by Mandy Baxter
“I—I can’t,” Emma stammered. “There’s a number that I need. . . .”
“Your phone is being monitored. If we know where you are, there’s a chance the people shooting at you know, too. Lose the phone. It’s not up for debate.”
She pulled her phone out of her pocket and a sigh escaped her lips as she handed it over to Landon. He stashed it, along with his own, at the top of the stairs. “Okay, now what?”
Shit, he wished he knew. Landon was usually the guy chasing the suspects, not the one helping them to escape. In any other sticky situation, he’d call Galen to get him out of a jam, but since he was three hours and about a hundred and seventy-five miles away, the chances that he’d get here in time to be of any help were pretty slim.
“Is there anyone in the city that you trust? And I don’t mean like one of your party pals. Someone who’ll do anything for you, no questions asked?”
Emma stared at him for a long moment. “I don’t want to bring anyone else into this,” she said. “It’s bad enough that you’re involved.”
“Does that mean you’re concerned for my safety?” Okay, so maybe this wasn’t the time to feel smug satisfaction, but Landon couldn’t help himself.
“It means that if you would have stayed out of my business, you wouldn’t be dodging bullets and worrying about job security right now. God, McCabe, why couldn’t you be a slacker like everyone else in law enforcement?”
She was trying to pick a fight with him, but he refused to acknowledge her slight against his profession. “You can put as many walls up as you want, Emma, but it doesn’t change the fact that we’re in this together now. You’d be better off accepting it.”
“I don’t have to accept anything.”
Landon opened his mouth to lay into her when the sound of a door slamming open echoed down the stairwell. In an instant, he had Emma’s back to the wall, his body pressed up against her and weapon held at the ready. Her body molded to his and each rise and fall of her chest was a distraction Landon couldn’t afford as her breasts brushed against his back. Warm breath tickled the back of his neck and his gut clenched tight. Damn it, of all the moments to be living one of many fantasies he’d concocted as a teen . . . Badass cop. Sexy witness. Danger at every turn. The adrenaline rush was fucking amazing.
Morgan and his partner wouldn’t have had time to get into the building yet, so either someone else was a fan of taking the stairs, or they needed to get their asses in gear, like, now. Landon turned to face her and was taken aback by the fear in her dark eyes. He’d always thought of Emma as courageous and stubborn, unwilling to show any sign of weakness. But the vulnerability that marred her soft features was a vise that squeezed every last particle of air from his lungs.
With slow deliberation, he took Emma’s hand in his and a wave of tremors passed down her fingers and into his arm as though he was a conduit for her fear. A haze of anger slammed him, damned near blinding Landon as he guided her down the stairs, careful to make as little sound as possible. Her bare feet were nothing more than a whisper on the industrial rubber matting and he tried to keep his own steps as light and soundless as hers. Running would only draw attention to them, and likewise, he wanted to be able to hear any approaching danger. So far, the telltale sounds of anyone charging after them or toward them were eerily absent from the stairwell. Either this was a false alarm, or whoever tracked them was a stealthy motherfucker.
When they hit the lobby floor, Landon peeked out of the doorway first, in case someone was waiting to ambush them. Clear. He grabbed Emma’s hand so he could guide her out in front of him and protect her back once in the lobby. He tucked his sidearm into the holster so as not to cause a panic if someone should notice. Law enforcement had a tendency to put even innocent people on edge, especially with a drawn weapon. He wasn’t interested in creating a scene—what they needed right now was a quiet, low-key exit. Unless . . . Shit, how could he have overlooked the possibility that a flashy escape was exactly what they needed to get out of this alive?
He turned to her and smiled. “Okay, Emma. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
There wasn’t enough oxygen in the world to properly fill Emma’s lungs. Landon paused, hand on the levered doorknob of the stairwell exit, listening. The sound of sirens grew louder, and from the tiny square window in the door, Emma watched as the lobby staff jumped into action, answering the phones that had begun to ring in succession. She supposed it wouldn’t take long for the building to go on high alert, what with the marshals tracking her every move and the windows of her condo being shot out of existence. Her brain had gone numb around the time McCabe had dragged her out of her condo, and she had a feeling that when the numbness finally wore off, she’d have a hard time keeping it together.
She couldn’t think about her father, or what might or might not have happened to him, or what her own attempted murder meant in the grand scheme of things. Right now, her focus was on staying alive, and the only way that was going to happen was to rely on the one man she’d sworn she’d never trust.
“Where are we going?” Emma asked, low, as McCabe guided her toward the door that would take them right into the middle of chaos. He couldn’t possibly think it would be better for them to simply walk out onto the street.
“We’re going to mingle,” McCabe said. Okay, so he’d officially lost his mind. Maybe something jogged loose when he’d taken her down to the floor up in the condo.
“Out there?” Emma’s voice climbed an octave as she dug her heels into the tile. “Are you insane?”
“I need to hide you, Emma.” He pulled her along and she nearly tripped on her own feet. “And right now, hiding in plain sight is what’s going to get us out of here in one piece. Just follow my lead and everything will be okay. Trust me.”
Trust him? She wanted to slap some sense into him. “I’ve got nothing but the clothes on my back, I look like I just rolled out of bed, and don’t even get me started on the fact that I’m not wearing shoes.” She took a deep breath to keep from freaking out. “And you want me to walk out there and face the marshals casing my place, the rabid media, and maybe the person who’s trying to kill me?”
“Yup.”
Dios mio. His calm self-confidence was going to give her a heart attack. “I can’t do it.”
“You can.” McCabe looked at her from the corner of his eye and a half smile curved his lips. “If you don’t, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and haul you out the door against your will if I have to.”
Why was he doing this? By all rights, she should be handcuffed and in custody right now. She’d never met a straighter shooter than McCabe—seriously, the guy had admitted that he’d arrest his own father if the situation called for it. “I think you should arrest me.” The words left her mouth before she could think better of it. Too late to take it back now.
Landon pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and let out a long-suffering sigh that Emma suspected he saved for moments like this. He was such a drama queen. He leveled his gaze on her, the intensity almost hypnotic, and his mouth formed a hard line. “If you don’t get your ass out that door in the next sixty seconds, I’m going to—”
“What, Deputy McCabe?” A man in a pristine black suit strode through the stairwell doorway, an amused smile playing on his lips. “Is this how a decorated U.S. Marshal conducts business? By sneaking around with suspects?”
Landon reached for his sidearm, and the man in the suit gave him a calm but stern appraisal. “Think very carefully before you pull that piece, McCabe.”
Emma’s heart jumped up into her throat, and she turned to run the opposite direction, only to find her way blocked by similar serious-looking men in suits. Who were they? Because they sure didn’t look like anyone Cesar would hang out with.
“Bill Crawford, SOG supervisory director,” the man said from behind her. She didn’t know what SOG stood for, but she had a feeling this guy’s involvement was going to further complicate an already
messed-up situation.
Emma turned to face Bill Crawford, supervisory whatever. Why bother to run, or put up a fight? The moment her living room window had shattered into a million pieces, she’d known that she was screwed. Landon’s expression was an impassive mask, his eyes glued to Bill Crawford’s face as though he doubted every word out of his mouth.
“How do we know you’re who you say you are?” She might as well put what she suspected were Landon’s thoughts into words. He could be one of Cesar’s lackeys come to collect for all she knew.
Bill smiled, and Emma noted that there wasn’t a bit of malice in the expression. He fished a badge out of his pocket and held it up for inspection. “You’re going to have to trust me, Miss Ruiz.”
Yeah, right. Like that was going to happen. “And SOG is . . .?”
“Special Operations Group,” McCabe replied, his voice clipped. He hadn’t taken his eyes off of Bill, and Emma couldn’t help but notice how he’d positioned his body so that she stood behind his left shoulder. Was he trying to protect her? And if so, why did that make a riot of butterflies swirl in her stomach? Because, really, she should find that totally annoying.
While Bill from SOG and McCabe sized one another up—why did men do that?—yet another guy in a suit opened the door to the stairwell and stepped up beside Bill to murmur something in his ear. Through the little window at the top of the door, Emma noticed a swarm of Seattle police personnel enter the building. To their credit, they kept a low profile and did their jobs without sending the innocent residents milling around the lobby into a full-out panic. Emma didn’t know what she expected. Maybe for them to run in screaming, “Shots fired! Shots fired! Everyone on the ground, now!” Sort of anticlimactic, really. Or it was merely a sign that she needed to lay off the cop dramas. Either way, the business-as-usual attitude on display did wonders for her heart rate, and even though she realized she’d probably be spending the night in a jail cell, at least no one would be shooting at her.
“Hell. No.” McCabe’s outraged voice sliced through the calm of Emma’s thoughts as the door slammed, once again shutting them out from the rest of the world.
She shook herself from her thoughts and looked up to find McCabe standing nose-to-nose with the SOG guy. Apparently she’d missed their entire conversation. And while McCabe looked strung tight enough to snap at the slightest pluck, Mr. SOG was still as calm as a newborn. Maybe when your group operated under the label of “special,” a Zen attitude got the job done.
“I didn’t ask your permission, Deputy.”
“It wouldn’t matter if you had,” McCabe snapped. “You’re not taking her into custody. The Ruiz case is mine, and as far as I’ve been told, the SOG has zero reason to be involved.”
“Crawford?” One of his fellow suit-wearing associates approached as though McCabe were a bear trap about to snap down on Crawford’s leg. She’d never thought of him as particularly threatening until now. Dude was pissed enough to blow a gasket at any second. “The lobby has been secured and our guys have Seattle PD under control. How do you want to move forward?”
Bill all but ignored McCabe, who was still all up in his grill, and replied, “Call forensics in to process the condo. And tell them to be thorough.” He cast a sidelong glance at Emma. “Treat it as a murder scene.”
“Murder scene?” McCabe spat, his composure evaporating before Emma’s eyes.
“Unfortunately,” Bill said, turning his gaze back to McCabe, “Miss Ruiz died en route to the hospital.”
Chapter Ten
As though on cue, the sound of a siren howled in the distance. Her stomach coiled tight and a lump formed in her throat. Her brain couldn’t process what was happening and threatened to shut down at any second. Murder scene? Died on the way to the hospital? “What ?”
Crawford cracked the door leading into the lobby, and Emma watched as a trio of emergency service personnel wheeled a gurney past the front desk and toward the stairwell. “For now, that’s the story. It’s the best we can do on such short notice. You have no choice but to play along.”
Emma’s breath stalled in her chest. Her vision darkened at the periphery and the floor tilted at a strange angle. Oh shit. She was going to pass out. No way could she let McCabe see her crumple like a discarded piece of paper. Time out. Time out on the field! Emma was tough, damn it. She could hold her own, and despite everything that had happened, life hadn’t managed to beat her down yet.
“Emma?” McCabe’s voice went from growly to concerned in a beat. Go figure. “Are you okay?”
She supposed the gurney wasn’t a bad idea considering her legs were about to give out on her. The adrenaline high that kept her going thus far began to wane, and wouldn’t you know it, at the worst possible time. McCabe took a step toward her, and Emma’s spine went ramrod straight. “I’m fine, McCabe. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
Vulnerability wasn’t something Emma could afford right now. And likewise, she refused to give anything up to these SOG guys that would confirm the fact that McCabe had been trying to sneak her out of the building under everyone’s nose. He’d saved her life tonight, it was the least she could do for him.
“What are you guys doing here and what makes you think I’ll play along with your little murder scenario? I don’t exactly look like I’m about to keel over.”
Bill smiled, and what she’d first thought of as calm and friendly came off as a little devious and creepy. He took two quick steps toward her and smashed his palm into her chest right above her left breast. With a quick tug to open the stairwell door, he shouted, “She’s bleeding! I need an EMT over here!”
Emma looked down at her pink T-shirt as a sticky pool of red spread out on the cotton fabric. Eyes wide, she watched as Bill removed a handkerchief from his pocket and casually wiped the crimson liquid from his palm. “I suggest you play along and hit the deck, Miss Ruiz. Otherwise, I don’t know if I’ll be able to save your father.”
She shifted her gaze to McCabe, jaw slack. His expression echoed her own, and once again she felt her legs turn to spaghetti beneath her. Emma kept her eyes glued to Landon, watching as it took a split second for him to regain his bearings and rush to her, arms out moments before she felt her legs give out.
Well, shit. So much for being a tough girl . . .
Emma lay on the gurney, eyes closed and body still, as a media storm swirled around her. She didn’t look so hot, and that made Landon’s chest tighten. He wouldn’t have thought it possible for her to look so pale, a sheen of sweat glistening on her brow. Even her breathing appeared shallow. He shot a glare at Bill Crawford as the paramedics loaded the gurney up into the waiting ambulance. It took all the self-control he had left not to pop him in the face for hitting her with the red dye pack. Who knew the SOG guys were so goddamned devious? He was definitely going to have a talk with Galen about that. They even made sure to keep that telltale stain visible as the paramedics wheeled Emma out of the building. By tomorrow morning, the Internet would be smeared with the dramatic photographic evidence and Landon would be surprised if the local news stations weren’t already running the story: Socialite daughter of escaped federal prisoner shot in her downtown condo. . . . Wonderful.
“Better get in, Deputy,” Crawford said, inclining his head toward the ambulance. “She’s technically a suspect in custody.”
Landon would be sorely tempted to put his badge on the line for one shot at Crawford. But since giving up his badge would give him no choice but to crawl home to his family, he gritted his teeth and swallowed down the anger that caused his hands to curl into tight fists at his side. “I’ll see you at the hospital?” he asked.
Crawford answered with a single nod.
Landon poked his head inside before stepping up into the ambulance. The paramedics had been ushered to the front of the vehicle, and a couple of Crawford’s suits were sitting to one side of Emma on a bench. He took the opposite bench—no way was he sitting with any of those MIB-looking dudes—and cradled hi
s head in his hands. He’d reached new heights of fucking up with this investigation. Monroe was going to have his ass in a sling when he got back to Portland.
“Do I look like I’m dying?” Emma’s eyes were still shut and her voice nothing more than a whisper.
Landon leaned in until his mouth hovered near her ear and said, “I’m going to get you out of this mess, Emma.”
If Landon knew what was good for him, he would’ve kept his fool mouth shut. What was it about her that spurred every protective instinct he had? And why, for the love of God, couldn’t he do his damned job without making promises he didn’t know if he could keep? Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you’re craving one kiss more from her? Or how every time she touched him, his heart rate elevated, adrenaline coursed through his veins, and he experienced the most intense rush he’d ever felt? Yeah, that might have something to do with his bad decision making over the past couple of days.
“What makes you think I deserve to be gotten out of anything?” Her breath was warm on his cheek.
Landon leaned back to study her, but Emma kept her eyes closed good and tight. Was she admitting to something? The SOG guys were eyeballing him from across the gurney. Can you say awkward? Emma tried to sit up, fiddling with the buckles holding her secure on the gurney, but one of the suits held out his hand.
“I need you to stay down, Miss Ruiz.”
Landon rolled his eyes. It wasn’t like anyone was going to get a peek inside of a moving vehicle with two little tiny windows. “Look, McCabe, I get that you feel bad about how all of this has gone down, but . . .” She turned away from the SOG guys and lowered her voice to a whisper. “You shouldn’t feel obligated to do anything for me because of what happened the other night.”