Along with the civilians who were patronizing Silverman's that morning, two uniformed police officers had been taken off guard as they sat at the counter. John Caspar and his young partner, Tony Johnson, were stripped of their radios and weapons. Hardin worked them over as Brindle McAdoo and Leon Jackson held first Johnson, then Caspar, leaving both men bloodied, bruised, and breathing heavily.
Jesse knew he was up next. Hardin had already taken his gun and itched to get to him. McAdoo hauled him to his feet roughly. Jesse shook off his grip, but McAdoo and Jackson were quick to grab him tightly once more.
"Hold him," Hardin muttered unnecessarily. He flexed his fingers and waited as they pulled Jesse's arms behind him, bracing him between them.
The blow to Jesse's right eye staggered him and was followed quickly by the shot to his left. He fought the fierce instinct that rose up inside his chest to fight back, even stronger and more primitive than the pain. Rod Macklin held a pistol to Abe Silverman's balding head, ready to pull the trigger if any one of the three men threw a defensive blow. They'd been warned.
Jesse tasted blood as the powerful punch to his mouth split his lips. Hardin went to work methodically on his ribs. The bullet hole in Jesse's left shoulder sent a burning streak of agony through him each time Hardin's fist connected with his flesh. He swallowed the groan of pain he felt rising, not allowing himself to make any sound. He wouldn't give Hardin the satisfaction.
When Hardin finally had enough, he took a step back, giving his men a dismissive signal. Jackson and McAdoo released Jesse, and McAdoo shoved him down to his knees. Fire streaked through his shoulder, and he clamped his jaws tightly. Officers Johnson and Caspar sat chained to metal stools at the old-fashioned eating counter. Hardin didn't bother with Jesse. He'd lost a large amount of blood and was in no shape to try to run—not with the bullet he carried and the pounding he'd taken. He tried to draw a
deep breath, lifting a hand to wipe at the trickle of blood he felt streaming down his cheek.
The old woman who had held the place in line in front of Jesse earlier sat beside the younger of the two officers. Her wrinkled face grim, she seemed more indignant than afraid. Her raspberry Bismarck was flattened, oozing jelly through the bag she still held in a bejeweled hand.
Abe Silverman clutched his left leg, his wife Mary kneeling worriedly at his side. He'd gone for the snub-nose .44 he kept hidden behind the counter.
He was lucky to be alive, with a bullet in his kneecap to show for his efforts, rather than his head. Jesse sat beside the old man, wishing Abe hadn't given away the fact the gun was there. Now that all the official weapons had been confiscated, the .44 might have made a huge difference.
Lindy stayed quietly at Jesse's side. She had been a rock so far, and he had to smile when he thought of the defiance flashing in her dark eyes. Somehow, her presence comforted him. He didn't want to delve too deeply into that—not yet.
To Lindy's left, a young teenaged couple sat close together, the girl very pregnant. Her boyfriend's desperation worried Jesse more than anything else. He was a loose cannon, the one who could make the situation worse—in a hurry.
"You seem to know one another," Lindy whispered.
Jesse knew who she was talking about. The leader of the pack, Tabor Hardin. He nodded, opting not to go into a lot of detail just yet. "Yeah. We do."
This was just perfect. He'd wanted to start something with Lindy Oliver ever since he'd become aware of his beautiful neighbor. Somehow, he'd never found a way. Until today. A perfect introduction. She didn't press. Her patience made him feel somehow freer with what he could tell her. He sighed. Might as well tell her everything about that. Hardin would enlighten her readily enough, if he thought she was interested.
"I testified against him in court. He…figures me for the one who put him in jail—single-handedly."
"Did you?"
Jesse snorted. "Hell, no. There was all kinds of evidence against him. DNA was the clincher—not my testimony." He shook his head. "But he said he'd get me one day for it."
Lindy reached up to take a damp kitchen towel from Mary Silverman, and Jesse closed his eyes as she began to gently dab at the blood running from his nose. "Well…he got a good start on it, didn't he?" She touched the corner of his split lip. He winced, then held still.
"Mm-hm. There'll be lots more to come." He sighed, managing to open his swollen right eye to a bare slit. He started to take the towel from her. "I can do that."
His movement was stopped short by the pain streaking through his shoulder, leaving him as breathless as if he'd had the wind knocked out of him.
"Let me." Lindy carefully held the cool cloth against his jaw. "You can't see what I can."
"No, but I sure as hell feel it."
"I know," she comforted. She was silent a moment, then, "Jesse, does it strike you as odd…"
"What?"
She shrugged. "It's just that…well, they don't seem agitated. They aren't trying to negotiate their way out of here. It's almost as if they're waiting for something. I don't know. It could just be my imagination."
Truthfully, Jesse hadn't given that much thought. The bullet made his shoulder throb with every beat of his heart, and he didn't even have to wonder how this day was going to end. Fate couldn't have played a crueler joke if she'd tried—handing him Lindy Oliver and Tabor Hardin all on one huge silver platter.
But Lindy was right. They did seem to be waiting for something. There was no urgency in their movements, and as far as he could tell, no ransom demands had been set. All added, not a good scenario.
Hardin had been sentenced to life on his fortieth birthday. Less than five years ago. What was he doing out on the street? Why had there been no notification? If Hardin had truly been released, the Oklahoma City Police Department would've received the standard paperwork to let them know. If Hardin escaped—they should have been notified. How had he slipped through the cracks?
"How're you holdin' up, boy?" Abe's pain-filled voice called Jesse out of his musings. He looked at the old man without answering, and Abe grimaced. "Two shiners and a busted lip. They beat the hell out of you, didn't they?" he muttered.
Jesse shook his head slowly. "No, that'll come later—at their leisure. This was just a quick one." He held still to let Lindy carefully wash off the trickle of blood that had run down his chin to his neck.
Abe shook his head, sympathy in his blue eyes along with the pain. "Couldn't've been worse for you, could it?"
"Not much." Jesse's tone sounded more curt than he intended. He didn't want to think about what was to come. It was going to get a lot worse. Hardin was a sadistic son of a bitch who enjoyed inflicting pain, and he knew every conceivable way to do it.
Jesse turned his mind away from the details of the killings that landed Hardin in the McAlester State Penitentiary. The long, slow torture, and the eventual murders, of a young police officer and his new wife was still raw to think of—even after all this time.
"How's the leg?" Jesse asked, changing the subject. He nodded toward Abe's outstretched bloody limb. Mary had tied a dishtowel around it to stop the bleeding, but Jesse could see the harsh agony in the old man's bright blue eyes.
"Hurts like bloody fu—hell."
Lindy shivered against him. The events of the morning were finally catching up with her. She had moved nearer to him, so close he was leaning against her for support. He tried to shift, to take some of his weight off of her. The searing bolt of lightning at his shoulder reminded him to hold still. He swore harshly. For a few seconds, he was unaware of anything other than the shot of liquid fire that seemed to roll through his entire body. It took over, turning his muscles to jelly for an instant. He couldn't shake it off, no matter how hard he tried. He drifted in blackness. Then, he felt Lindy's hand slip into his, and he clenched his fingers around hers, holding on…holding on.
"It's okay, Jesse," she murmured, her other hand gentle against his chest, keeping him anchored. "You don't need to move."
> He nodded, too short of breath to respond for an agonizing moment, grateful beyond words for her touch, her kindness. And sorry he hadn't been able to get her out of this hellhole.
"Boy, this is some mess we're in, huh?" the young man at the end of the row muttered.
"Tommy—" the pregnant girlfriend began, trying to placate him.
"Shut up, Jennifer."
"Hey!" Jesse warned, opening his eyes.
The boy was quiet then, but not for long. He turned to the girl again. "It was all your idea to come in here. 'I want a doughnut, Tommy.' Well, you got what you wanted—"
The older of the pair of police officers, John Caspar, sat up and leaned forward, favoring his ribs. "That's enough."
Tommy fell into a sullen silence, then gave a short laugh. "Why didn't you do something, Officer? Why didn't you kill that bastard? You had him, dead-to-rights."
Caspar sighed heavily. "Because, son, he had you 'dead-to-rights'. Remember?"
"He wouldn't have done it," Tommy sneered.
Tony Johnson looked at Caspar, then back at the caustic teen. "What makes you think he wouldn't have pulled the trigger?"
Tommy gave a snort. "Idiot. Because of who I am!"
Johnson's eyes narrowed, anger flaring briefly. But before he could reply, Tommy went on.
"I'm Charles Norton's son," he said mockingly. "You know…he's the mayor. We have…ah, resources." He smiled, looking smugly around at each of the other captives. "Something none of you would know anything about. That means I can buy my way out of this pile of shit mess."
Caspar shook his head, looking up at the boy through a haze of his own blood. "Don't try it, son. Whatever you think you're worth, they'll figure it about ten times more. You'll be the last one of us they release."
Tommy's thin lips curled in a sneer. "Yeah, maybe. But at least I'll be released—not dead. You being a pig and all, they'll want to make an example of you."
Caspar's mouth tightened.
"You shut your trap, Norton," Johnson said in a low voice. "If John had shot him, you'd have been the first one dead, then the rest of us—right then. At least, as it is, we bought some time."
"When you say 'the first one dead,' Officer, I'm assuming you aren't counting those three poor bastards who were blasted to hell there in the doorway." Tommy nodded toward the broken glass door where three bodies were lying just beyond on the sidewalk, their blood pooling on the concrete.
Jesse's fist shot out, his fingers wrapping into the collar of Tommy's blue polo shirt, yanking him close. He held him easily, despite his injuries, the boy's startled face just a few inches from his.
"Enough," Jesse growled. "I hope we are going to be able to count on your cooperation, Mr. Norton, no matter what comes down the pike. Don't like thinkin' you might not be a team player."
Tommy's eyes widened and his teeth clenched. His head bobbed up and down nervously. A mirthless smile lit Jesse's midnight eyes, barely quirking his battered lips, as he released the boy with a dismissive shove that sent a shock wave of pain through his own body. He drew a quick, shallow breath at the intensity of it. "You keep a lid on it, kid. I've got a short fuse right now. Don't need your shit to deal with on top of everything else."
God. Could this hurt any worse? Smart, Nightwalker. Another move like that and you'll be good for nothing more than mopping up the floor.
He leaned back, the sharp thrust of agony in his shoulder becoming steady again as the adrenaline began to subside. Oddly enough, the pain was countered by the comforting warmth of Lindy's hand at his bruised ribs.
He glanced at her, expecting to see reproach in her dark eyes at his rough handling of the kid, but it wasn't there. All he could read was her concern that, with the movement, he'd hurt himself. Dangerous. If Hardin thought there was anything between Lindy Oliver and him—
The evidence, though not accurate, was damning enough. He and Lindy had been sitting together sharing a meal. He might have been able to see Hardin coming sooner if he hadn't been so dazzled by the woman he'd been having the impromptu breakfast with. All he could see was the way the sun came through the window and caught the auburn highlights of her hair and the rich dark brown of her eyes. His mind had wandered to what it would feel like to hold her slim body next to his. And when she laughed, she made him feel as if he were the only man alive.
How long had Hardin been watching? He'd gotten her under the table and covered her body with his, protecting her. And then…he'd kissed her. Though Hardin couldn't have seen that kiss, with the way his mind and heart held it, Jesse knew it must be written all over him, even now. His lips still tingled with the fiery memory of the way it had felt, Lindy's mouth yielding against his own, overriding everything. Even the blow Hardin had dealt him, exactly on top of the place their lips connected for one unforgettable instant, hadn't held the power to erase it.
Jesse resisted the urge to touch his mouth, to wipe away the burning mistake he'd made, while at the same time, pressing her brand indelibly into his flesh—and soul—forever. Why had he done it? He didn't even know her—not really. But she hadn't protested. She had been shocked by the gunfire, that's all. She hadn't had time to push him away, to become indignant.
And, as if the kiss weren't bad enough, now he was lying propped next to her, leaning against her. But she wasn't protesting that, either. Instead, her hand lay carefully against his ribs, her other arm behind his head. He was leaning heavily upon her shoulder, as she supported both of them. He felt her arm tremble slightly and tried to relieve some of the awkward pressure.
As soon as he started to move, he felt Lindy's fingers press into his side, as if she were trying to hold him in position. He glanced at Tony Johnson and saw a momentary look of fear in the young policeman's eyes. Jesse's gaze swung to Tabor Hardin, sauntering across the room toward them as his men helped themselves to coffee and some of the pastries behind the counter.
* * * * *
Hardin stopped in the center of the small half-circle where his hostages sat. His eyes roved over them, making cool assessments as to their injuries, their value, and their eventual expendability.
Two uniforms—they expected to die. He could tell by their expressions. He might just surprise them and let them live. A smirk drew his lips upward. Then again, maybe not.
Silverman. He'd like to kill the old bastard for having the guts to go for the gun under the ancient cash register. He should have thought to check, but that old man was nervy. Probably been robbed enough to be gun handy. Trying to defend his little piece of America. In a way, he respected that about him. Might be why he'd shot him in the kneecap rather than giving him one right between the running lights. He sure as hell wished Mrs. Silverman would stop crying. The noise was working on his last good nerve. She worked on him, just being here. She seemed oddly out of place, and that made him nervous.
The old biddy with her crumpled pastry bag—Mrs. Montgomery, he'd learned her name was—sat glaring up at him like she'd kill him, given half a chance. His lips curved. Maybe sharing her with the boys would cure that murderous expression of hers. Maybe they'd find out, if time permitted. He let the promise of things to come show in his eyes, thinking that'd be enough to scare the old bitch into submission for a while and allow her to be controlled. But Grandma lifted her chin stubbornly and met his look with a defiant, unwavering stare. His smile faded.
His perusing gaze roved to Jesse Nightwalker's companion. Miss Lindy Oliver. He was interested in getting to know her much better before this party was over. She was a beauty, with auburn hair that fell past her shoulders and whiskey-colored eyes snapping fire at him as she looked up, unafraid, into his face. Lips, that normally would have been very kissable, were drawn tight in a grim line, and Hardin noted how her delicate fingers rested almost possessively on Nightwalker's bloodied shirt.
Damn him. He sighed. From the looks of things, Miss Oliver was somewhat enamored of the low-life half-breed. Disgusting, but fixable.
His gaze moved to Jesse Ni
ghtwalker himself. Hardin wanted to crow at this fortuitous selection of time, day, bank, even his choice of seeking refuge in this very place. The Oklahoma City Police Department had arrived just a bit too soon at the bank he and his men were in the process of robbing, preventing them from actually taking any cash. He wanted to laugh aloud.
This was rich. It would all be worth it—no matter what happened—just to be able to take Jesse Nightwalker down with him when he went. This time, for good.
His eyes locked with Jesse's, disquiet rippling through him. Nightwalker was too calm. He hadn't expected him to show fear, or even pain, for that matter. Right now, he would have never known Jesse was wounded—if not for the blood spreading down his shirt from the wide stain at his shoulder. Jesse stared back at him through swollen eyelids. He wasn't giving an inch. He looked just as stubborn, just as cocksure, as always. It would be a pleasure to break him. Very enjoyable—but it would take awhile.
Hardin eyed the young boy and his pregnant wife. He looked at her ring-less finger.
Girlfriend. The boy looked about like every other young punk out there, these days. Long brown hair fell across his eyes. The Mitchell and Company shirt and pants paired well with the arrogant attitude he wore. Hardin's nose wrinkled. He could smell the bristling defiance and self-important aura the boy exuded. It made him want to puke.
"That your bastard she's carrying?" he asked, watching the boy's hackles rise at his choice of words. He gave a thin smile, directing his narrowed gaze at the girl's bare finger.
Tommy Norton looked down, then nodded. "Yeah. I guess it is. My kid, I mean."
"Well, boy, why don't you hold your head up when you say that?" Hardin kicked Tommy's leg where he sprawled on the floor, the semi-automatic rifle on the boy's chest.
"No, please!" Jennifer leaned forward, as if she meant to protect him.
"Good God." Hardin lowered the rifle with a disgusted snort and looked at Jesse.
To Make the Magic Last Page 4