by Hope Anika
When she turned unerringly to meet Sam’s gaze through the dense rainfall as though she could feel his sudden presence, his heart jerked hard. Her nose and her lip were bleeding again, and her shirt was one big, bloody smear, and hot, incendiary rage made him run faster.
Cruz hauled Alexander from the porch, toward Lucia. Half way to her, the boy twisted away. Cruz halted and pointed the .22 at Lucia, and Sam’s blood fired. A heartbeat later, Alexander was darting in front of Lucia, putting himself in the line of fire. Sam saw the glint in his hand and realized the boy was holding a knife.
Misha’s knife.
“Hands on your head, Cruz.”
That abrupt, unseen command made Sam suddenly slow. A man moved into view—young, suited, a Fed?—and he stood on the other side of the giant Lucia had felled. The sleek black .9mm he held was aimed at Donavon Cruz.
“Stand down, Agent Kent,” Cruz said. “I have this under control.”
“Put that fucking gun on the ground,” the suit ordered. “Now.”
Sam halted a handful of feet away, his gaze narrow, adrenaline chugging through him like a train.
“Turn around and walk away, Agent.” Cruz’s laconic drawl was cold. “This doesn’t concern you.”
But the suit—shit, more like kid—only took another fluid step toward Donavon Cruz, his weapon steady, and Sam realized not only was the kid serious, the way he was moving was pure predator; he wasn’t just a suit, or a Fed. He was former military.
“On the ground, you piece of shit,” Agent Kent said flatly. “Right now. Or I will shoot you.”
He wasn’t kidding.
Sam reached for his Glock. Goddamn it.
The giant Lucia had felled suddenly stirred, reaching into the interior of his coat, and the kid snarled, “Don’t.”
Cruz’s gaze lifted to the agent’s face. Whatever he saw made a smile turn his mouth, an ugly smile—wrong—and he said something too low for Sam to hear.
The kid only blinked. “On the fucking ground.” Last chance.
Sam saw him ready his grip.
Shit. He took another step, but it was too late.
Boom!
“The fuck is this!” Tony growled. He slid the SUV to a halt next to Sheriff Thompkin’s Bronco. Beside him, Isabel threw off her seatbelt and pulled up her hood. “How the hell did Kent get here so fast?”
Isabel slid him a look. “Maybe he’s afraid you’ll shoot one of his perps.”
Tony bared his teeth at her. “Only one of them.”
They climbed from the car and were instantly soaked. Thunder rolled over, and the trees shuddered from the wind. The rain was a thick veil Tony strode through, past the Sheriff and Joshua and Bob Peabody, aware of Isabel beside him, and suddenly the scene came into view:
Donavon Cruz stood outlined by the vehicle lights. He held a handgun pointed at his son Alexander, who clutched something Tony thought might have been a knife, but he wasn’t certain; the rain was too dense. The boy stood in front of Lucia, who was on her knees on the ground, battered and bleeding, and the sight of that blood struck Tony like a cold, hard fist.
Jesus Christ.
Beside her a big brute of a man was stirring. Marlow. Tony recognized him from Isabel’s files. Donavon Cruz’s bodyguard.
To Marlow’s right, Special Agent Kent held his weapon aimed at Donavon Cruz in an aggressive stance Tony immediately recognized.
“Put that fucking gun on the ground,” Kent ordered, and Tony recognized that, too, the intensity of his tone, that distinct warning.
Fuck.
Tony halted. He reached out and grabbed Isabel’s arm, forcing her to stop as well. She glowered at him, but didn’t fight his hold.
“Turn around and walk away, Agent,” Cruz replied, as if swatting away a fly. “This doesn’t concern you.”
Isabel tugged against his grip, but Tony only pulled her closer, and Sam suddenly materialized through the rain on the other side of Lucia, Glock in hand—that’s my man—and he approached the scene cautiously, his gaze intent.
“On the ground, you piece of shit.” Kent’s words flat, and Tony’s nape prickled with unease. He held firm when Isabel tugged against his hold, and ignored the growl she emitted. “Right now. Or I will shoot you.”
There was no bluff in those words.
Donavon Cruz seemed to realize it. He turned to look at the young man whose gun was pointed at him, but whatever he saw only made him smile, a taunting, dark smirk Tony wanted to beat from his face. He said something Tony couldn’t hear. Something malicious. Cruelty painted his face.
“On the fucking ground,” Kent snarled, and Tony knew it was game over.
On the other side of Lucia, Sam started walking. But Donavon Cruz lifted the .22 and—
Boom!
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Alexander jerked violently with the sound of the shot, but there was no pain, and when he looked down, there was no blood. But—
He looked at his father, not understanding. And then he saw the ugly red hole in his father’s forehead, his cold features oddly blank. Erased.
Donavon Cruz fell to his knees, and Alexander realized abruptly what had happened.
On the ground, you piece of shit. Right now. Or I will shoot you.
His father slammed into the ground face-first and didn’t move.
Alexander stared down at him for a long, silent moment, his heart a painful stutter in his chest, and tried to absorb it. Then he turned and looked at the man who’d shot his father. Agent Kent. Who still held his gun at the ready, old eyes in a young face.
“Are you okay?” the Agent demanded.
Alexander could only blink at him, slightly dumbfounded.
Marlow suddenly rolled, as if to stand, but Sam appeared out of the rain to press his Glock into Marlow’s thick jowl.
“I wouldn’t,” he said, and Alexander’s knees went weak.
“Sam.” Alexander turned toward him, relief almost making him heady. “Sam.”
“Down,” Sam said to Marlow.
Marlow subsided, and then two Sheriff’s deputies descended. Sam stepped back and held up his weapon.
“Sam Steele,” he said, and lifted a badge from around his neck that winked brightly in the headlights. “Deputy U.S. Marshal.”
Alexander screeched to a halt. Sam looked over to meet his gaze. And Lucia made a harsh sound that made them both turn toward her. She was pushing herself up, her shirt clinging to the blood that washed her; she looked like the victim in a horror movie.
Alexander moved toward her, but suddenly men surrounded them, pushing him aside to get to her. They were lifting her away from the ground, and when she cried out in pain, Alexander yelled, “No,” and moved to stop them. But Sam plucked him out of the mix, easily subduing him when he fought.
“No,” Alexander said again, trying to break Sam’s hold. “They’re taking her,” he snarled, and tears punched into his chest like a hammer. “We can’t let them take her.”
“They’re paramedics; they’re taking her to a hospital.” Sam put Alexander down and held onto him with two big hands on Alexander’s shoulders. “We’ll be right behind her, I promise.”
A Deputy U.S. Marshal. The betrayal was like a hot poker. “Where’s Ben?”
Sam squeezed his shoulders gently. “He’s okay, son. Everything’s going to be okay.”
But Alexander shook his head, the tears in his chest turning to stone. “They’re taking her,” he said again.
“Don’t worry,” Sam said. “I won’t let them keep her.”
The young man Isabel had known as Austin Kent had morphed into a predator before her very eyes. As if a switch had flipped, and the darkness within had stepped forward to deal with the darkness without.
Watching the video , she thought, had triggered something within Agent Kent, and her heart silently ached for him, even as she was fascinated by the abrupt transformation.
When he’d fired his weapon, and a neat hole blossomed in Donavon Cr
uz’s forehead, he hadn’t even blinked. There was no hesitation, no remorse. And part of Isabel was with him every step of the way, right or wrong.
But there would be serious repercussions.
Added to that was the fact that he still held his weapon at the ready, as if they stood in the middle of a battlefield.
Isabel tried to step toward him, but Tony only squeezed her arm, his hand strong and unyielding as he held her trapped there beside him—damn him—and said to Kent, “Put your weapon away, Agent Kent. One man down is enough.”
Around them, the rain fell in dense, chilled sheets, and thunder rumbled like a giant stirring. Kent looked down at the fallen form of Donavon Cruz, and Isabel watched a myriad of emotion chase across his features: rage, recognition. A fierce, angry defiance.
“You warned him,” Tony continued. “He didn’t listen. But now you need to stand down.”
Kent looked at him, eyes glittering, and Isabel’s chest tightened.
“Just fucking breathe,” Tony told him. “It’s over.”
A shuddering breath rasped from Austin, steaming out into the cold rain; he was pale, his skin sheened by perspiration. He looked like a kid, but the unmoving body of Donavon Cruz belied that presumption, and Isabel knew there was far more to Austin Kent than she’d realized. And that was a mark against her, because she—better than anyone—knew there was always something beneath the surface.
Always.
“Good.” Tony held out a hand. “Give me your gun.”
Isabel watched, her blood a dull roar in her ears. Kent stared at Tony for a long, silent moment, unmoving, but Tony only stared back, a hard, unbending look as he waited, one that Kent finally bent beneath. He took a deep breath and handed Tony his weapon. Then he stepped back and turned away.
Paramedics suddenly appeared, shoving past them to head to Donavon Cruz’s side. Two peeled off and headed toward Lucia. Isabel tried again to take a step toward Agent Kent, but Tony stepped into her path with a sharp shake of his head.
“Knock it off,” she growled. “I’m not a dog to be leashed.”
He crowded against her until she glared up at him. “I want you safe.”
“It’s good to want things,” she retorted sharply, tossing his own words back at him.
The bastard smiled down at her. “It’s better to get them.”
Heat flared to life deep within, and she snarled at him. “Get out of my way.”
“Baby, no,” Tony said softly. He sobered. “Kent just killed a man. Give him a minute.”
Isabel stilled. She heard experience in his voice, and she respected that; but she was irritated as hell at him thinking he had the right to cosset or protect her.
No one cossetted or protected her. No one.
“I know you can take care of yourself,” he continued and took another small step toward her, until his hard frame pressed against her softer one. Before she could move, he ducked his head into the hollow where her neck and shoulder met, and rubbed his bristled chin against her scarred skin, making a sudden shiver ripple through her. “But you’re mine to take care of, too.”
Damn him. “We are more effective when we work together.”
Tony stared down at her, his brows drawn low, his hazel eyes glinting like polished tiger’s eye, and Isabel knew that—no matter what he said—Tony would always put himself in front of her when he thought it was necessary. That wasn’t something she would ever be able to change.
“Kent was going to fire,” he said. “I know that look. Some things you can’t stop, honey.”
Her throat filled suddenly, sharply. She knew that look, too. She’d seen it, too. And she’d done nothing.
“Is this our fault?” she asked quietly and met Tony’s gaze through the thick, endless rain. “Are we responsible for this?”
“We brought forth the truth,” he replied after a long moment. “There are always repercussions for the truth.”
Yes.
Kent was suddenly walking toward them, his features tight, his eyes dark.
“That piece of shit is still alive,” he said.
The hands touching her were cool and efficient.
Lucia’s head was spinning, and her mouth was filled with blood. More blood.
Marlow’s punch had almost knocked her lights out; her head throbbed, her blood a dull, steady roar. Bringing him down had been faintly satisfying, until Donavon Cruz had appeared with her gun in his hand, until Alexander had wedged himself in front of that gun and refused to move.
She remembered…Sam. Running toward her through the rain. And then another man—one she didn’t know, a man in a suit and a long, dark coat—who’d appeared and…
Shot Donavon Cruz.
Cruz had fallen, landing only a handful of feet from her, on the other side of Marlow, a bloody hole in his forehead, his features slack, and her heart had jolted at the lack of life in his pale gaze.
When she’d pushed up from the ground, it was slippery with her blood, and her hands almost slid out from under her. But then others were there, paramedics, with their calm competence and unbending determination to deliver treatment, and although she wanted to argue, Lucia knew she was losing too much blood, and she hurt, the pain sharp and vivid, like streaks of sudden, brilliant color in a dark room. So she let them press bandages to her wounds and didn’t argue when they tore her shirt away.
“Lucia.”
Her eyes opened. Sam was above her, his features sharp, a frown making him scowl down at her.
“We’ll be right behind you, sweetheart,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
But she didn’t understand what that meant, and when the paramedics pushed him aside, he went, and she tried to sit up and protest. Gentle hands pushed her back down again.
They loaded her into a still, cool place, and she shivered. Her blouse was in shreds, and cold air washed over her damp skin in a chilly wave. Her ears had begun to ring, which she knew wasn’t a good sign, and her head continued to throb as though someone had slammed a hard, round stone into her skull.
A dark face suddenly appeared above hers, skin like coal, eyes the bitterest of chocolate. “Who did this?”
“Who then or who now?” Lucia hissed when something cold and wet washed over the wound on her breast. “Ay, yai, yai.”
The face seemed to glower at her. “Who gave you these wounds? Is that a bite mark?”
She shuddered. “He’s dead.”
“Goddamn, girl.” The face disappeared; more cold, wet, burning hellfire eating into one of her wounds.
“Ay, yai, yai. That hurts,” she growled, wiggling.
Hands returned to her shoulders and stilled her movement. “Take it easy. Your wounds are ripped wide open. I know you know what that means.” A pause. “We need to get you closed up.”
Lucia remembered her abuela sewing her up, gentle hands, whisper-fine thread.
This would be nothing like that.
“I’m going to her,” said a different voice.
The hands on her shoulders tightened. Her ears rang like insistent bells.
“No,” she said. “I will not fight. I promise. Please, do not sedate me.”
A moment of stillness, and she didn’t move, the only sound the dull thrush of her blood and that blasted, eternal ringing—
“I’ll begin here,” said the voice that belonged to the ebony skin and gentle hands. A light touch at the wound on her belly. “When you decide you want the drugs, stop me.”
Chapter Forty
“Cruz is alive. The bullet is lodged in his frontal lobe. The doctors know there’s significant brain damage, but not much else. He’s intubated, and he hasn’t regained consciousness. There’s at least a fifty percent chance he never will.”
Sam met Tony’s gaze; good riddance. It was just a shame the fucker was still alive to waste oxygen.
“Other than his heirs, Cruz has no living family,” Agent Kent continued, his voice flat. “According to his lawyer, his living will dictates that he’s t
o be kept alive by whatever means necessary. If he dies, some private academy in Belgium is named as the boys’ guardian. In the interim, his lawyer, Louis Alcott, is granted temporary guardianship.”
“Bullshit,” Sam said succinctly from his place beside the door. They had gathered in the shabby, rainbow themed waiting room at St. Joseph’s Medical Center, where both Cruz and Lucia were being treated. Tony and Isabel, Agent Kent, and an aging man with a blueberry muffin in hand whom Tony had introduced as Detective Peabody. “The boys stay with me.”
Isabel blinked at him. She reminded Sam of a cool, golden bird, sleek and delicate, but her eyes were like dark wells, and within them, Sam saw an echo of something familiar. Tony hovered next to her like her own personal Samurai, protective and—to her open annoyance—territorial. Sam planned on giving him shit about it for the rest of his life.
“You’d better have a good lawyer,” she warned softly.
As if in response, Sam’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He didn’t look. He was pretty certain the wheel he’d pushed was now turning.
“What happened out there?” Tony asked, his hazel gaze narrow.
The boys sat on the opposite side of the room, watching the TV in the corner. Green Acres. Daisy was in the truck. Ben leaned heavily against his brother, a sippee cup filled with milk in his lap. They were both exhausted. Sam needed to get them back to the cabin. They needed a break, and they needed to eat. Somewhere safe to sleep.
“I want to see Lucia,” he said, ignoring the question. He looked at Kent. “Now.”
“No.”
Sam’s gaze narrowed, and he took an aggressive step toward the young agent. “Would you like to see my badge, Agent Kent? She’s as much my prisoner as she is yours, and I want to see her.”