by Lyn Stone
The worst thought occurred to Robin. “Damien, no one’s checking the identity of the staff! The officer didn’t even blink when that doctor buzzed himself in.”
Damien whirled and headed directly to the door of the unit and punched the buzzer. Robin was right behind him, ignoring Officer Stevens as he jumped to his feet and protested. “Mr. Perry, I told you—”
The doors swung open. Two beds were occupied. Most of the personnel were at the far end of the unit and busy setting up the machines to monitor a patient who must have just arrived. Only one was attending Mitch. He held a syringe in one gloved hand and the tube to Mitch’s IV in the other. He was about to inject it. Robin screamed, “No! Kick, don’t!”
She would have run at him, but Damien grabbed her by the arms. The action gave Kick time to bend one leg upward and snatch a gun from his ankle holster.
He placed the weapon against Mitch’s temple. “Stay back. I’ll kill him.”
Hearing the commotion, the nurses attending the other patient turned. Two started toward Kick. Damien ordered them back. “There’s no way out but past me, Taylor. Give it up.”
Kick dropped the syringe on the bed and reached up to pull the mask from his face. The gun in his other hand remained steady pressed against Mitch’s head. “We’ll see about that. You,” he said to Robin, “get over here. Now!”
Damien increased the steely grip he had on her arms. His voice sounded reasonable, without a trace of anger. “A hostage is not the answer, Kick. Put down the weapon and come quietly. Killing Mitch won’t help you now. Everyone already knows all that he could tell us.”
“Let her go. Get her over here,” Kick insisted, his eyes wide, frantic. “Don’t and I’ll blow his head off.”
The desperation in his voice chilled Robin’s blood. The man was cornered. If she could offer him a way out, at least he wouldn’t hurt Mitch.
“He’ll do it, Damien,” she said in a near whisper. “Let me go with him and get him out of here!”
“No! Taylor, put down the weapon,” he commanded. Robin wondered what the hell Officer Stevens was doing behind them. Probably gawking. In all fairness, he couldn’t shoot at Kick. Any shot fired would endanger the people at the far end of the room.
Robin relaxed her shoulders and arms as if she’d given up the struggle. Damien’s grip automatically gentled. When it did, she jerked away from him and dashed out of his reach.
“Turn around!” Kick demanded the instant she was free of Damien. Back toward me.”
Robin stopped, spun around and did as he ordered. She felt a strong arm encircle her neck and the cold kiss of the pistol barrel against her head.
She didn’t worry that Kick would shoot her right now, since she was his only ticket out of the hospital. But when he no longer needed her, Robin knew he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her.
She realized she made a good shield for him. She matched him in height, though not in strength. “You can do this, Kick,” she assured him. “You can get away, clear out of the hospital. Just take it slow. Don’t panic.”
“This can still work,” he muttered to himself. If he hadn’t heard her words, at least her tone of voice must have been reassuring. He was making plans. She could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. But he hadn’t moved from Mitch’s bedside yet and that was her objective.
Damien and Stevens blocked the only doorway leading out of the unit. Both were armed now, their stances indicating they were merely waiting for an opening, a clear shot. Even Robin knew better than to hope for that.
Kick must also realize they wouldn’t take it even if the opportunity presented itself. There were too many civilians in here to risk a shootout. She had visions of oxygen tanks exploding. And of bodies falling everywhere as they had in the hail of bullets at Somers’s house last night.
She risked a glance at Mitch. He lay there looking so vulnerable she wanted to weep. But his eyes were open now. His gaze flicked to his left hand and back to her. With two fingers, he gave the syringe Kick had dropped on the bed a little push toward her. She moved her right hand slowly, groaning and twisting slightly to distract Kick as she picked it up.
“Be still,” he barked, tightening his hold.
“Hard…to…breathe,” she gasped. His choking grip on her eased a bit and she sucked in a deep breath. “I’m ready,” she muttered, hoping to prompt him to leave the room.
He took the cue. “Everybody move over there! On the far side of the room away from the door! Now!”
The barrel of the pistol remained firmly against her temple. Robin knew if she jabbed him with the needle now, he would squeeze that trigger reflexively. She had to wait until he relaxed a little. Until he felt safer. Maybe in the elevator. At least in there no one else would be in danger. She hoped.
Robin positioned the syringe in her hand, her thumb on the plunger, uncertain what effect it would have if she did use it. Who knew what was in it? Obviously something that would have killed Mitch. That could be just about anything, given his weakened condition. But somehow, she didn’t believe Kick would have risked using it without the absolute certainty that it would kill and kill quickly, allowing him to sneak back out of the hospital undetected.
He might have gotten the scrubs and mask without much trouble out of the laundry somewhere, but surely he would have caused a stir if he’d tried to obtain anything lethal from a source within the hospital.
No, he would have brought this in with him already prepared. Probably a street drug, a whopping dose, Robin figured. As a cop who used to work Vice, he would have access to that.
The question was, how quickly would it work? Fast enough to prevent his shooting her? Even if he relaxed the position of that gun for a few seconds and took it away from her head, would he still be able to shoot?
She would have to disarm him somehow, or else convince him that she was no threat.
“Buzz us out,” he ordered. Robin did. He snarled at Damien and Stevens. “If these doors open again before we’re off this floor, I’ll shoot her,” Kick warned them. As he edged sideways with her out of the ICU doors and allowed them to close, the elevator chimed. He whirled around keeping her between him and whoever stepped out.
Captain Hunford appeared, both hands occupied with cups of coffee. His tired eyes flared at the sight of Kick holding her at gunpoint.
“Taylor!” he exclaimed. His gaze flew to the vacant chair where Stevens had been keeping watch.
“Get in there with them!” Kick ordered, his voice grating with desperation. “Do it now, Cap, or I’ll ice her right here.”
Hunford nodded and did as he was told. He pushed the button with his elbow and buzzed himself into the unit. His worried gaze collided with Robin’s, but he kept silent.
She remained docile as Kick walked her to the elevator and they entered. “Punch Lobby,” he said.
Robin did. She knew she was on her own now. Hunford would call downstairs. There would be officers or security guards there when the elevator opened, she had no doubt. But they would be able to do no more than Damien, Stevens or Hunford had done. If she didn’t get her act together and figure a way out of this, Kick would escape and most likely kill her once he didn’t need her as a hostage.
Well, years ago she’d thought she might like to try acting. Now seemed an excellent time to try her skill. Hadn’t she spent most of her life pretending a confidence she didn’t feel? Presenting herself as a whole different person than who she really was? She could almost hear Mitch telling her to go for it.
She could literally smell Kick’s fear, and his greed was obvious. If she could allay the one and feed the other, this might work. She had to make it work.
“You might want to put the safety on, Kick,” she said calmly. “If you accidentally shoot me, you’ll never get those account numbers I memorized. All that money is just waiting.”
“It won’t do me any good now,” he snarled. “So just shut the hell up.”
“Now’s not time to lose it, Kick. You’
re too smart for that,” Robin said, hiding her terror and pretending exasperation. “All you have to do is steal us a boat! Believe me, I can get you all the way to the Caymans if you can find a craft capable of the trip.” She thought his arm loosened a little.
“C’mon, boats are my thing,” she lied. She didn’t know port from starboard. “And this is your only chance at that money. Think! We can be rich, Kick. Somers is dead. My husband’s dead. Who’s left to care about the accounts? Work with me here.”
She allowed a short laugh to escape. Actually it was a precursor to hysteria, but she thought maybe it sounded nonchalant enough to fool him. “I thought I had Mitch convinced to go after it, but he was just playing me. Planned to turn me in all along.”
The elevator stopped, the round light at the top blinked L for lobby. Robin still had her hand on the panel. She pressed the door-close button and held it.
“What do you say?” she asked. “There’s close to eight million, only one of it mine. My price for the numbers is your clicking on that safety so I don’t wind up dead if your finger twitches. I want to live to spend my million.”
His silence told her he was considering it.
“Show of faith, Kick. Click it on, and we’re in business.”
“They’ll be waiting when the door opens,” he argued, his voice breathless with fear, his every muscle taut against her and around her neck.
“They won’t know the difference if it’s on or not. I’ll act terrified. We can pull this off if you don’t wimp out.”
After a couple of seconds she heard a click. “Okay,” he said. “But you screw me, lady, and I’ll blow you away.”
“Okay. Give me a second,” she said, her tone businesslike as she could make it. She could do this, she told herself.
Mitch expected her to do something and, by God, she meant to do it. “Let me take a deep breath first and flex my neck a bit, then we’ll go for it.”
He moved his arm out well beyond her neck to allow it, but the gun still rested against her hairline. She prayed he actually had put on the safety.
Robin drew in the deep breath she’d requested, then spun within his grasp, surprising him, releasing the button on the panel as she dropped to her knees. She stabbed the syringe directly into his groin and mashed the plunger with her thumb.
His gun dropped to the floor as he grabbed himself with both hands, screaming and doubled over. Robin scrambled sideways and threw her body over the pistol to keep him from getting it.
She clutched the gun close to her chest and curled herself over it, rubbing her thumbs along the smooth metal while her fingers squeezed it in a death grip.
The doors slid open, and the elevator immediately filled with cops. Robin clenched her eyes shut and curled into a ball. Someone stepped on her leg and stumbled. The noise level deafened her. Officers or guards shouted as the struggle ensued.
Kick alternately gagged, screamed and cried as they dragged him out of the elevator. She might have added a few groans to the melee herself. All she could think was that she had the gun. She had to hold on.
Chapter 16
“Ms. Andrews?” Hands pried at her arms, trying to pull them away from her sides. Someone tugged at her ankles. She couldn’t unfold. Her body felt rigid, every tendon locked in place. She shook silently, her breath huffed in and out in short unfulfilling gasps, and her eyes wouldn’t open.
“It’s all right now, ma’am,” a male voice assured her in almost that same deep drawl Mitch always used. “We have him secured.” The words registered somewhere inside her brain, but her muscles refused to respond.
“He’s passed out, see?” the voice told her gently. “You can get up now. I’ll help you. They’re taking him away. He’s cuffed and not even moving. Fainted, maybe.”
Dead, maybe. Robin knew she should tell the officer that Kick Taylor might be the victim of whatever lethal substance he would have used on Mitch. But she couldn’t seem to form words.
It was over now. Mitch was safe. She had done it.
She heard the deep voice again, at a distance and not so gentle now, as it summoned someone outside the elevator. “Hey! Get a doctor over here. This lady’s in shock!”
So I am, Robin thought with a shudder. Shocked as hell to be still alive. It was ridiculous to lie here in a heap like a frightened child when Mitch was clinging to life by his fingernails up on the third floor.
Slowly, forcing herself to unwind and get to her knees, Robin checked the safety on the weapon she held. Sure enough, it was on. She very carefully laid it down on the floor of the elevator. Her prints were on that one, too, now. For someone who knew so little about guns, they certainly seemed to land in her hands often enough these days.
“Ma’am? Are you okay now?” said the man who had been trying to assist her. He was a heavyset guy in his late twenties—she would guess a beat cop.
She glanced at his name tag. “Yes, Officer Marks, I’m fine. You probably should see about that weapon there,” she said, pointing to the gun on the floor. “I’m going back up to the ICU.”
He scooped up the pistol and took her by the elbow. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You’ll have to come with me.”
She couldn’t break free. He had the gun now. She was fresh out of syringes and her muscles felt like Jell-O. Robin didn’t even have the strength to protest verbally.
“Don’t worry, Ms. Andrews,” he said gently. “I’m one of the good guys.”
Robin devoutly hoped so.
Mitch awoke with a start. The bullet holes had obviously been plugged with salt. He felt as if he’d been worked over by a wrecking ball. “Where’s Robin?” he grunted.
“It’s about time you came around. I swear you’d sleep through a tornado.” Susan leaned over him and stuck a straw in his mouth. “Drink some of this. Sorry it’s not coffee.”
Mitch took time to drink the ice water, but only because his mouth was so dry he could hardly talk. The simple act of sucking on the straw exhausted him. His eyes kept closing, but he knew he had to fight that. He had to know about Robin.
“She’s okay,” Susan said as if she’d read his mind. He hated when women did that, but in this case it was convenient.
“Where is she?” he rasped. “Is Kick—?”
“Kick’s taken care of. Robin’s safe. She’s with the FBI.”
“God, no. Not the witness program?” He’d never find her.
Susan shook her head. “No, nothing like that. It’s all Damien’s fault, and don’t think I didn’t ream him out about it! Apparently Robin told him about the disk with the Cyrillic on it, and they’re holding her for questioning. They think her husband was spying.”
“She’s innocent,” he said, barely able to utter the words.
“Sure she is,” Susan agreed. “It’ll be all right, Mitch.”
“She’s alive,” he mumbled, a huge weight rolling off his chest. He hadn’t lost her.
“She’s alive,” Susan repeated. Mitch hung on to those words as morphine from the IV rushed through his veins.
When he fought his way out of the fog again, she still wasn’t there. Damien was. “Where is she, Perry?” he demanded.
“New York.” One thing about Damien, he told it like it was. “A couple of the agents flew up with her to check out the rest of the contents of her safety deposit box. That’s much faster than going the usual route, getting a court order to open it. She agreed to do it.”
“Comin’ back?”
“Of course,” Damien said. Maybe he wasn’t telling it like it was.
“What day is it?”
“Tuesday.”
“What week?”
Damien laughed softly. “Same week, Mitch. You haven’t been comatose, just under the influence. They eased off on the painkillers this morning.”
“No joke,” Mitch grumbled, wincing as he shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position in hell. “Tell me everything.”
Damien sat near the foot of the bed. “First off, Robin refused
to cooperate in any way until the surgeon himself assured her that you would recover fully. She insisted on seeing you, and did, but you were totally sedated by then. It took three of us to subdue you once Kick Taylor took Robin out of the ICU. Remember?”
Mitch didn’t. The last thing he recalled was pushing the syringe toward Robin and watching her grasp it, the only weapon he could offer her against a nine-millimeter. “Did she use it?”
“What? The syringe? Oh, yes.” Damien exhaled, brushing a hand over his face. “Kick’s dead. Massive dose, pure uncut. She injected all of it. A fraction would have done the job.”
Mitch hated that Robin had been forced to take a life. Two, actually. The encounter at the Somers house came back to him full force. At least Robin would be safe now.
“She must have been glad to get out of Nashville,” he said more or less to himself.
Then he looked and saw Damien watching him with a worried frown. Mitch tried to smile, to alleviate that worry. “Knowing Robin, she would feel responsible for causing everything, even my gettin’ shot.” He couldn’t really blame her for wanting to put it all behind her. “It’s not as if we have much of a history to work with. Or anything in common. Just two people thrown together, dodging bullets.”
“And you neglected to duck,” Damien said, getting up from the bed. “I’m leaving now. Your parents will be here in a few minutes. Try not to look as though you’re awaiting the coroner, will you?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Damien.”
He paused at the door. “Mitch? She really had no choice but to go.”
And Mitch had no choice but to go after her. First thing on his agenda once he got untangled from all these damned tubes.
Robin waited in the outer office of Special Agent Nick Olivetti. One of the junior agents kept her company. Actually, he guarded her to keep her from disappearing downstairs, out the door and into the crowded streets of New York. He chewed antacid tablets and pored over a magazine while she anticipated the next interrogation. No rubber hoses and blinding overhead lights for these guys. All very civil. “How was your husband connected to the Russians?”