This was no mistake. There was no miscommunication here. Michael Trotta had told Ivo to kill her, and he was going to do just that, no questions asked.
There was nowhere to run, nothing to hide behind.
Alessandra could do nothing but sit there helplessly and wait to die.
Chapter Nine
Harry's clip jammed.
Of all the fucking bad times for his clip to jam, this had to take the cake.
Some six and a half feet tall, six and a half feet wide gorilla had somehow gotten past him and was on top of the shelves about to permanently mess up Alessandra's makeup by putting a bullet hole in her forehead.
Moving at a dead run, Harry threw his gun—useless piece of crap—at the King of the Apes and it bounced off of Kong's arm, distracting him for several brief seconds.
But several seconds were all Harry needed. He launched into the air for a perfect intercept just as the gorilla fired a double burst.
Both rounds caught him square in the chest, hundreds of pounds of energy pushing him back and down, on top of Alessandra, on top of George, on top of George's semiautomatic.
He couldn't breathe, he could barely see, his ears were roaring from the tidal wave of pain, but his fingers closed around George's Beretta. He raised his arm and squeezed off a shot and King Kong disappeared.
And just like that, it was over.
At least for now.
Alessandra didn't know it, though. She was sobbing as she tore at his jacket, one hand still holding her T-shirt against George's leg. She was covered in blood, her nose bright red from crying, her makeup completely smeared. With her T-shirt off, she knelt above him now like a horror movie survivor, in tight black pants and a black bra made of lace that didn't quite conceal her lush dark nipples, blood streaking her smooth, pale skin like some kind of sick body paint.
She ripped the buttons off his shirt in her haste to see how badly he'd been injured and stopped short, confusion on her face, as she came up against his body armor.
Harry pushed himself onto his elbows. "Man down!" he wheezed as backup finally stormed into the supermarket. "I need an ambulance for my partner, and I need it now!"
Christ, George had lost more blood than Harry had thought humanly possible. It was slick on the floor around them and he winced as he skidded slightly in it. The pain in his chest was unmistakable. At least one of his ribs was broken. But he'd take a broken rib any day over the alternative—having to clean Alessandra's brains up off the floor.
He took over for her with George, keeping her already saturated T-shirt tight against his partner's wound.
"Come on, George," Harry muttered, lifting his eyelids, checking his eyes. He wasn't looking good. "Stay with me, buddy."
But then George stirred and his lips moved. "Tell Nic—"
"Tell her yourself," Harry rasped, refusing to perform any kind of last rites. "What do I look like, some kind of fucking messenger service?" He looked up at Alessandra. "Be ready to flag down the paramedics. And find me McFall."
She was shaking and crying, but she wiped her tears away with the backs of her arms as she looked around.
Over twenty agents were combing the place. The parking lot outside the big front windows was filled with cars parked at haphazard angles, some with lights still spinning in their front windshields.
Alessandra waved over Christine McFall, who took one look at George and started to shout, "Where's that ambulance?"
"Chris, there's still another shooter." A hoarse whisper was the loudest Harry could manage. His chest still felt squeezed, as if someone had thrown him a touchdown pass with an anvil. "He's built, dark blond hair, looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger's bigger brother. Check the next aisle over—carefully. I got off a shot, but I don't think I hit him."
Chris nodded, her clear voice ringing out over the chaos as she gave out orders.
And then the paramedics arrived. Harry moved aside, pulling Alessandra back and out of the way as they swarmed over George.
"His name's Ivo," she whispered.
Harry turned to look at her more closely. "That shooter?"
She nodded.
"You knew him?"
She nodded again, fresh tears flooding her eyes, her lower lip trembling like a child's. She was still shaking, her arms folded across her chest. She hugged herself as if she were cold.
No doubt she was cold—she wasn't wearing a shirt.
It hurt like hell to take off his jacket, but Harry did it anyway, draping it over her narrow shoulders. She pulled it more tightly around herself and sank down onto the floor as if her knees couldn't hold her up another minute longer.
She was crying again. And from the state of her mascara, it seemed pretty obvious that she'd started crying close to when the shooting had begun.
And yet, when push came to shove, she'd refused to leave George. Harry had seen big, strong men panic and knock aside women and children in their haste to get to cover when shots were fired. But Alessandra had stayed calm enough to tie a tourniquet around George's leg. She could have run away, but instead she risked her life for a man she barely even knew. She was either really stupid or really brave. And Harry had already discovered that she wasn't really stupid.
If George survived—Harry was praying hard that he would—it would be solely because of Alessandra.
Harry gingerly lowered himself to the floor next to her, leaning back against a shelf filled with bags of rice, as George was wheeled out of the store. "Tell me about your little friend Ivo. Do you know his last name?"
She shook her head. "He brought me to Michael Trotta's office. He rode in the back of the limousine with me on the way home. He answered the phone at the number Michael gave me to call when I found the money." She looked at Harry. "Why does he want to kill me? I gave it back. All of it."
She was trying not to cry, trying to keep her sobs from shaking her body. It was a losing battle.
Harry could sympathize. He was fighting a losing battle of his own. It seemed stupid as hell to fight, so he gave up completely and put his arm around her. She crumbled against him, holding him just a little too tightly. But he didn't mind the pain in his side. No, he didn't mind at all.
There were definitely worse things than losing this kind of battle.
"I hate to break it to you," he said, "but this time a pair of sunglasses isn't going to cut it. People are probably going to know you've been crying."
"I thought you were dead," she told him, her voice muffled, her face buried in his shirt. "When those bullets hit you, I thought… I thought…"
"Yeah, I know," Harry said, stroking her hair. His heart was in his throat. Was it possible she really cared that much? "I know you pretty well by now, Al. You thought, 'Oh, fuck, the dumb son of a bitch is dead. Now who are they going to send to annoy the crap out of me?'"
She lifted her face to look up at him, laughing tremulously through her tears—and that was it. He was toast. Completely. Utterly. Charred to a crisp. It was the red nose that did him in. Must've been some wonderful yet long-forgotten childhood incident with a clown that had put its stamp upon him forever. Whatever its origin, he couldn't stop himself from leaning forward and covering her mouth with his own.
He'd meant to take no more than a gentle taste of her deliciously soft lips. But as soon as his mouth touched hers, he knew that wasn't going to be enough. Not for him. And not for Alessandra.
She kissed him hungrily and he deepened it, sweeping his tongue into her welcoming mouth. She tasted like salty tears and bitter fear, but beneath it, she was pure sweet fire. She took his breath away with her eagerness, with her need. With her desire.
He pulled her closer, the pleasure of her body next to his definitely worth the raw pain in his ribs, and his hand slipped beneath the edge of the jacket she wore draped around her shoulders. Her skin was as soft as he remembered, as silky and smooth as a baby's.
It was sheer perfection, and he came into contact with sheer perfection so infrequently in his life, it jarred him back
to earth.
What in God's name was he doing? It would have been insane enough to kiss her in the privacy of the house, let alone out here in freaking public.
He pulled away from her, but God, it was quite possibly one of the hardest things he'd ever done.
"I'm sorry," he managed to say. Sorry that he had to stop. Sorry that he couldn't take off her clothes and get it going with her right then and there. He wisely let her make her own interpretation.
"No," she said. "I… I'm…" She looked as confused as he felt. How could they both have had such bad lapses in judgment at exactly the same moment?
"Bad timing," he said. Bad timing, bad thinking, bad call, bad everything but sex. Good sex. If they had been able to keep going it would have been very, very, very good sex. Except afterward, all of the collective bads would've reared up and bit him on the ass. He was on the job, for christsake. He was supposed to protect Alessandra, and last time he checked, there was nothing in the rule book that talked about doing that with any amount of efficiency while in a horizontal position, without any clothes on.
She reached up to push her hair back with a shaking hand. "You probably want to go make sure George is okay."
"I want to get you to safety first. Get a vest on you. Get you into a room with a lot of guards near the doors and windows." Lots and lots of guards. So many that he wouldn't have to be alone with her again. Not that the crowd had stopped him two minutes ago.
"A vest?" she asked. His hand was still against the perfect smoothness of her back. He didn't want to move it, but he did. It felt like a caress, embarrassing them both all over again. And reinforcing this damned urge he was having to throw all caution to the wind and kiss her again.
Harry gestured down at his body armor instead. "A bullet-proof vest." He fingered the pair of bullets embedded there. "These things really work, you know."
"What made you wear it?" she asked. "I mean, a trip to the library and the grocery store… ?"
He wasn't sure what to say. He didn't want to lie, but she obviously hadn't caught on yet as to the real situation.
Christine McFall appeared, temporarily saving his ass. "We've got two perps, and they're both too dead to talk about who sent them. Both carried ID—Ed's running it now."
"Only two, huh?" Harry asked.
She nodded. "They were both medium to slight build. It looks like your bodybuilding shooter got away." She glanced at Alessandra. "We should get Mrs. Lamont back to the house, let her get cleaned up. And you should go to the hospital, sir, get yourself checked out. We've got enough manpower to handle this without you."
Enough manpower.
Harry could see realization dawning in Alessandra's eyes as she looked around once again at all the police and federal agents in the store, at all the official-looking cars in the parking lot.
She looked at him, looked again at his vest before gazing searchingly into his eyes. "How did so many federal agents get up here so quickly?"
She knew. A woman as smart as Alessandra had to have already figured it out. She just wanted to hear it from his traitorous lips.
Harry glanced at Christine. "Give us a minute, will you?"
Chris moved tactfully out of earshot as Harry cleared his throat. "This may be a time when you might want to opt not to hear the truth."
"You wore the bullet-proof vest because you knew this was going to happen," Alessandra guessed. She was furious. "Didn’t you?"
" Allie, it sounds a whole lot worse than—"
"Didn't you? It's a simple question, Harry." The tears—angry ones this time—were back in her eyes, about to brim over. "You either answer it
yes or no."
He touched the side of her face with one finger. He couldn't help himself. "Yes."
She nodded, pushing his hand away as she blinked furiously to keep her angry tears from falling. "All those agents—you were all just waiting for this to happen. You knew there would be a hit attempt, didn't you? You knew because you were using me as bait."
Jesus, when she put it that way, it sounded terrible. Had he really done that? He had to look away. "Yes."
She pulled violently away from him, put two solid feet of space between them. "Why didn't anyone tell me? Why didn't you tell me? Didn't it occur to you that this might be something I'd like to have a say in?"
"We had a better chance of getting Trotta if you didn't know anything about this. When we planned it… Allie, we didn't know you wouldn't try to warn him that this was a setup—you know, to get back on his list of friends rather than his list of people he wants dead."
"I could have been killed," she said. "But that wouldn't have been a big deal, would it, since then you'd have Michael Trotta on murder charges, instead of just attempted murder."
"As of right now, we don't have Michael Trotta at all." Christine was back, with Ed Bach at her side. "We've got nothing connecting the dead perps with Trotta. They're not hired killers. They've both got rap sheets a mile long, filled with grocery store heists. As for your mysterious third man, you two are the only ones who saw him. Everyone both inside and outside the store only saw two shooters. We're still canvassing, but it doesn't look good. We can try going after Trotta based on your claim that you saw one of his men here today, but I don't think we're going to get very far with that in court, considering."
"I don't fucking believe it. George gets shot, maybe dies, and we've still got nothing on this bastard?"
Ed shook his head. "No one else saw this third shooter, Harry. We'll have whatever bullets we can find, but you know damn well this guy's gun is probably already long gone. We're looking for a solid conviction. You know as well as I do we can't get that with the two key witnesses being an agent bent on revenge and a woman who thinks Trotta's trying to kill her. Even a court-appointed lawyer would leave the jury thinking reasonable doubt. The one Trotta can afford will leave them thinking they should try to convict you."
"At last report, George was hanging on," Christine said quietly.
"Great. He's not dead. Yet. Did somebody call Nicole?"
"She had a meeting down in Washington," Christine said. "We haven't been able to reach her yet. But she's not going to be able to get a flight up here until tomorrow morning. I've already checked that out."
"She's not married to him anymore," Ed pointed out. "She may not want to come at all."
"Someone contact what's her name," Harry ordered. "Kim. That dancer George was seeing from the Fantasy Club."
Christine nodded. "Yes, sir."
Alessandra stood up. "Well, this was certainly educational. Can someone please drive me back to the house? I need to take a shower." She turned to Harry. "You're obviously needed at the hospital." She held out her hand and gave him one of those ridiculously cool royal smiles. "Good luck. I hope you enjoy your revenge—if and when you finally get it."
"I'm not going anywhere," Harry pulled himself painfully to his feet.
"You may not be, but I am. I'm going back to the house to shower and pack my things."
Harry laughed, but then stopped when he realized she was dead serious. "What are you going to do? Just walk out of there? Ivo's probably waiting for you. No, not probably. He is waiting for you. I can guarantee it."
"I'm well aware of that. But somehow I think I'll stay alive longer without the help of the FBI, thank you very much." She turned to Christine. "Please, will you take me back to the house?"
Christine looked at Harry. "Sir, you're looking a little pale. You should go to the hospital. If your rib's broken you'll need to get it X-rayed and taped and—"
"The only reason I'm pale is because you keep calling me sir."
"I'm sure Mrs. Lamont can be convinced to stay at least until you return from the hospital."
"Don't count on it," Alessandra muttered.
"Al, don't make me order Chris here to tie you up and sit on you until I get back. Because you know if I did, she'd say 'yes, sir,' and that would really give me a rash."
Alessandra didn't
smile, she didn't so much as move a muscle in her face, and he played one of the only trump cards he was holding. Drawing her away from the others, he lowered his voice. "Alessandra, have I ever lied to you?"
"By omission. Yes, you have." She pulled her arm free from his grasp.
"Yeah, that." He waved it away. "But whenever you asked me something directly, I answered truthfully. Whenever you needed an honest answer, you knew I'd give it to you, straight."
She didn't say a word. She just stood there with her arms tightly crossed in front of her. She'd slipped her arms into the sleeves of his jacket. They were about three inches too long, not because her arms were shorter than his, but because her shoulders were so much more narrow.
"If you still want to leave after I get back from the hospital, I'll let you walk away," he continued. "I'm giving you my word on that, okay? Just stay until I get there."
Alessandra gazed at him for several very, very long moments.
In desperation, he pulled out his very last trump card. "Allie, I saved your life today. Do this, and we'll call it even."
"I'm not sure it counts as saving a life when you're the one responsible for putting that very same life in jeopardy."
What could he say to that? Particularly when she was giving him the royal evil eye. "If those bullets had hit me in the head, I'd be dead right now. If I'd let you go back to Trotta when you wanted to, you'd be dead right now. Maybe this wasn't the smartest scenario, maybe we should've told you what was up, but the fact is, by luck we've both been left with our hearts still warm and beating. Use that heart and show me a little mercy. Please."
She nodded grudgingly. Thank God. "I'll wait. But you won't convince me to stay."
"Call for you, Ms. Fenster, on line three."
Nicole didn't stop on her way to the ladies' room. She only had fifteen minutes to pee and grab a sandwich and a Coke and get back into the conference room. "Take a message please, Bonnie."
"They say it's urgent, ma'am."
Dammit, everything was urgent lately. "Take a message."
"One of the members of your task-force team has apparently been injured quite badly. A Christine McFall is on the line. She's insisting she speak directly to you."
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