the familiar shape. He’d just managed to wrap his hand around it when Walker’s right arm formed a noose around his neck.

  Max, Clay could only think as his vision blurred, his head pounded. And feeling that rush of primal fear, slammed his head into Walker’s nose. Blood spurted, thick and warm, but the chokehold didn’t lessen. And when Walker fell backward toward the ambulance’s front, he managed to drag Clay with him.

  Twisting, striving to get the gun aimed, Clay’s knee hit the gearshift and the ambulance started to roll. Somewhere in his adrenaline-fueled brain, he realized that was definitely not good. Using every bit of the strength he had left, Clay heaved his body until they were face to face. The gun went off in his hand just as the ambulance hit the pond.

  Through the rush of dirty water came the still-distant wailing of sirens.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE touch of soft lips on his cheek stirred Clay, and he was conscious of the purple bear being tucked into the crook of his good arm.

  Again.

  “Max.” Tate’s voice softly scolded, although it was still too soon after their hellish ordeal for her to work up any real irritation with her son. Still, she’d told him several times to stay out of her room when Clay was sleeping, but the child usually weaseled his way up here whenever she turned her back. With the absence of guests at the usually busy inn, Clay guessed Max was a little bit bored.

  Thank God.

  Thank God he was here, safe and sound, enduring nothing more traumatic than a healthy case of childish doldrums, rather than blown to pieces, subjected to Walker’s twisted sense of father/son bonding, or lying on the bottom of a cow pasture’s pond.

  All three outcomes had been so close…

  “It’s okay,” Clay reassured Tate, waking enough to give Max a conspiratorial smile. Men folk had to stick together. He held his left hand out, palm up, and Max walloped him with a low five. Despite the fact that Clay was recuperating from complicated surgery to repair the compound fracture in his arm, not to mention almost drowning, Max didn’t hold off on the heat. He grinned at Clay in a what do you think about THEM apples kind of way, and Clay laughed his heartfelt approval. The kid was unbelievably adorable.

  Then he shifted his gaze toward the end of the bed, where Tate was no doubt about to remonstrate Max for not being careful enough of Clay’s condition.

  Well, screw that.

  He was tired of feeling like an invalid, and heartily sick of her treating him like spun glass. They hadn’t had sex in over a week. His arm wasn’t working, for God’s sake. Not his…

  The snarky look on her face told him that she had guessed what he was thinking.

  He gave her his best I’m innocent grin.

  From her answering yeah, right expression it was obvious she didn’t believe him.

  “Tonight,” she promised softly as she hustled Max from the room, leaving Clay wondering not for the first time over how quickly they’d established that telepathy. “If you behave yourself now.”

  And he guessed he deserved that one. Yesterday, against doctor’s orders (what did Justin know, anyway?) he’d been determined to take a real shower. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed the sponge bath Tate had given him – in fact he’d enjoyed it a little too much – but a man needed a little independence. If he’d waited until today, when he was supposedly going to be steadier on his feet, he probably wouldn’t have slipped and bruised his ass.

  Tate’s smirk – showing that once again, she knew where his thoughts had drifted – probably should have been offensive, but he was too damn happy with that bait she’d dangled in front of him to worry about a little thing like pride. He blasted her with a full eyebrow wiggle/hip thrust and she laughed as she closed the door behind her.

  Dear God, he loved that woman.

  Yep, he was happy as a damn clam.

  Despite the fact that not everything had gone quite as planned.

  Walker was still alive.

  The bastard was in a coma, true, but he was still sucking up oxygen. And Clay suspected it wasn’t very humanitarian of him to wish that wasn’t the case. The bullet discharged from the weapon they’d struggled over hit Walker in the chest, doing extensive damage, but apparently not enough. What kind of tenacious asshole survives being shot at point blank range, anyway? In retrospect, maybe he should have left that gear shift alone and let the ambulance keep rolling into the pond. Of course, there was always the fact that he and Max might have drowned to consider. So yeah, he guessed he’d made the right m
ove.

  But Walker’s continued presence on earth still grated. When he woke up – if he woke up – they’d all have to go through the misery of a trial. There was no question of the man being convicted; the evidence was too overwhelming – including the fact that he’d killed one of the Charleston PD snipers in order to get the man’s rifle and fire off that igniting shot into the farmhouse. Then left the man lying mortally wounded while he stripped him bare for his uniform, so that he could blend in with the chaotic crowd.

  Murder, attempted murder, kidnapping, racketeering, arson… the charges Walker faced were too numerous to list. If he ever regained consciousness, he’d face either the death penalty or a life in prison.

  On second thought, given the way Clay suspected the man felt about prison, maybe things had worked out for the best after all.

  Josh Harding was going to make it. He faced a long, hard recovery given the severity of his injuries, but at least the younger man was alive.

  And Casey Rodriguez – Clay was so proud of her. Of her spirit in the face of what she’d endured. He’d stopped in to see her before he left the hospital the other day, and was humbled by her amazing resilience. She, also, would have a lengthy path to full physical recovery, and her emotional scars would probably last forever. No amount of therapy could ever fully make the memory of what happened to her go away. But with the right treatment, the right support, she’d learn to live with the scars and the memories. In fact, Clay had already seen to it that she’d have regular access to one of his colleagues. And to help ease her stay in the hospital, he’d gotten her that iPhone she’d wanted for her birthday.

  He owed her so damn much.

  He strongly suspected that Walker’s initial plan was to blow up the house with both of the kids in it. When he’d spotted Casey and Max through the scope of the rifle, he’d probably resorted to plan B.

  And Rogan was on the road to recovery. Like Clay he’d suffered a broken arm, and several other injuries to boot, not to mention the blow to his soul. Sympathetic to his plight, Kim had spent an inordinate amount of time “debriefing” Tate’s cousin in his hospital room.