“Now . . .” Robinson rasps, spitting up some blood with every syllable, “now I’ve got you right where I want you.”
He raises his gun, but before he can fire, a loud pop echoes through the diner. A red bloom begins to blossom in Robinson’s chest, and he looks down in surprise, then over at Shawnie, who has her pistol raised in two trembling hands. “But . . . you’re the one who likes the pain.”
“Why do you think I’m still up?” Shawnie looks him in the eyes, then squeezes the trigger again, this time hitting Mr. Robinson dead between the eyes. He drops back into his seat, surprise still written on his face before the pressure of the bullet vents through his eyes and two runnels of blood seep out like tears. She drops the gun, groaning as the pain overwhelms her again. I crawl over on my good hand and knees, coming over to her.
“Are you okay?” I ask, and Shawnie groans again. “The ribs?”
“I think he may have popped something. I don’t think anything’s broken. I don’t know. I’m an engineer, not a doctor,” Shawnie gasps. “We need to call for help.”
Sirens are audible in the distance, and I look up, waiting. “I don’t think we’ll have to wait long. Here, give me your pistol.”
“Why?” Shawnie asks, handing it over to me. I rub it on my shirt, then turn and point it at the ceiling, firing three more times before putting it on the table.
“When the cops get here, I fired the shots. I had two guns, and you just got sprayed with the smoke because you were so close on my back. Understand?” I order. “Whatever fallout there is, I’m taking the blame.”
Shawnie swallows, then nods. “I love you, Master.”
“I love you, Angel.”
Chapter 26
Shawnie
The nurse looks at me with wary eyes as she injects me with pain medications, but at least she’s being professional about it.
“This should kick in in about two or three minutes,” she says, and I give her a tight smile. Since the initial kick from Mr. Robinson that caved in my ribs, the pain has faded from a sharp prodding to a dull roar with pokey points on either end, and I can tell from the way it hurts as I breathe that my initial idea was wrong and I’ve probably broken something.
Not that I care. For some reason, knowing that Rafe went through more than this as a child makes me able to bear through it all.
In my mind, I keep replaying the fight with Mr. Robinson and his men, the way the pistol felt in my hand as I aimed at the nearest gunman and fired, somehow knowing without even thinking that Rafe would shoot the other one. I’d shot a pistol like it before, but only at paper targets, and as I saw the results, I paused for half a moment, a half moment that nearly got me killed. Rafe absorbed the first shot from Mr. Robinson and returned fire, saving me in the process.
I remember and recall the fight, watching helplessly as the two of them fought and clawed at each other and the way that Rafe groaned in pain from his wound.
“Hey, we got the X-rays back,” the doctor says, his voice a forced chirpy to go along with his aged surfer boy haircut. I can see it in his eyes. The story’s already spread about the shootout, although considering there’s a cop sitting outside my treatment area, I guess it’s hard not to know. “It looks pretty normal.”
“Normal?” I ask, confused. “It feels like I’ve got a hot knife in my lung.”
“Totally normal,” the doctor says, giving me a reassuring smile. “You’ve got a crack in two of your ribs. I see it a lot in car accidents, actually. The pain is from that, but also, you’ve most likely got a lung contusion underneath.”
“So what’s the treatment?” I ask, and the doctor carefully pats my leg.
“Well, nothing, to be honest. They used to wrap your ribs back in the day, but we don’t do that anymore. The main thing they need is rest.”
The doctor leaves, and I wait, wishing I could see Rafe but unable to. They don’t even have him in the emergency room. They took him upstairs to take care of his shoulder. Instead, I sit, listening as the people in the treatment areas to the right and left of me complain about an infected boil, a cut on the scalp from a brother and sister playing ninja a little too realistically, and a druggie who’s being restrained while the doctors struggle to get his stomach pumped before the drugs can kill him.
The curtain to my bed area opens again, and a man in a suit that still somehow screams ‘Police’ comes in. “Miss Holliday?”
“I’m Shawnie Holliday,” I confirm. “What can I do for you, detective?”
“We’re here to formally put you under arrest,” he says. “Now, I just got done talking with the doctor, and he says that you’re going to be admitted for two days. I personally agree with him, both because county lockup is no place for someone with any injuries, and second, because as soon as your name and the name of the man you were brought in with hit the computer, my Captain got pasty faced and said that he needs to make some calls.”
“Guess I rate all-star treatment,” I reply, and the cop laughs. “What’s your name, detective?”
“Sergeant Harbison,” he says, showing his badge. “San Francisco Police. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
“No offense, but I’d rather not hand you the rope you want to hang me with,” I reply. “Besides, the nurse shot me up with something, and even a half-decent lawyer would probably get whatever you get thrown out in court. Do you know where Rafe is?”
“From what I know, upstairs. You sure you won’t talk with me, Miss Holliday? Before I came in here, I read your file. I’m just trying to help you out.”
“Uh-huh,” I answer, giving him a grin. “It’s not that I don’t think you’re a nice guy. I just don’t trust whoever gets whatever information you might get from me, and what they might twist it into being. If you read my file, then you know that I was saved last time by a man wrongly convicted by the military for manslaughter, and the real killer was the asshole who tortured me in a hot garage in Georgia for twenty-seven hours. So while you may be a nice guy . . . no, no questions for me.”
Harbison gets up, then pauses at my foot. “Okay. Then it’s my duty to inform you that you’re under arrest and to make you aware of your constitutional rights. You have the right to remain silent, to an attorney, and that anything you say from this point on can be used in a court of law. Do you understand your rights?”
“I understand. Do you need to cuff me?”
He shakes his head, pointing to the cop outside. “You’ve got broken ribs and you’re going to be admitted. Your room will be locked. They deal with people from county here, and they’ve got secured private rooms. I’ll be back though.”
Pretty soon, the nurse takes me up to my room, and I settle into the hospital bed, unable to sleep without my Rafe nearby. Finally, around midnight, I ring for the nurse, who comes quickly. “Please . . . please, I just need to see him. I’m not going to be a problem, but please, let me see him, even if it’s through the glass?”
The nurse confers with the cop on guard, who stands next to me as I carefully walk in my bare feet and hospital robe to a room on the far side of the secure wing, where through the glass, I can see him, his head tilted to the side as he sleeps. “They had to sedate him for the surgery,” the nurse says, staying next to me as well. “He’ll get a good night’s rest.”
“And his leg?” I ask, and the nurse checks the clipboard.
“According to this, he’s got a grade one sprain of his ankle, so he’ll be hobbling for a little while. They were mostly worried about the shoulder. It wasn’t just a gunshot, but apparently, something got in there and started ripping the deltoid muscle apart at the same time.”
“It was a man’s thumb,” I whisper, putting my hand on the glass. I swallow the tears that are threatening, and instead, I put my forehead against the cool glass, closing my eyes. “Sleep well, Rafe. I love you.”
Harbison’s back, another cop with him, and before I do anything, they put a voice recorder on the tray. “Miss Holliday, I’m Detectiv
e Andrews, Detective Harbison’s partner,” the new cop says. He’s older than Harbison, and his suit looks it too, straight off the rack about six years ago. “Would you be willing to answer questions today?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s the same answer, boys.”
“Then let me talk. There’s no harm in that,” Detective Andrews says, his arrogant attitude immediately pegging him as the ‘bad cop’.
“Fine, go ahead,” I reply, grimacing as I shift positions. Jesus, when they said it would ache all the time, they weren’t kidding. This isn’t even the sexy type of pain. It’s just the pain that fucking sucks.
“Well, we’ve already got you on camera shooting two men. Seems that you two decided to bring guns to the only diner in all of San Francisco county that has security cameras in it.”
What is it with Mr. Robinson and security cameras? I mean, I hate the idea that The Club had cameras, especially after the rules specifically said no cameras, but to put cameras everywhere? What the fuck? “I see.”
“So right away, we’ve got you on a few things,” Andrews steamrolls on, ignoring my comment. “First off, that pistol you used isn’t registered, so we have you on using an illegal firearm, not cool at all in California. And regardless of whether the three dead men had guns or not, you walked in with guns ready, obviously ready for a shootout. That’s a clear murder three charge.”
I shrug, keeping my silence. If he thinks he’s making me uncomfortable, Detective Andrews needs to taste a bit of the hell that my life’s been for this past year. Sure, I’m actually starting to turn things around, but it doesn’t erase the misery that I’ve lived. Maybe I should give him a taste. “Let me tell you a story, Detective. A totally fictional story, mind you. In it, a young woman from the South is kidnapped, assaulted, and tortured for a little over a day just a few weeks before she graduates from a respected university before coming out West to start her Master’s degree. She gets out here, and even though she’s got a counselor, a lot of trauma is going on inside her pretty little head, and she ends up going to a club that turns out to be run by an evil son-of-a-bitch. She does things there that she hopes no one ever knows about. Dirty things, the sort of things that most people only think about when they’re drunk, horny, and a little pissed off at the same time. The sort of things that afterward, you secretly wish you actually had the balls to do. She hates it. In fact, she’s disgusted by it, but she can’t stop.”
“Your point?” Andrews says, and I smile angelically, disturbing him.
I don’t know what I think I’m going to accomplish by telling him, but I’m about to continue when the door to my room opens. A man, this time one in a much better suit but still someone whose whole demeanor says ‘Cop,’ walks in. “I’m sorry, fellas, but your investigation is finished. The FBI is taking over this case, gentlemen. SSA Fox Scalia, FBI.”
Andrews looks pissed, but he looks at Scalia’s ID before looking over the piece of paper that Scalia hands him, crumpling it. “This is bullshit. This isn’t a national security matter. It’s a goddamn couple of kinky freaks who probably got into a shootout because they didn’t want anyone to find out. It’s a done deal.”
“You say that with such disgust in your voice, but you’re the one with a stiffy,” I note. Andrews’s face turns redder in embarrassed rage as he grabs the voice recorder and storms out. Harbison sits, watching for a moment before getting up.
“I’m sorry about that, Miss Holiday,” he says, giving me a nod and a ghost of a smile appearing on his face. “Get some rest.”
Harbison leaves, and I look at Agent Scalia, who shakes his head. “I hope that you didn’t tell them all the details about The Club. Fucking Rafe Meyers. I swear, the faster I can wrangle a transfer to the Chicago office, the easier my life’s going to be.”
“Nope, didn’t tell them a single detail, just a start to a hypothetical story in broad strokes,” I reply. “Are you a friend of Rafe’s or something?”
He laughs softly. “I guess you could say that. I’m here to tell you, Miss Holliday, that you’re being let go. And in fact, I’m going to take you to see Rafe. I think you need to be there to hear what this guy Hightower has to say.”
“Who?” I ask, and Scalia goes over, getting my slippers for me. The look on his face is one of utter confusion as he thinks of how to answer.
“He says he’s FBI too, but the way he acts . . . I have no fucking clue which agency he belongs to. Come on, you’ll see soon enough.”
Chapter 27
Rafe
When I wake up, I see two people standing at the foot of my bed, one of whom I know. “Hey, Fox. Sorry I couldn’t get you to visit me at Hottieville, as you like to call it. Some of the nursing students would like you.”
Fox blushes a little, and I can see the man next to him chuckle. “Don’t worry, Agent Scalia. That won’t be in my report.”
“That’s good. Fox is a good man,” I interrupt. “So who are you?”
The new man, who’s easily six four and a good three hundred pounds of pretty solid build on his dark chocolate frame, gives me a look that’s half amusement, half wonder. Whatever else, he knows who I am. “Hightower. FBI. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rafe Meyers. And before you ask, I’m here because we’re taking over your case and I have an offer for you. One that could keep you a relatively free man.”
“Whoa,” I reply, holding up my good arm. “Before you go into details, I won’t say a damn thing about a deal until Shawnie’s here.”
Hightower gives Fox a look, and he leaves, shaking his head in frustration. As soon as the door closes, he turns back to me, his eyes knowing that I know. “So . . .”
“First clue was you looking at me like I’ve got a unicorn horn sticking out of my forehead,” I tell him, not trying to fight it. “How many men do you have outside the room?”
“Just me,” Hightower says. “Rafe, I’m not here to hurt you or to make you disappear. Actually, there are a few people who like you doing just what you are. So the basics of the deal are that you’re being let go. And that whole thing with the University Board? That’s gone too.”
“Who the hell do you work for?”
“Technically? Department of Fish and Game. Unofficially, no one,” Hightower says. “Nothing else matters right now. I’ll save the rest until Shawnie gets here. How much about you does she know?”
“All of it. More than you do, probably,” I reply. “No offense, but there’s levels of hell that you’re not going to hear from me, and the hell Shawnie went through is worse. Telling her my story was like a pep talk for her.”
We wait until Fox brings Shawnie in, my heart swelling when I see her and she makes her way to me, even if she is slow about it.
She puts her hands on each side of my face. She leans in and we kiss, and I cup her face with my good hand, the whole world disappearing other than the beautiful woman in front of me. I owe her a debt forever, and I will always honor her for it.
Hightower coughs and clears his throat, interrupting our embrace. “Here’s the deal. You two get to rest up here in the hospital for a few days, and then you go back to work. Fact is, Rafe, the government doesn’t want information about The Club to get out. Me and a few of my guys went through there yesterday, and the things we found on just the video feed, the faces we identified . . . the fallout could be far too damaging if this got out. Hell, this state would be crippled, and at least half a dozen billion-dollar corporations. From what I can tell, that’s just the normal week. It isn’t like they were throwing an open house or something.”
“There were a lot of members among the rich and powerful,” I agree. “It was supposedly so strict with security. I guess I can see the benefit of having cameras. Having dirt on people like that can have its uses. So . . . it’s shut down?”
“For now,” Hightower says. “We both know that the people who were members will find another place soon enough. Anyway, there’s another reason I’m making this offer and not just making you two disappear. And
don’t doubt me, I can make you disappear. But the Pentagon wants the CyberFighter, so this all needs to go away.”
“Okay. But I have a question. What happens if I tell you to kiss my ass, I’m done with the CyberFighter, teaching, all of it? That Shawnie and I want to start new? What happens to my Angel then?”
He gives me a look and speaks matter-of-factly. No emotion at all. “Nothing to Shawnie. But I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re given a guided tour of the wreck of the Titanic, minus wetsuit and oxygen tanks.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “I just wanted to be a hundred percent sure on this. This isn’t the sort of thing where we talk in shades of gray, but everything’s black and white.”
“No gray at all here,” Hightower acknowledges. “You take the deal, and you can work with me checking in with you from time to time. I’ve got cases that can use your help, and frankly, I could use your insight into your . . . background. You don’t, and four people died in that shootout.”
I think about it, and I look at Shawnie. “What do you say? You realize that we’ll be living under a microscope. The government’s going to be all up in our business.”
“They already are,” Shawnie says. “And what other choice is there? Besides, the CyberFighter project is your passion. What’s wrong with finishing it?”
“Because even though you’re looking at me with eyes that say differently, the fact is that I’m a monster. Maybe the world would be better off without me.”
“Like hell,” Shawnie says, her voice rising. “I’ve got two cracked ribs, but that won’t stop me from fighting you, or for you, if I have to.”
No Limits: A Dark Romance Page 18