COOL UNDER FIRE

by Justine Davis

  Taking a deep breath, he headed for the doorway that she had indicated led to the long hallway that wrapped around the outside of the living room, its length broken only by two entrances to the living area, and on the other wall by the doors to the bedrooms and bathroom. Pressed against the wall, he risked a split-second peek into the living room.

  It was just as Shiloh had described it, light, airy, with a cool tile floor that was practical for her father's wheelchair—which, with its occupant, was right now barely six feet away. And, as he'd hardly dared hope, the two remaining thugs were at the front window, peering anxiously down the street at the source of the unholy din.

  He risked another look, only to find a pair of cool, green eyes looking back at him. Shiloh's eyes. Quickly he tugged her .45 free of his waistband and reversed it in his hand to hold it by the barrel. He gestured with it in a tossing motion, and the leonine gray head nodded slightly.

  The older man caught the thrown weapon with an easy, practiced motion and quickly concealed it beneath the wool blanket over his knees. Those piercing green eyes flicked to the other entrance into the big, airy room, the entrance that was directly across from where the two men stood, then back to Con. He nodded and ducked back out of sight.

  He was running on automatic now, on instinct and training. He didn't dare think of the woman out there in the cold darkness somewhere, alone, or about what it would do to her if something happened to that gutsy old man in there.

  He made his way to the other arched entryway quickly, knowing that the commotion outside would cover any noise he made. Gun at the ready, he stepped silently into the room behind the two men, careful to give the man in the wheelchair a clear field of fire. He had to smother an absurd urge to smile; the older man wore the same angelic expression Shiloh did when she was up to no good.

  "You guys waiting for me?"

  The two men spun around, mouths agape. One held a snub-nosed revolver, the other a nasty-looking machine pistol, but both weapons were dangling forgotten at the end of limp arms at the moment.

  "How the hell did you get here so fast? You're supposed to be in San Diego!"

  Way to go, Shy, Con thought, wondering with an inward grin how many men were wasting time on a wild-goose chase looking for that nonexistent house. Leaving, thankfully, only four here.

  "By boat, mostly," he said easily. "Drop the guns."

  The two men glanced at each other uneasily. "You'll never make it," the taller of the two, a lanky, gaunt-faced man with flat brown eyes, said. "You can't get both of us."

  Con shrugged. "Try me." His casual tone unnerved them more than anything else, but still they hesitated. "Come on. I'd like to see if you're any better than Moose and his fellow Neanderthal."

  Fear flashed in the shorter man's eyes for a moment, but he only muttered, "You still can't take both of us."

  "Ah, but he won't have to." The voice was as smooth as silk, and the hand that held the .45 was as steady as granite. Con's eyes flicked to the man in the chair in a brief, flashing salute. Tigers breed true, he thought, and here was the one who had bred his tigress.

  "Maybe you'd like to reconsider dropping those guns now?" Con suggested with drawing-room politeness, his eyes fastened on the tall man just as Robert Reese's eyes never left the other. Grudgingly, they let the weapons fall to the floor. "Kick them over here."

  The heavy man, the one with the lethal-looking automatic pistol, did so, but something in the tall one's eyes flickered as he hesitated.

  "Go ahead," Con said softly, his mouth curving into a smile that did nothing to warm the ice in his eyes. The man kicked the gun, sending it spinning across the tile floor. Anger flashed in the flat brown eyes when Con kept his gaze on the man, not the moving weapon. Never wavering, he knelt to pick up the machine pistol, hefting it and checking the magazine as he shoved Moose's gun in his belt.

  "Nice. I'll bet Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms would love to know where you got it. Just like the FBI would love to know what really happened to their man."

  He saw the tall man's muddy eyes flicker once more and knew that his stab in the dark had hit a soft spot. He'd guessed that this was the man calling the shots, what brain there was behind Fred Wilkens's muscle; he knew now that he'd been right.

  Something changed then; the tall man's eyes went muddier, his gaunt body tenser, the long, bony fingers curling into fists. Con recognized the change, saw the desperation, and knew that the man had realized he had little left to lose. Killing a federal officer had a tendency to make one's life hell. And a short hell. The Bureau did not take kindly to the death of one of their own. Con's every instinct was screaming, his every nerve on edge; a desperate man was dangerous and, worse, unpredictable.

  "You want to end it right now?" Con's voice was a breath of icy air, quiet, level, absolutely chilling.

  The man muttered a crude oath, his hands clenching tighter into angry fists, but he didn't move. Con carefully backed up a few steps to where the small revolver lay, his eyes still trained on the furious killer. He would give it to Shiloh's father, tie these guys up, then do what his mind had been screaming at him to do for what seemed like forever—go and get her.

  Almost on the thought, the blare of the alarm stopped, the ensuing silence almost eerie in its completeness. A surge of panic swept him. Where was she?

  The tall man's headfirst charge would have taken him full in the belly were it not for Con's hair-trigger reflexes. Instead he took a glancing blow of a rawboned shoulder on the ribs, and both of them went crashing back through that arched entryway and into the hall. Something crashed, the sound of broken glass echoed in the narrow hall, and Con felt a sharp stinging at the top of his right arm.

  He felt rather than saw the man make a frantic grab for the automatic pistol. He flung it fiercely sideways; the deadly spray of bullets that thing could put out in mere seconds was nothing he wanted to deal with in close quarters. Foiled, the man snatched at the gun in Con's waistband. Con brought up his knees and shoved, but he couldn't seem to get any purchase on the man's stringy frame. Then he felt the gun being pulled away and heard the vicious, hoarse growl in his ear.

  "I'm gonna kill you, you bastard, and then I'm going after that little bitch who's been helping you. Her old man can watch while I have a little of what you—oof!"

  The blow he landed in the man's sunken stomach sent vibrations all the way up to Con's shoulder, but he never felt it. The taunting words the man had whispered with such enjoyment were his own undoing; he had unleashed an assault that overwhelmed him with its sheer strength and violence.

  In moments the man was up against the wall, Con's forearm jammed across his throat, leaving room for a bare trickle of air; his gasps seemed to echo in the new silence. The killer's long, rawboned fingers clawed at Con, and the hollow face was changing color as he gasped for breath.

  "I don't think it would be wise to kill him just yet, my boy."

  The quiet, oddly amused voice came from behind him and snapped Con back to the world abruptly. He shook his head, let out a long breath and slackened the pressure on that scrawny throat. The collection of bones slid to the floor, wheezing.

  When he turned to look at the man in the wheelchair it was to find those eyes, so green, so preciously familiar, looking at him with the same amusement that had rung in his voice, along with an unexpected glint of admiration and an odd touch of speculation.

  "Sorry I couldn't be of more help," he said, gesturing with his daughter's .45, "but you two were rather closely intertwined."

  "You kept him off my back," Con said, glancing at the stout little man, who seemed thoroughly cowed as he huddled on the sofa beside the front door.

  "I don't think he'll—"

  Both of their heads snapped around at the sound of a light, cheery whistling from outside. It was unmistakably feminine and sounded, somewhat less certainly, like "Anchors Aweigh."

  The tension and dread drained from Con like water into sand, and he couldn't stop the grin that spread
across his face.

  "Come on in, Green-eyes," he called to her, his voice warm and husky as he opened the door for her.

  She was smiling broadly, as if she'd known all along that things would work out. She tugged off the cap as she walked toward the porch, her hair glistening even in the dim glow of the porch light, alive with warm, red highlights. She looked at him as she started up the steps next to the wheelchair ramp.

  "The cops are hooking up Bluto right now… Seems they think he was trying to rip off that car. Shall I go tell them they have bigger fish to fry? They're just—"

  Shiloh gave a sharp, pained little yelp as two hundred pounds of scrambling humanity careened into her and sent her flying backward off the porch; the stout little man huddled on the couch had exploded suddenly, unexpectedly, into frantic motion. A heel dug painfully into her stomach, driving air out of her in a rushing cry and leaving the world spinning a little. "Shy!"

  The cry ripped from Con's throat like a roar, and he catapulted off the porch to her side. Shiloh saw him and tried to tell him she was all right, but she couldn't seem to get enough air to form the words.

  "I'll take care of her. Get that son of a bitch."

  Con lifted his head to look at the man who was wheeling down the ramp. He hesitated for a split second, his hand tightening protectively on Shiloh's shoulder as she struggled to sit up; then he gave a short little nod. He straightened and whirled in one smooth motion and then was racing up the street after the heavy man with long, swift strides that ate up the distance between them rapidly.

  Robert Reese leaned over to help his daughter sit up, concern equalling the growing speculation in his gaze. His eyes flicked to Con's racing figure, as if he were remembering the near panic on his face, as if the fury in his voice as he'd shouted her abbreviated name, that nickname used only by those closest to her, were still echoing in his ears.

  Shiloh was breathing again, a little hurriedly as she tried to recoup the air she had lost. A scream rent the night air, jerking them both around to where, a few houses away, a tall, powerful figure was crouched over a short, heavy one, one arm rising and falling rhythmically in a series of blows that showed no sign of stopping.

  "God, he'll kill him," she whispered, and scrambled unsteadily to her feet.

  "Yes," her father said, "and as much as I would like that, you'd better stop him, my girl."

  Shiloh glanced at him once, quickly, to reassure herself that he was all right. There was an odd glow in his eyes, but he only nodded toward the figures in the distance, and, as she always had, she obeyed him without question.

  She had to grab his arm, to literally pull him away from the beaten man, before the violence began to fade, before the need for vengeance released him. He sat back on his heels, looking at her, and she saw the blaze of fury cool as he took in the fact that she was there, upright and seemingly unhurt.

  "Are … you all right?" His voice was barely a whisper.

  "I'm fine."

  "You're sure?"

  His eyes searched her, looking for any sign of injury, not even bothering to disguise the relief that flooded him when he found none. It was his fault; he should have watched this pudgy weasel closer, but he'd been so worried about her out there…

  "I'm sorry, Shiloh. I should have—"

  "I'm fine," she repeated. "He just knocked the wind out of me." She glanced down at the stout man's battered face. "Which is less than you knocked out of him."

  "Tough."

  Carelessly he yanked the man to his feet, pulled his arm behind him in a firm wristlock and shoved him toward the house. Shiloh followed, sighing inwardly at Con's expression, knowing that he blamed himself for what had happened, for her very nearly getting hurt. She didn't know whether, she wanted to shake him and shout that he wasn't responsible for everything, or hold him and smooth that look away with soft kisses. Then she glanced up at his profile, lit starkly by the streetlight, and she knew there was really no contest; she would always want to hold him.

  The last of the cars pulled away, and Shiloh breathed a sigh of relief. It was over at last. The local police had become a bit belligerent when Con refused to explain what was going on, but when a quiet, gray-suited man arrived in response to Con's call to the nearest FBI office, things had smoothed out rapidly.

  He had also called the president of WestAir and in a few short words had sealed the fate of Fred Wilkens. The name of Joe Selkirk did not come up in either discussion, and Shiloh kept silent, knowing that that was something Con would want to handle himself.

  Shiloh was sitting on the armrest of the wheelchair, her arm around her father's shoulders, when Con closed the door and leaned back against it. Weariness and strain showed in his blue eyes and the shadows beneath them. With a quick hug and a kiss on her father's silver mane of hair, she got up.

  "Sit down," she said, taking Con's arm to lead him to the sofa. "It's been a long night."

  "I'm fine." His voice was flat, tired.

  "It's almost dawn, and you—you're bleeding!"

  She stared at his shoulder and the darkly wet spot that stained the sleeve of his cotton shirt. He followed her glance, then shrugged as he remembered that moment in the hall when he'd felt that sudden sting.

  "It's fine—"

  "Right. So you won't mind if I clean it up, then," she said briskly.

  "I said it's fine," he snapped. She nearly gets trampled by that water buffalo because I'm asleep at the wheel, and she's fussing over a little cut, he grumbled silently to himself.

  Shiloh looked at him levelly. "Then we'll keep it that way." Her voice was cool, even. "I'll just get some antiseptic and—"

  "Forget it, will you? It's just a—"

  "If you say 'it's just a scratch' or any other B-movie line," she said sweetly, "I'll deck you right here, McQuade."

  Her green eyes flashed as she looked up at him, and he would have laughed had it not been for the hot, tight knot that seemed to be forming somewhere low in his belly.

  "Sit down," she ordered again.

  "Yes, ma'am," he said meekly and sat.

  The man in the wheelchair watched in silence but with a quick alertness in his eyes that left no doubt that his agile mind was working rapidly. He glanced down at the weapon still in his lap, that precious gift from her brother that Shiloh never let out of her hands. His eyes went back to the face of the young man sitting wearily on the couch as Shiloh knelt beside him.

  Quickly Shiloh got a first-aid kit, then unbuttoned the bloody shirt and peeled it slowly away from the cut. She couldn't seem to help the way her fingers lingered a bit longer than necessary on the skin of Con's shoulder and the way she braced herself with her palm flat on his chest rather than the closer, more neutral arm of the couch.

  She was vaguely aware of her father's movement as he leaned forward slightly. She glanced back at him and saw the look she'd grown up with, the look she knew meant Connor McQuade was being studied with eyes that had years of experience in sizing up men, both friend and enemy. She saw his gaze skim over the tight, fit body, linger slightly on the scars, then stop at the eyes, those eyes that were centuries old, full of a jaded weariness that faded as she turned back to him.

  Shiloh finished, pressing an adhesive bandage over the cut with a motion that was suspiciously like a caress. Then she lifted his right hand, looking at the swollen and scraped knuckles, an odd light coming into her eyes.

  "Leave it," Con said gruffly. "You can't help. Please."

  After a moment she nodded and got to her feet. "I'll fix something to eat." She glanced at her father with concern; Wilkens's men had been there since shortly after midnight yesterday, and she doubted if he'd gotten any sleep at all since. "Then we can all get some rest."

  Con opened his mouth to protest, then shut it wearily; he was too tired to argue with her. He was exhausted, aching, and trying desperately not to think of what was coming. He decided it would be best if he just kept his mouth shut for now.

  After putting his shirt back
on, Con rubbed at his gritty eyes, trying to smother a yawn. Then a glimpse of those eyes that were so like Shiloh's watching him with the oddest of expressions drove all thought of fatigue away.

  Damn, Con swore to himself, he looks like he knows. Only then did he realize the vision of casual intimacy they must have presented as she stripped off his shirt to work on that damned cut. His stomach knotted.

  No, he assured himself, he couldn't have guessed. If that man, his imposing presence not lessened an iota by the chair he sat in, had the slightest idea that you…

  He suppressed a shiver, jerking his eyes away. He would be after you with a shotgun, McQuade. And not for a wedding, either, he thought bitterly. No father in his right mind would want someone like you for his only daughter. Especially not a daughter like Shiloh.

  The thought of Shiloh and weddings together gave rise to too many ideas he couldn't afford, didn't dare risk, and he quashed them resolutely. Say something, he ordered himself as the awkward silence grew longer.

  "I … I'm sorry I got you both mixed up in this."

  He hadn't had the chance to say it before, during the cold recital of the minimal facts he had given to the FBI man and the local police sergeant, who had arrived when the officers realized they had come up with more than they had bargained for.

  "I never meant to go to her."

  "You were ill."

  "But…" His eyes lifted then, and Robert met them steadily. Con sighed, and when he went on, it was clear it wasn't with what he had been going to say. "It was a damn good thing I did. I never would have made it without her. She's—" his voice dropped to a low, husky tone despite himself "—one hell of a woman."

  "Watch it, McQuade!" They both turned to look as she came in, carrying a tray full of plates and cups. "Tossing out compliments so easily isn't you. Having to pry them out with a crowbar is more your style." Con flushed as she set down the tray, but he couldn't help grinning when she went on blithely, "But I did do okay, didn't I?"

  "You did better than okay," Con said, his crooked grin making her heart do that funny little flip it seemed to have learned the moment she had first laid eyes on him. "And you look awfully chipper for someone who's been up most of the night."