In the Arms of Danger

by Madison Hayes

  “You found them?”

  “The one from the docks.” Dicky smiled. “He stepped out for lunch.”

  Reaching for the hotel phone, he just grinned at Julie as he punched the keypad. Holding the receiver against his ear, he took a few impatient steps to stop in front of the room’s only window. His fingers slid through his hair as he tucked a few dark strands behind his ear.

  “Hey, arsehole. I’m the man who returned your mobile today in the pub.

  “No, I don’t expect a reward. Not inasmuch as I lifted it from your pocket in the first place. I left you a picture if you want to go find it.

  “It’s about the girl.” Dicky winked at Julie.

  “The girl you’re looking for. I’ve got her.

  “Yeah. Yeah,” he said with a snort. “You don’t know what I’m talking about. Take a look at the picture.

  “I want a passport with that picture on it along with ten thousand pounds in return for the girl.”

  Dicky shook is head. “Just shut up and listen. Here’s how you know I’m real, that I’m not working with the police.” He turned his back on her. “Run the picture past the Yard. It will be ID’d as Michael O’Rourke. Michael O’Rourke. Wanted for terrorism resulting in murder.”

  He shifted his shoulders impatiently. “I know you have that kind of access. Don’t waste my time.

  “What’s she to me?” His shoulders twitched. “I picked her up on the street just after your ferryboat ‘accident’. I’m fucking her.

  “Yeah. Every chance I get.

  “What do you think? Yeah, she’s good.”

  Dicky laughed into the phone. “She thinks I’m helping her.

  “Yeah.

  “Bring the passport and money to the Victoria Embankment tomorrow, three o’clock. Across from the Eye. You bring it. I don’t trust your friend. I beat the shit out of him. He might be the grudging sort.

  “Yeah. He broke in on me while I was doing the girl. I thought he was looking for me. It took me a while to figure out what was going on.

  “Fuck! Everyone’s after me! That’s why I need the money and the passport.

  “Dicky Evans. Twenty-three, five-ten, brown hair, brown eyes. Nineteen-eighty-three.

  “Apartment two-twenty, twenty-four-eighty Merseyside, Liverpool,” he said, reciting Nan’s address.

  “How should I know? Make it up.

  “Yeah, well, just to remind you, I still have your friend’s gun.

  “Fuck you! How many bullets do I need to kill you?

  “Across from the Eye, tomorrow, then. I’ll give you the girl.”

  Returning the receiver to the cradle, Dicky let out a pent-up breath. With his right forearm horizontal on the wall, he leaned next to the window. The light was harsh on his stark features. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you…” He laughed without turning. It was a hard laugh. “But you’ve been sleeping with a murdering, fucking terrorist.”

  When Julie made no response, he didn’t turn to look at her. Dicky pushed out a breath and gave his head a half-shake. “I should have told you…before now. I’m sorry for all the things I’ve done to you. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to fuck you and love you and lose myself inside you. I wanted to…be Dicky Evans.

  “If it helps to know, I feel…bad about it.” His voice dropped. “I feel sick about it.” His lips turned down and he shook his head as he faced her. He winced when he saw her face.

  Julie felt a tear start down her cheek. “I didn’t realize,” she told him as she shook her head. “I should have told you. I’ve known. I’ve known all along.”

  His eyes narrowed a warning as he shook his head.

  “I saw your picture in the Liverpool Police Station, in their terrorist database. The first time I was there. Before we…did anything. You were younger in the picture, but—”

  Looking like he was trying to comprehend some problem just beyond his grasp, Dicky continued to shake his head as he took the two steps to the bed. Then his knee was on the bed between her legs as he pushed her back and laid her out beneath him.

  He captured her head in his hands and held her face as though he’d just found the answer to all life’s troubles and he’d not risk losing it. For a few moments, he did nothing more than gaze into her eyes as though that blue was the one thing in the world that could save him.

  “You…” he told her in a voice that shook. “You are so fucking precious.”

  The bedside radio was on and music surged into the room, a faint regular pulse, as Dicky’s lips brushed against hers in rhythm to some obscure British band. Inevitably, his hard lips pressed for more, restlessly demanded more, as he positioned and repositioned his open mouth on hers, lips dragging, tongue dredging, heart reaching for all of her he could get into his mouth.

  Dicky felt her palms low on his flanks and gave her enough room to reach his zipper. There was a faint rasp of steel unlocking followed by the touch of her small hand wrapped around his cock. He gasped into her mouth, his tongue distracted as she racked his shaft downward.

  Yanking at the top edge of her denims, Dicky worked one side of her trousers down her hips while she managed the other. Then one of his hands met hers to pull the crotch of her thong aside and guide his cock head into her pussy. With the pink thong only just out of the way, he entered her slowly. The edge of her thong rasped at his length and he reached behind her, digging his fingers into her crease to dislodge the thin strip of thong that clung between the cheeks of her ass. Sliding his arms under her shoulders, he seared her lips with his while his hips took possession of the space between her legs.

  Probing gently, he felt her new release seep around his shaft, hot and slick, surrounding his cock in an erotic damp kiss as she sobbed into his mouth and her body curved up in a gentle arch to meet the lean, smooth muscles of his abdomen. He squeezed his eyes shut as her slim, lithe body began to move on him, a captured wave beneath his own. Moving slowly, he took her to the threshold. Knew she was there when her body rocked up to meet him, knew by the soft sounds originating in her throat. Gently, he nudged her toward orgasm.

  “Rubber,” he finally grunted.

  Ignoring her small sounds of protest, he pulled out of her and dug a small package from his pocket. With shaking hands, he tipped the latex into his hand and rolled it over his glistening erection then eased between her legs again.

  Slowly, too slowly, she worked herself against him, drawing him in deeply and pushing herself onto his cock head all the way to her limit. Each time he brought it to her, she whimpered. Slowly, he delivered. Patiently, he waited for her.

  Then he threw her right over the edge.

  When her head tossed, he shoved in as hard as he could and watched her face as her eyes opened, unseeing. Inside her cunt, pink muscles locked on his cock, released, and locked again. He pulled his hips and crammed back into her a few times then shot into orgasm so intense it felt as though his soul had been ripped from his body.

  She screamed at the edge. Screamed words beyond reason, beyond understanding. Words of love and promise. Words he could never accept nor return. He covered her mouth with his hand, tightening his palm over her lips. “No. Don’t say that. Don’t say that,” he rasped, as he jettisoned inside her.

  Afterward, he tied himself in a knot around her and slept like a wrecked man. A man who’s fought the crushing waves of despair and is finally washed ashore to rest in the kind hand of fate.

  * * * * *

  “Let me tell you about Michael O’Rourke,” Dicky said when he woke beside Julie later in the day. Their bodies were still sex-damp and sealed together. “You deserve to know.” Breaking away from her, he rolled to the bed’s edge and sat with his back to her. “Michael O’Rourke was a fourteen-year-old who carried a package into a church for his older cousins. It was supposed to be a lark. A package of stink bombs that would go off in the middle of a Sunday morning service.” He nodded to himself. “It was supposed to be a lark.

  “My cousins were—four, five y
ears older than me. Looking back, I would have to say they had no sense of humor. I don’t think they were terribly bright.

  “But because of Michael O’Rourke and his cousins, Dicky Evans can’t get a job, can’t get a driver’s license, passport—can’t even feed himself! Dicky Evans has to steal from hard-working shop owners, steal from his friends, just to eat! I hate Michael O’Rourke,” he said, his words succinct, without sympathy. “Michael O’Rourke killed three people and ruined my life.” His head dropped into his hands. “One of them was a young father with two children.”

  He turned his face to her, eyes shining. “D’you know what that man’s wife would do to Michael O’Rourke? Should she get her hands on him? She’d kill him. Kill him with my blessing. But Dicky,” he muttered a laugh. “Everyone loves Dicky. Even though he’s a fucking violent bastard who steals from them every opportunity he gets. Everyone loves Dicky.

  “I left Ireland. Came to Liverpool.” He pushed out a heavy sigh. “It was supposed to be a lark, Julie.” With his eyes, he begged her to believe him.

  Julie could have cried for the man who’d lived with this terrible truth for so many years. But this wasn’t the time for crying. This was a time for strength. “You were fourteen, Dicky. You didn’t know it was a bomb. Can’t you go to the authorities?”

  He shook his head at the floor. “The only two who could clear me—my cousins—died in a protestant plot three years ago. The authorities—

  “Oh fuck, Julie. I have another phone call to make.

  “Then I have to go out. I need a new T-shirt,” he said, “and a few other things. I wish I could find another clip for this gun.” Tugging at his jeans as he stood, he picked up the gun on the bedside table. “If this were Liverpool, I’d have no trouble finding a replacement clip.” He shook his head thoughtfully, hitching his butt up onto the windowsill. “We’ll just have to make a strong defense,” he muttered.

  “I’d never let anyone hurt you,” he said to himself softly. “Anyone,” he repeated in a forceful whisper. His eyes were distant and resolved as he rubbed the gun barrel against his temple, absently scratching his head with the nose of the deadly weapon.

  A cold shiver of dread spiked up Julie’s backbone at the image of the young man with the gun barrel against his temple. She moved toward him quickly, smoothly, lifting her hand to caress his forearm, sliding her palm up to capture his hand and guide it downward. The gun’s rough grip grazed her nipples as she coaxed the handgun downward then pulled it behind her where the cold metal chilled the base of her spine.

  As he pulled her slim body into his, Dicky transferred the gun to his other hand and laid the weapon aside on the windowsill. “Don’t tempt me,” her growled at her, “when I’ve so much to do.” His erection pressed a line into her belly, a heated declaration of his interest, as well as a pleasantly scorching offer.

  “Is it never quiet?” she asked him as her fingers brushed over the long cock inside his jeans.

  He made a small groan. “Not when you’re around.”

  Chapter Nine

  Detective Chief Inspector Ian McCready glanced at his watch and leaned on the long windowsill as his eyes focused on the London Eye, the Ferris Wheel on the far side of the River Thames.

  “Think he’ll show?”

  “Who knows?” McCready answered the young detective. “Most tips don’t pan out. Although…the man who called in didn’t sound like a crank. He seemed to know what he was talking about. The description as well as everything else seemed right.”

  “Why do you think he contacted you, instead of someone at Met?”

  Ian shrugged. “A lot of these blokes only know one name. A lot of them are paranoid—with good reason. I appreciate your working with me on this, Detective. I’d like to take O’Rourke off the street. He’s the last of his gang. His cousins died a few years back.”

  “How’d they die?”

  Ian held up a finger for silence then pressed the same finger against the small earphone he was wearing.

  A tinny voice crackled in his ear. “Okay, Inspector. I’ve got him.”

  Ian nodded. “Can you slide him off the street?”

  There was a pause. “I don’t think so, sir. He’s got a girl with him. She’s glued to him.”

  “Shit. What’s the bastard doing?”

  You should be seeing him in a few seconds. Long black coat, dark reddish hair. The girl’s wearing a dark green anorak.

  “Right. I’ve got them.” Ian McCready raised his binoculars and started to focus on the young couple. Their arms were around each other as they came up the Victoria Embankment, the gray stone wall a backdrop behind them. “That’s him,” Ian announced to the other officers in the room. Then. “What the hell? What’s she doing with him?”

  The speaker in his ear crackled. “Shall we move the mobile units in?”

  Ian raised a hand slowly as he peered through the binoculars. “Not yet. He’s got a hostage. Keep the target in your sights.” Inspector McCready watched the young man stop and lean against the embankment wall as he pulled the young woman in front of him. “Bastard. He’s using the girl as a shield.”

  Apparently stopping for a quick kiss, the couple switched places, putting the girl behind the target. The young man blocked her from Ian’s view just before two men sauntered up to join them.

  Ian frowned behind the binoculars. “Now what?”

  * * * * *

  “You bring the passport?” Dicky challenged the blond man from the docks.

  In response, the terrorist pulled a thick envelope from inside his coat and laid it on the top of the embankment wall. As Dicky reached for it, he saw the blond’s companion—Julie’s original stalker—discreetly raise a gun to point in his direction. Lowering his hands carefully, Dicky stared at the dark hole of the gun barrel. “I have a gun, as well,” Dicky told the men.

  Coldly, the blond sneered. “But it’s not in your hand.”

  “No,” he said quietly. “It’s on the roof of that building across the road.”

  The blond snorted. “Bollocks.”

  “The police. SO13. Terrorist Unit.”

  The blond laughed. “The police would never involve the girl. SO13 doesn’t use civilians as bait.”

  Dicky shook his head. “They’re not here for you. They came for me. They came to catch an Irish terrorist.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “They came for Michael O’Rourke.”

  The blond’s expression of scorn lasted only seconds—after which his face drained of all color.

  “I called Liverpool last night and gave the police…a tip-off,” Dicky continued. “Told them where they could find O’Rourke, if they wanted to. But by now, Detective McCready, who’s worked with the girl, will have recognized her—and you, from your composite. Maybe even your friend here, from the drawing I made of him.” With those words, Dicky raised a hand, not knowing what to expect, but expecting something.

  Ian McCready was crossing the street while others of his team closed on the four people.

  The blond threw out his arms in anger—there was a gun in one of his hands. “It’s a stalemate,” he announced, his eyes furious and flicking around him at the several men moving toward him. He leveled his gun at Dicky’s chest, making the young man his distant hostage, unwilling to approach him, uncertain where Dicky’s handgun was and recognizing the girl might have it.

  Dicky backed up into Julie as he shrugged. “SO13 won’t lose any sleep over Michael O’Rourke’s death.”

  “Maybe not,” the blond snarled, “but this bullet’s going right through your chest and into her head.”

  The two terrorists stood on the sidewalk, guns drawn, their backs to Ian McCready’s approach. The empty space around them widened as McCready’s men quietly diverted London pedestrians.

  “Drop your weapons,” the Inspector announced crisply. “There are a dozen guns fixed on your backs as I speak.”

  Keeping his attention focused on the couple in front of him, the blond terror
ist shouted in answer. “Yeah, well you can back off your dozen guns or a bullet goes through the girl’s head via this bastard’s chest.”

  The Inspector turned his attention to the young man who’d placed himself squarely in front of the girl.

  Dicky pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook one into his hand. “You can kill Michael O’Rourke with a shot to the head,” he told the blond. His voice was soft, his accent dangerously Irish. “But I imagine a sniper will take you down before I’ve hit the ground. And I’ll be there, holding the door open for you, when you arrive in hell.” Cupping his hands at his mouth, Dicky lit the cigarette and shook out the match. “Or you can shoot me in the chest.” He reached to tug at the top of his T-shirt, revealing the bulletproof vest beneath. “But it will never reach the girl. The bullet stops here, at my heart.” With those words, he tapped a spot on his chest.

  The blond’s companion took a small step backward, his eyes searching everywhere for escape, his elbow moving back uncertainly, as the gun barrel lowered to point at the pavement.

  At the same time, the blond’s weapon came up to level on Dicky’s head. For a long intense moment, the terrorist snarled his hatred, the gun targeting Dicky’s insolent gaze.

  Dicky pulled on his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

  “I ought to kill you, you little Irish bastard. It would almost be worth dying to watch your fucking head explode.”

  “You want to kill Michael O’Rourke?” Dicky continued in a threatening lilt, “Go ahead, dickhead. You’d be doing me a favor.”

  As the blond hesitated, the police team closed on the party. The two men who’d threatened the young couple were slammed into the wall as their weapons were swept away. Dicky was next. A young officer shoved Dicky against the wall and searched his pockets then reached under his coat and started to frisk down his legs. As Dicky braced his hands at the top of the wall, the brown envelope wobbled at the edge of his fingers. When he reached for the packet, the officer gave him a blocking shove. As the envelope started its slide toward the river, Dicky kicked off of the officer and vaulted to the top of the wall—where he teetered.