She managed a negative jerk of her head. I heard four, too, but I only saw two. She wanted to be calm, controlled. Not the cowering woodland creature, nose twitching and whiskers trembling.
Wasn’t happening. “J-j-just, ah . . . j-j-just the four,” she forced out.
He frowned, a faraway look in his eyes, profoundly still. Listening, head lifted like he was smelling the air. His green eyes had a luminous glint, like a nocturnal animal’s, gathering all available light.
“We need to get out of here,” he said.
Duh. She knew that. She wasn’t stupid. Just mute.
“I don’t think there’s anyone left in the house, but I’m going to go and check. We need to get out of here,” he repeated, more loudly.
Yeah? By all means, check. Tears were leaking down, clogging her nose. Oh, how she hated tears. They made her despise herself.
“You have to let go of me, Nina. So I can go check. Understand?”
His hands folded over hers. Big, warm, long-fingered, with a texture like polished wood. She was so busy enjoying his warmth, it took a few moments for the meaning of his words to sink in.
Let go. Oh, God. He couldn’t move, because she was clutching his shirt, in a shaking, white-knuckled death grip. How embarrassing.
“I’m just going to, ah, open up your fingers,” he said. “So I can go make sure all’s clear. Why don’t you throw on some clothes?”
Throw on some—oh, shit!
She jerked away, and thudded onto her butt on the floor, legs curled into an awkward, coy mermaid pose. Waves of heat and cold throbbed through her. It was like one of those stupid, banal anxiety dreams. Naked at the grocery store, the bus stop, the subway. Everyone leering, judging. While she shrank in on herself and tried to hide.
Silly. Like being unclothed was such a big deal, considering the circumstances. His fingers were spread out, wide and splayed, like they hadn’t been quite ready to let go of her yet.
His eyes had a pull that sucked the air right out of her lungs.
His gaze charged the air with heat, shivering awareness. Heavy, almost ominous. And it just kept getting hotter, and heavier. No end to it.
Except for the obvious end. She didn’t know how her mind actually ran that far ahead of her, but it did, all on its own, and suddenly, she saw it, in full, glowing detail. Grabbing him, greedily.
Pulling him down on top of her, right there, on the floor. Wrapping her legs around him. Clinging to his big, hard body and taking him inside. Way down deep. Never letting him get away.
Mine.
She was so shocked, she panicked, and snapped right back into default mode. Gray fuzz, the nobody here, nothing to see, no big deal.
But the trick didn’t work on Aaro. His energy didn’t change at all. He just kept looking at her, with those hot, hooded eyes. Not leering, just looking. Long, and steady. His eyes looked . . . hungry.
She wasn’t used to it. She’d had men look at her, of course, in spite of how she dressed. Some men would look at anyone, no matter how drab. Equal opportunity oglers. Their gaze left a residue that made her want to bathe. But Aaro’s gaze didn’t make her feel small, or dirty, or worthless. In his eyes, she felt uniquely visible. Lit up, a strobe light in a disco. She could be seen through walls. Seen from space.
Her eyes darted frantically before being dragged back to his grim stare. Her room stank of gunpowder, someone had just emptied a pistol at her, and she was indulging in sexual fantasies about her rescuer?
Stress response. Put it behind her. Move briskly on. A tangle of clothing lay on the floor, swept to the ground by Pockmarks’s gun barrel. She reached, grabbed a high-necked, long-sleeved, plain gray rayon blouse, struggled into it. Groped for a baggy apron-style smock of coarse navy-blue linen, tossed it over her head. It floated down like a parachute. She tugged the loose en-semble into place with difficulty, being so sticky with cold sweat, and ventured a glance at Aaro when she was decent again. His sharp cheekbones were flushed.
“I’ll just, ah, check the place out,” he said gruffly. “Get on some shoes.” He flung the command over his shoulder as he walked out.
Nina got to her feet, caught herself against the mirror. The room bobbed like a rowboat. Her image looked pallid, foggy, and blurred. Her hair clung to her face, teased and tangled up into a big, scary snarl.
Focus. Shoes. Glasses. They’d been on her dresser. The stuff that had been up there; lamp, stained-glass box, alarm clock, a photo of Mom, a picture of herself and Lily, a dish of rose-petal potpourri; had been shoved off, shattered onto the floor.
She fished her glasses out of dried petals and glass shards, and perched them on her nose with a trembling hand. Sandals, now.
The comfy ones that she could walk for miles in, without blisters.
Or else sprint for her freaking life, as the case might be.
She tried forcing a comb through her hair, and promptly concluded that it was a project for another moment. She pulled the snarled fuzz into a messy braid. She usually twisted it into a knot, but her shaking arms weren’t up for coiling a bun, and she didn’t want to dig through broken glass for hairpins. Not a day for an updo.
Her purse had been in the closet. She knelt to fish it out, found her phone on the floor, too, tucked it in her pocket—
“You ready?”
She spun around, hand clamped over her face.
“Sorry,” he said gruffly from the door.
Her eyes zeroed in on the gun he held in his hand, and froze there like a terrified rabbit. “I’m OK,” she whispered, lurching to her feet.
“Good. Let’s go.” He stepped inside, took her arm. “Just so it’s not a surprise. There are bodies. One on the stairs, one at the front door. Just be ready. Lots of blood.”
“B-b-b-bodies?” Of course there were bodies. She wasn’t one of them, thanks to Aaro. Focus on that. Get a grip.
“I heard shots, when I was coming in,” he said. “Sounded like they were killing you sooner rather than later, so I went for it.
Wasted them.”
Wasted them. His tone sounded so . . . offhand.
She wavered at the top of the stairs and clutched the newel post, staring at the blood-spattered corpses. Aaro tugged, but her fingers would not let go. Her nervous system had been hijacked again.
Those men had tried to kill her. She was glad he’d killed at least some of them. She was no shrinking violet. She’d experienced violence. She saw the consequences of violence every day.
So chill, woman.
“Nina.” The edge in his voice jolted her, releasing her grip.
“Move.”
She picked her way over the sprawled legs of the corpse on the stairs, trying to avoid the blood trickling down the steps. A stomach-flopping wave of cold rose inside of her. Her vision went dark, sounds distorting . . .
“You OK?” Aaro’s harsh voice dragged her back. She really did not want to fall to pieces in front of that guy again. Yes. Her lips formed the lie, but just a feeble puff of air came out. Not enough to voice the word.
His voice came back into focus again some moments later. He was cursing. She could tell from the tone, the punching cadence, though the language was incomprehensible. His fingers bit into her arm, hauling her up. She’d fallen? Yikes. It would seem she had.
The wall thudded against her back, propping her up. She watched as Aaro ran back up the stairs, bending over the corpse and rifling it. He came away with a pistol and a magazine. He shoved the gun into the back of his jeans, the magazine in his pocket, and strode down to crouch over the body in the foyer, where he repeated the performance.
“Don’t the, um . . . won’t the cops need to see the . . .” She licked her lips. “For ballistics testing, I mean? Shouldn’t you leave those?”
“They might be useful. I’ve got some firepower with me, but more is better, and I don’t have time to mess around procuring them. Might as well take these.”
“But, ah . . .” Her voice trailed off as he ran his
hands over the man’s body, and shoved up a pant leg. He unbuckled an ankle holster from a hairy ankle, and held the pistol out. “Want it? It’s a Micro Glock. Good size for you. Small, easy to use.”
She recoiled. “Oh, God, no.”
“Suit yourself.” He shoved it into his jacket pocket, and took her hand again, pulling her stumbling through the dining room and the kitchen. He pulled the back door open, peered out, and gestured for her to follow him into the alley. “Let’s go.”
She gaped, blinking in the flood of afternoon sunlight streaming through the door. “But, ah, shouldn’t we wait?”
“For what? For them to come back with reinforcements?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” she snapped. “I mean, for the police.
Won’t they need, you know, a statement? Don’t we need to file a report about what happened, look at mug shots, all that?”
“Not if I can help it,” he said.
“But . . . but . . .” She gestured over her shoulder.
“Yeah, there are bodies in your house, and you’ve got a choice to make. I owe Bruno a favor. If you come with me, I’ll protect you as best I can until we connect with the bodyguard Bruno’s arranging for you. Or you can wait for the cops. In either case, I’m out of here, with or without you, in the next ten seconds.”
“But I . . . but why—”
“Aaro is not my real name. I’ve been cultivating this identity for twenty years, but in New York, I’m likely to come into contact with people who know my original name. If my new name gets linked to it, my cover is blown. My savings, my livelihood, my property, all of it gone. I’d have to start from zero again with fuck-all, and I’m too old for that. The favor I owe Bruno is big, but not that big. So choose.”
“Ah, but I—”
“Quicker.” He peered out the door again. “Walk out the door, or stay and take your chances with the authorities. I can’t tell you which option is more dangerous, because I don’t fucking know.”
Nina was aghast. She had to make a life-or-death decision now?
“It just feels wrong, to disappear,” she faltered. “Don’t they need us to tell them what happened?”
His shrug personified pure masculine arrogance. “They don’t always get what they need. A phenomenon commonly known as
‘tough shit.’ Familiar with it? You should be. It’s smeared all over your life.”
Anger prickled up her spine. “Don’t condescend to me, Aaro.”
“Stay, then. Tell them all about it. Hope it works out for you.”
He vaulted down the stairs without a backward glance. Bastard.
Her hands fisted with rage, but even so, the decision made itself in a flash.
No way was that guy walking away from her. No. Freaking.
Way.
“Don’t leave!” she blurted, voice cracking.
He did not turn his head. “Then haul ass.”
She scurried after, and he seized her arm, pulling her along in an awkward, scrambling trot. “Could you just give me a ride to New Dawn?” she asked. “It’s only fifteen minutes away. I’ll call the police when I get there, and tell them what happened, and then I—”
“Shhhh.” He spun, scanning the area. “Shit,” he muttered.
“What?” She twirled, too, but heard nothing and saw nothing.
“They’re watching us,” he said. “They’ll follow.”
She looked around wildly. “But where? I don’t see—”
“Me neither,” he said. “I feel them. They make my balls itch.”
“Oh,” she said inanely. “Must be nice to have an early warning system. Are you sure it’s not just a fungus?”
He yanked the car door open. “Don’t bust my balls while I’m trying to keep you alive. It fucks my concentration. Get down.”
He looked thunderously annoyed, but that seemed to be his default expression, whether holding her naked body in his arms or frisking corpses to scavenge their firearms. He grumbled something guttural that sounded viciously profane as he slid into the driver’s seat.
“What did you just say?” she demanded.
“That we’re totally fucked,” he said. “Get down. I’ll try to get you there in one piece, but do your part not to get your head blown off.”
She studied his scowling profile from her crouched position, head sideways on the seat. “You’re not inspiring confidence,” she told him.
“It’s not my job to inspire confidence.”
He drove fast, once she gave him the address. Centrifugal force tossed her from side to side as he surged and braked, took curves on squealing tires. He went the wrong way down one-way streets, too. She heard a lot of blaring horns, the occasional outraged shout. She didn’t analyze his route, just stared at the taut mask of concentration that was his face. She couldn’t look away.
It was like a superstitious thing. The world would disintegrate to chaos without him. His ferocious focus was what held it together.
And that kind of clingy, needy crap would get her into deep doo-doo. No way could she pin that kind of responsibility on him.
There was probably a name for what she was experiencing.
Some clinical pathology she’d studied in college. She had to just endure it, not analyze it. Groveling gratitude and anger were a tough mix. Together, they curdled into something caustic and unappetizing.
He jerked the car to a stop. “Stay there,” he ordered, shoving the door open. Seconds later, her own door popped open. “Stay next to me. I’ll get you in there, but I can’t stay, not if there are cops involved.”
She nodded, eyeing the very large and intimidating shotgun he held so casually. It would freak her colleagues out, if he carried that thing into the New Dawn admin office. Too bad.
He’d pulled over across from a side entrance to the building, into a parking spot on the narrow street. The sky felt open, strangely threatening. Her eyes darted, searching for their attackers.
“Call the cops as soon as you’re inside, and don’t leave that building again without a police escort or Bruno’s guy,” he said.
“Um, OK.” She forced down the urge to beg him to stay. If he couldn’t, he couldn’t. He’d done enough. She’d be OK once she was inside.
“I don’t like this.” He stared up the street. “This feels wrong.”
“Balls itching again?” she asked.
His chin jerked. “They’re on fire.”
“Mine, too,” she told him.
“Oh, yeah?” A grin flickered on his face. “You ready?”
Just then, a black Audi with tinted windows turned the corner, and the full force of their murderous intention blew right through her like a weird ghost wind.
. . . that’s her . . . die, bitch . . . cut our losses . . .
“Watch out!” she shrieked, as the window started buzzing down.
Aaro grabbed her, shoved. The pavement heaved up to greet her. Smack, she was on the sidewalk. Bam-bam-bam, the world exploded.
Glass shattered, pattering down in a glittering hail. Car alarms started squealing everywhere. Aaro leaped up as the bullets whizzed, swung up his shotgun. Bam-bam-bam. Glass shattered.
A huge crunch and smash. Shouts.
Aaro dropped, crawling around to the front to peer around the tire. A constant stream of foreign profanity was coming out of him again. She no longer needed a translation.
Even she could tell that they were, indeed, totally fucked.
Take that, dickfaces.
He scooped Nina up as she rasped in air, and heaved her into the front seat again, broken glass and all. Slammed the door shut.
“Stay down,” he told her. “Hang on tight to the door handle.
Gonna be a wild ride.”
He dove in, head ducked, and started the motor. The street ahead had been clear, so he wrenched it into gear and punched the gas, hoping it still was. Bam, bam, a bullet caught the side window. Glass flew, stinging his face. Hot blood trickled down.
A second ticked by. He b
obbed up over the dash just in time to veer out of the way of a parked car he was about to swipe. Out the rearview, shrinking into the distance, he saw the dazed thugs spilling out of the wrecked Audi. The bald one, the dark one.
The dark one aimed . . .
Aaro punched the gas and swerved. Nothing hit them.
Nina gasped for breath. “How did you . . . what did you—”
“Blew out their windshield with the shotgun,” he explained tersely. “Tires, too. They spun out. Crashed into a parked car.”
Fuckheads had problems now. They’d gambled on speed, surprise. They’d lost big. Too bad, pussies. This round goes to me. He wished he could overhear the talk they’d have with their boss tonight. The debrief and the subsequent reaming would be hugely entertaining.
Wind blew through the empty, blasted windshield, blowing trickles of blood sideways on his face as he sped down the street, hitting all the greens. The option of unloading Nina at her place of work, surrounded by caring friends and colleagues, was no longer feasible.
He mourned it, sharply. It had been so perfect. Leaving her with people used to protecting women in danger, who already had systems in place for it. Bruno’s new bodyguard detail could have met up with her there, and the responsibility for keeping her in one piece would have been shuffled off of his shoulders.
Whatever. Spilled milk. Let it go.
He turned off the next side street, and screeched to a halt. He fished his duffel and laptop out of the backseat, and yanked the bullet-warped passenger door open. “Come on, let’s go.” He tugged Nina, but she would not budge. She’d been scared into silence.
Just as well. Less provocation. Upped his chances of success at pretending to be a civilized human being for any length of time.
“Nina.” He cleared his throat. “Let go. Please.”
A shudder went through her. She scrambled out. He hooked his arm around her shoulders, leaving his gun hand free, and hauled her toward Flatbush.
She scurried to keep up. “Should we be going toward such a big street?” she asked. “Those guys—”
“We need a taxi. Better if you hail it. Cabs don’t stop for me.”
One Wrong Move Page 8