“I’m so sorry,” she said, “please, don’t die, okay? Don’t die.” His mouth worked uselessly. Then the gun sprayed death again and splinters scattered around her, a door fell right off its hinges and clattered next to her on the floor. She plugged her ears and screamed. They were just wasting bullets. She couldn’t be hit, ducked down like this, the island between them and her. But they were terrifying her. The two guns she held didn’t make her feel more safe. They frightened her. If they came around either side of the island she would use them, but she didn’t want to. She never wanted to shoot someone again. She wished she had one of those grenades or whatever Rocco had in the stairwell, knock them on their asses and she could run out the door while they were dazed.
Rocco-Lite fired his gun dry again. Purple-Shirt fired off random shots, putting two holes in the fridge. Cream spilled from the closed seam at the bottom of the door. Then there was a new sound. A concussive pop-pop. One of them yelled and screamed. A high-pitched girlish cry. There was scattering footsteps. Swearing in Italian. Desperate wild profanity, hisses and curses. Then another pop-pop. She heard the machine pistol get racked again and she prepared herself for another horrifying volley.
Another new sound. Loud and unexpected. She was rocked by a massive concussive force and a blistering white light that fried her eyeballs. A bang. So loud she couldn’t hear afterward. A pounding whining air horn racing through her brain was all that was left. The force blew the lights out in the kitchen. It had tugged at her clothes and felt like someone had slapped her on her back.
It was dark now, and though she was facing Frosted-Hair and not looking out over the counter her eyes were still blown out like she was snow blind. She blinked and blinked, dazed and lost for a second. She heard yelling from the other side, shouts in Italian, high and excited, fearful. A pop-pop again and then it was quiet. She crawled through the broken glass on her hands and knees, headed to the corner of the island. The glass shredded her bare knees. She peeked around the corner, popped one eye around quickly and carefully. It was hazy and she made out a man there. One she didn’t recognize. He was working through the smoke, a pistol held calmly out in front of him. It had a long silencer attached to the barrel. He was medium build, lean, big shoulders and arms. Looked like tattoos up his hands and wrists. He had faded jeans and cowboy boots, a pilot’s jacket in drab green.
There was a column between the kitchen and the hall to the garage, the wall where she’d been held against and made love to, where Rocco had leaned the roll of canvas, now flat on its side; and this new man sidestepped around it carefully, gun held at the ready. He moved like Rocco. Moved like a professional. She saw in the haze that Purple-Shirt was moving, going clockwise around it trying to get a bead on this new guy. He’d been injured though, blinking like she was, dazed, one arm hung uselessly at his side. He was badly bloodied. At his feet was Rocco-Lite, flat on his back, looking deader than dead, wide eyes staring up into the ceiling, arm and legs laid out prostrate, gun six feet to the side.
The new one sidestepped again, like he was toying with Purple-Shirt. He caught Daniella’s eye and she moved the gun in his direction, poked it around the corner of the island, just below her chin. He smiled a weird crazy kind of confident smile. Then he winked and he held up a hand, keeping her at bay, indicating she didn’t need to shoot at him. He had long thick blonde hair and a bushy brown beard. There was a twinkle in his eye, like he was enjoying himself; and bright yellow in his ears. Ear plugs. He stepped around the brick column now, upright and casual and he shot Purple-Shirt four times in the chest before he could raise his pistol.
Then he put another one in Rocco-Lite and he was coming her way quickly. She scurried away, threw her guns down and walked backwards on her hands and feet like a crab.
“No, no,” she cried as he loomed around the corner. He held his hands up, gun still in his grip but his fingers up and wagging.
He said, “Daniella...Daniella, I’m with Rocco, girl...”
“Rocco?” she whimpered.
“I’m with Rocco,” he said.
“You are?”
He aimed without looking and shot Frosted-Hair and she hollered out and plugged her ears. A brass cartridge danced in the litter of the ruined kitchen.
“Sorry, girl, come with me,” he said and now he tucked his pistol behind his back and he held his hands out. She stared at him, contemplated his words, weighed his veracity. He had an accent. A brogue? No, not a lilting light sing-song, but Irish just the same. Guttural. Killian. He had to be Killian.
“Killian?”
“Daniella, I’m really pleased to meet ya...I don’t want to set you off but we’re in a bit of a hurry. It’s best if we introduce ourselves while we’re leggin’ it.”
17
Camaro
daniella
They burst from the front door, out into the wintry cold, and it was the first fresh air she’d had in days. Killian had grabbed Rocco’s duffel bag, and she’d slipped on her ballerina flats, grabbed her stuffed tiger. Rocco carried it in his pack all over the Middle East, she wasn't about to leave it now. Left everything else behind, running in panties and her lover’s flannel.
Down the short walkway, onto the sidewalk, he ran to the right and she ran to the left. She yelled to him, “He said to meet him in the subway.”
He skidded to a stop. He put his hand out again, “We're going to him now, come with me...”
“Are you sure?” she said, standing on the snowy sidewalk with bare legs, a bitter wind raking across her and up under the shirt.
“Daniella, I would meet you there but I already have you...”
She looked at his face, his emerald eyes twinkling in the daylight. She could hear the shrill repetitive sonance of the smoke detector in the house, sirens were in the distance making their way this way now, she was sure what with the gunfight she'd just been a part of, the explosion...
“Where?” she asked him.
“Where what? Girl, come on, we have to get to him...”
This guy could be taking her to the man who wanted her dead, maybe this was a trick, maybe the man wanted to torture her himself. Brand her with a heated wire...
“Where were we supposed to meet?” she said, her arms clutching at her front, bundling her shirt around her neck as she began to shiver and tremble from the cold.
“Between the Asian Gourmet and the Orange Julius, the food court under the—”
“Okay,” she said, and she moved toward him, “just go...”
“That’s my girl,” he laughed, and he ran. Ahead of them, on the opposite side, was a silver muscle car. Something from the sixties, squat, muscular, fat tires. It had pulled over in a hurry, bumped up the curb and onto the sidewalk on the wrong side of the road. The driver’s side door was left open.
It was a stupid thought, she laughed as she followed him—he’d killed those men without thinking. No debate. Rocco had sent him.
“Is he okay?” she yelled ahead.
“I don’t know...”
“You don’t know?”
“I just got here,” he said as they both made it to the car at the same time and she slid six feet in the slush and thumped into its rear.
“You okay?” he said, turned to put himself in the driver’s seat.
“Go,” she yelled and she slipped through the slush and yanked the passenger door open, wet and ice splashing her legs and soaking her shoes. She threw herself into the seat and reefed the door.
He had the car in reverse already and then he was slamming the shifter and the car’s back end came around in a screaming crescent, throwing up a rooster tail of snow slush and wet. Then they were roaring down the street the way he'd come in. It was a narrow road with parking on both sides and oncoming cars swerved and nosedived to make way for them. The motor growled and roared as he clunked through gears and they hit unbelievable speeds. She snatched her seatbelt and struggled to get it on. Above the wood grain glove compartment was a leather wrapped handle set i
n chrome lugs, and she gripped it tight. They ripped through an interlock brick-paved turnaround, blasted over an empty sidewalk, could see another street ahead. Launched off a curb, squeezing between two concrete bollards without scraping them and then they were racing along another residential street, houses on the right side and a massive stone church towering over them on the left.
“Where is he?” she yelled over the growling motor.
“South.”
“Where are we?”
“I don't know,” he laughed, “north.”
Ahead she could see the narrow street they were on came to an intersection with a main thoroughfare. There was a stop sign. Four lanes of traffic whisked left and right. He throttled to it, slowed to make the turn but didn't stop, and they went through the stop sign sideways. He slammed the shifter and the car got traction, the tires shredding the pavement, then they were launching down the wide busy street. Banners fluttered from the lampposts they were hurtling past. She read them.
“Old Town? We're in the Gold Coast?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Rocco’s waiting for us. He’s...”
“Is he okay? Did they come for him too?”
“They might have.”
“Did he...is he shot?”
He shifted up into fourth and the parked cars at the side of the road began to blur and honking receded quickly behind them.
She said, “Tell me the truth, please, tell me...” She grabbed a fistful of his jacket, bunching up the nylon on his forearm.
“He...yeah, he...maybe he got shot...”
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh no...”
“He's okay, Daniella. I've seen him shot before. Bullets don't have much effect on him.”
“Ah wait,” she yelled, so loud it made Kilian flinch. Her hands scrambled to her pocket where she’d tucked her phone, whisked it out, tugging the shirt away with it as it snagged on her pocket flap.
“Hello? Hello?” She yelled, the phone jammed against her ear. “Shit,” she hissed. It was dead.
“Ever seen a grizzly bear shot with a handgun?” he asked her as she hit the redial button.
“No,” she cried.
“Doesn't stop em,” he laughed. “Makes em mad.”
“Then why didn't he come for me?” she said, pressing the phone to her other ear.
“Didn't want to lead them to you,” he said.
The phone was ringing as he took another wild turn, this time going hard left and she was thrown against the passenger door, her cheek pressed against the cold of the glass. “Mmph,” she grunted, squinting, listening to the ringing, desperately wanting her Rocco to answer it.
He got the car going straight again, but he slowed and now he was looking out her side of the car, bent low, eyebrows and gaze up, looking at the stores.
The phone rang, and rang. He sped up, he slowed down. Then there was a click on the line and she yelled, “Rocco? Rocco? ...”
She heard her name, strained to hear it, wanted him to say it again, then the car screeched to a halt and if she didn't have her belt on she would have hit her face on the dash.
“What the f—” she said, the belt scoring between her breasts. Then, yelled into the phone again, “Rocco?”
Killian was out, door left open and she looked out her window saw him running to an alley between a Faith Ministry and a liquor store. She threw the phone down and tumbled out of the car and followed, running so fast she could feel her heels kick water up her back.
Killian got there first. It was Rocco. He was alive. He was standing. He was covered in blood but he was fucking alive. Her heart burst from her chest, her eyes swelled and strained her sockets. The tears came. The vision of him warbled, standing weakly, bleeding at his middle, leaning against a dumpster, shoulders slumped, head ducked but eyes up and staring. She ran to him and she grabbed him and threw her arms around him. “Rocco,” she cried.
“Daniella,” he grunted. She’d pressed him back against the green metal garbage bin but it was on wheels and when it moved they both fell against the brick wall. His arms went around her too and he squeezed her tightly. He was strong still. She felt his warm blood dropping on her legs and trickling.
“Oh baby, mm, oh, they hurt you?” she grunted around their kisses.
Rocco pulled back, showed her a pallid smile. But there was a raging fire in those black eyes. He would be fine. Confident as fuck with a bullet in his belly.
Killian’s hands were on her then, gentle, but they attempted to pull her from him and she fought a strange desire to growl.
“Hey, okay, that's all right,” Killian softly sang and he eased her from him. “We can throw him a party when we're home, how’s that? Come, come,” he said, still tugging at her to give him some room.
“How many?” he said to Rocco.
Rocco said, “Two. Leg and back.”
“You were shot twice?” she cried, standing close, holding his arm.
“Help me get him to the car,” he said to Daniella. “Not bad,” he said to Rocco then, looking him over, and she noticed that his thigh had been wrapped with cloth. As they walked Killian lifted up the jacket and looked at the small of Rocco's back.
He said, “What did you pack that with?”
“T-shirt,” he grunted.
“Was it clean?” Killian said, shaking his head.
“Pretty clean,” Rocco said.
Daniella said, “We have to get him to the hospital.”
“No, we can't do that,” Killian said.
“But he—”
“Killian’s a doctor,” Rocco growled, feeling some pain as he stumbled down the alley towards the idling muscle car. “He treats all my gunshots.”
“He’s all mine,” Killian laughed. “I wouldn't let another doctor even look at him.”
rocco
A ball of torn cotton was stuffed into the hole in his back. His thigh was tied so tight with strips of his shredded shirt that he couldn't feel his foot. His back throbbed, and now that the adrenalin was burned off, the pain was rising to dreadful levels. But his Daniella was here and she was safe. He’d dipped at the knees when he saw her jumping out of the car and bounding down the alley toward him. Her legs bare, wearing his shirt, wearing the slippers he’d bought her when he was planning on saving her life. And when she put her arms around him? ...When he felt her body in his arms? ...Well, shit, it was like fireworks had gone off in his head and his heart.
They walked him through the alley, one on either side. He’d shrugged the two of them off by the time he got to the car, determined to walk on his own. She would never see him suffer. Now that the pain had come, and it was acute, he was convinced the bullet hadn’t even gone into his abdominal cavity. Probably wedged in the muscle somewhere. He’d lost a lot of blood but he’d staunched it and his blood pressure didn’t seem to have fallen. His head was clear.
Killian had shown up in a rumbling steel-gray Camaro, sitting now blocking the thoroughfare, angry commuters swerving around it and honking. Its door was open, the engine running, blue-white smoke chugging from the exhaust.
Daniella got ahead and she yanked the door open.
Killian said, “You’re going to bleed all over my car, ain’t ye?”
“You’re going to make me climb down into this thing? Can’t you drive a truck?” He wrenched the front seat forward and climbed into the back bench, falling to a hip and kicking his feet on the floor so his back was shoved into the corner behind the driver’s seat.
Killian was in now and he slammed his door and said, “I like my car...course I’m human-sized.”
Then Daniella was climbing on him, not taking the passenger seat, instead squishing herself in the back with him and closing the door behind her. He put his arms out and she got herself carefully into his lap. “Are you okay?” she said, looking down to make sure she wasn’t bumping where he’d been hit.
“You can’t hurt me,” he said, and he pulled her to his lips and they kissed. He breathed her in. It was the longest day of
his life, though it had only been a few hours. He held her face in his hands and she didn’t care that he was bloody, she took his tongue and she caressed his shoulders.
Her kisses went down his neck, smacking and sucking on him and his eyes rolled back in his head. Her touch was like heaven.
“Where were you?” she whispered. “Where did you go?”
He laughed, said, “To get you flowers.”
“Now?” she laughed, her eyes wet and trembling, staring into his. “Flowers?”
“Yeah. Long story.” His hand went through his pocket, his shoulder coming up high and making him wince. He withdrew a yellow petal, folded and torn. “This was all I could afford.”
“It’s beautiful,” she laughed, her nails scratching through the hair behind his ears.
He let the petal flutter to the floor and he ran his hands up her back, up underneath the flannel shirt, feeling her cold skin.
Killian darted a shaggy glance behind the seat, took them in, an eyebrow cocked. Eyes on the road he hollered back, “The man needs help, Daniella, go easy on him.”
“Never,” she said, pulling her lips from his and licking them, staring down into his eyes.
“You smell like turpentine,” he said.
“I was painting.”
“Hey,” he said, “You got my paints?”
“Thank you,” she said and her lips were back on his. Through a squinted eye he saw Killian throw another look back. He laughed now, his deep and wheezy laugh that had got Rocco through some of the toughest times when they served together.
Killian shouted back, “Now I know why you love her—first time I met her she was in a gunfight.”
“A gunfight? Daniella...” He gripped her by her upper arms, pulled her back from his kiss so he could look in her eyes. “A gunfight,” he repeated in disbelief, “Daniella, are you okay?”
Broken (Dying For Diamonds Book 1) Page 14