by Elle Kennedy
What he found, however, was another impromptu performance, this one involving a digital camera held by Echo and a copy of the day’s newspaper clutched by Lana. The flash went off a couple of times, as a stoic-faced Echo snapped Lana’s picture.
Deacon could imagine how the Kelley family would react when they received the photo. Lana’s beautiful face was as pale as the white wall behind her. Smudges of exhaustion marred her ashen face, and her lips were set in a tired line. As she’d promised him, she sat there obediently, not once acting on the flicker of anger he saw lurking in the shadows of her eyes.
He smothered a wild groan. Why was this still going on? The video, the pictures, the pointless phone calls—he got the feeling this was all being done for theatrics, and when Le Clair clapped his hands to signal the shoot was over and offered Lana a gracious smile, Deacon’s suspicions were only confirmed.
This was a game. A sick, twisted, waste-of-time game.
The boss spotted Deacon in the doorway and headed his way. They stepped out into the hall, followed by Echo, who was studying the photos he’d just captured. He handed the camera to Le Clair, who glanced at the pictures and nodded in approval.
“Good job,” Le Clair said. He closed the door to Lana’s room, then turned to face them. “I’m heading out. Man the fort while I’m gone.”
Deacon’s chest flooded with satisfaction. Yes. Finally.
“How long will you be gone?” he asked tentatively.
“A day. Two at the most. The exchange is being set up.”
Deacon’s satisfaction faded into concern. Crap. That didn’t sound good. Maybe the game was reaching its end point.
“Exchange?” he echoed.
Le Clair looked smug. “The good senator has agreed to sacrifice himself for his little girl.”
What the hell did that mean? Although Deacon had suspected it for a long time, it now became painfully obvious that money had never been a factor in this equation. Whatever Le Clair’s bosses wanted from Hank Kelley, it wasn’t his cash.
The fact that Le Clair spoke of an “exchange” did nothing to convince Deacon that the man planned on letting Lana go. He sensed this was one big trap, and that in the end, both father and daughter would wind up dead.
Good thing he was getting her out of here.
Tonight.
After Le Clair left, Deacon prepared lunch for Lana, then walked into the bedroom he’d been sharing with Echo and quietly got his gear together. He slid the packed duffel under the bed with the toe of his black boot, then spent the rest of the day out in the November cold, watching the apartment as ordered. By five-thirty, the sun dipped toward the horizon, darkening the sky to a burnt orange.
It was time.
He entered the building just as Echo and Tango exited to take over the perimeter. With Kilo up on the roof with his rifle, Deacon had only one fellow kidnapper to contend with: Oscar.
As they rode the elevator up to the third floor, Deacon fought a wave of unease. He would’ve preferred someone other than Oscar in the apartment. Out of all the men, Oscar was definitely the biggest wild card. Somber-faced, distant and disgustingly in awe of Le Clair. But the quick ease with which he responded to Le Clair’s commands could prove useful here.
“Crap, I forgot to grab a thermometer,” Deacon said as he and Oscar entered the living room.
Oscar glanced over blankly. “What?”
“Le Clair asked me to pick one up from the drugstore over on the next block.” Deacon made a big show of looking frazzled—running a hand through his hair, shifting impatiently. “The princess complained she’s coming down with the flu. He wants to make sure this isn’t a ploy on her part.” Now he looked at the watch strapped to his wrist, frowning. “Do you know how to cook?”
The vacant look only deepened. “Huh?”
Deacon had grown used to the monosyllabic grunts that seemed to be the whole of Oscar’s vocabulary, other than “yes, sir,” of course.
“We need to bring her dinner.” Deacon tilted his head. “I’m in charge of the cooking, but you’ll need to do it if I’m going to run to the drugstore.”
Oscar’s dark eyes flitted in the direction of the kitchen, and he noticeably cringed. Deacon hid a grin. He had been banking on the man’s lack of culinary prowess.
“Unless you’d rather do the drugstore run,” he offered graciously.
The other man brightened. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll d’that. Thermometer, y’said?”
That was another one of Oscar’s speech glitches, forming contractions of words that had no business being joined. Deacon resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead pasting on a grateful expression. “That would be great. And pick up some cold and flu medication, something over the counter, just in case the girl really is coming down with something.”
He got a grunt in response. Oscar was already heading to the door. “B’back soon.”
“Thanks, buddy,” Deacon called after Oscar’s retreating back.
Once the door of the apartment closed, Deacon exploded into action. He raced into the bedroom and grabbed his duffel bag, slung it over his shoulder, then marched into Lana’s room.
She was sound asleep on the bed, lying on her back. Deacon hesitated for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the sleeping beauty, admiring her smooth aristocratic features, the long blond tresses fanned across the white pillow beneath her head. He forced himself to snap out of it—he could admire her after they got away—and hurried to the bed, where he sat down on the edge and gently clapped a hand over her mouth.
Those big blue eyes snapped open, and her muffled scream lasted all of a second, dying abruptly the moment she saw his face. His heart squeezed when he glimpsed the burst of hope in her eyes.
God, he hoped he wasn’t sentencing them both to death here.
“Now?” she whispered.
He nodded grimly. “Now.”
CHAPTER 11
Adrenaline pumped through Lana’s blood as she followed Deacon out of the bedroom and into the luxurious living area. She half expected armed men to pop out of the corridor and spit bullets at them, but to her shock, the apartment was empty.
“Where is everybody?”
“Outside.” That grim look on Deacon’s face intensified. “Which is when we need to start worrying.”
They moved out of the apartment with lightning speed. Deacon had a duffel over his shoulder and a gun in his right hand, which he kept trained straight ahead as they sprinted to the stairwell. It was only three flights down, but by the time they made it to the bottom landing, Lana was panting like a thirsty dog. Her heart thudded in her chest, each frantic beat bringing a jolt of fear and jubilation.
He was saving her! And risking Le Clair’s wrath in order to do it. She couldn’t help but shoot him a look loaded with relief, but his profile was hard with concentration.
Shoving his gun in the waistband of his pants, he covered it with the hem of his sweater and said, “There’s a car parked at the end of the street. When we get outside, you keep your head down and walk beside me. If I say run, you need to run. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
The heavy stairwell door creaked as Deacon pushed it open. They came into a bright lobby with two plush white sofas in front of the elevator bank. Empty. Lana could practically taste Deacon’s relief. It was coating her mouth, too. As she’d promised, she kept her head down, sticking close to Deacon as they walked through the glass double doors at the building’s entrance and stepped outside.
The early winter breeze snaked underneath her hair, cooling her neck. Deacon hadn’t given her time to grab a coat before appearing in the bedroom and whisking her out of the apartment. Her breath left visible white clouds in the air as they made their way onto the sidewalk. They kept to a brisk pace, almost a jog, and Lana was certain they’d made it unnoticed.
Until the No Parking sign right above her head burst apart from the force of a bullet. Metal shards went flying, one near
ly clipping her ear.
“Run,” Deacon barked out, yanking on her arm.
Her heart nearly ripped out of her chest. Gunshots! The others were shooting at them! The cement of the sidewalk exploded beneath her feet, as the shooter decided to go for a leg shot to stop them. Lana’s head spun from Deacon’s random zigzag sprint. He was making sure the shooter couldn’t find a target, but the zigzagging made her dizzy.
“Delta! Don’t move!”
A voice shouted at them, and Lana couldn’t help herself—she glanced over her shoulder. An infuriated Oscar was running after them, his gun raised. Deacon tugged on her arm, forcing her to keep moving. Panic torpedoed into her when another angry voice joined Oscar’s. Echo or Tango, and now more footsteps thudding from behind.
“We’re not going to make it,” she cried.
“We’ll make it.” Deacon’s voice came out in sharp pants.
They ran. Lana’s heart slapped against her ribs. She sucked in gulps of cold air, her boots clacking a staccato rhythm against the sidewalk. A car finally came into view, a black sedan, parked at the curb. It was the only vehicle on the street. Twenty feet. Ten feet.
They were almost there. They were going to make it!
Pain exploded in Lana’s left arm.
She stumbled forward with a cry, as waves of agony pulsed through her body. Stars flashed in front of her eyes, but Deacon forced her to keep running. Five feet. Three. Two. Gravity eluded her as she was suddenly thrown into the passenger seat of the sedan, while moisture seeped into the sleeve of her pale blue sweater.
She stared down at her arm. A crimson stain had bloomed in the material of the sweater. She’d been shot. Shot. And she was bleeding heavily, her entire arm wet and sticky with blood.
“The baby,” she mumbled to herself.
A car door slammed and she blinked in terror, only to realize it was Deacon sliding into the driver’s seat. He bent under the dashboard of the car, flicked a few wires together, and the car roared to life.
“Get your head down!” Deacon shouted at her.
She ducked, burying her face in her lap just as the back windshield of the car shattered. Shards of glass flew into the front seat, lodging in Lana’s hair and nicking her ear. She sucked in oxygen. Felt her head spinning as the pain in her arm throbbed. As the blood coated the armrest between her and Deacon.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. What if she lost too much blood? What if she lost the baby?
The car lurched forward as Deacon slammed a foot down on the gas pedal. Rubber squealed, another bullet rocked the car, then another, dinging off their bumper like a ball colliding into the walls of an arcade pinball machine.
“Where are you hit?” came Deacon’s frantic voice.
And then his hand was on her arm, the contact bringing a sharp wave of nausea to her belly. Something ripped. The sleeve of her sweater, she realized. Deacon made a sound between a growl and curse as he ran his bare hand over her blood-soaked skin.
“Lana. Lana! Quit hitting me and let me examine the wound.”
Hitting him? She hadn’t even realized she was doing it. Taking in short, panicked bursts of air, she went motionless, biting her lip through the pain as Deacon appraised her wound. Somehow he managed to keep his eyes on the road ahead and at the same time wrap the sleeve he’d torn off around her arm in a tight tourniquet.
“It’s a flesh wound,” he assured her. “You’re going to be fine, sweetheart. It looks bad, I know, but it was just a graze.”
His words barely even registered. She was too busy staring at the blood. So much blood. Sticking to the armrest. Spattered on the beige leather seat.
“The baby,” she whispered, breathing through the white-hot pulses of pain. “Oh, Deacon, the baby.”
She felt more than saw his head swivel at her in complete shock. “What did you say?”
“I’m pregnant.” Teardrops slid down her cheeks, falling onto the seat and mingling with the blood. “I…” Her heart twisted in her chest. “I can’t lose our baby. I can’t.” She clung to her injured arm, her tears soaking the tourniquet. “Promise me I won’t lose it. Promise me.”
* * *
Deacon felt as though he’d been punched in the gut, followed by the swing of a baseball bat to his head. His stomach roiled, his head spun and the Vatican should have been contacted, because it was a sheer miracle that he managed to drive away in the stolen car without smashing into the nearest tree.
Pregnant.
Pregnant?
Was this a joke? How could she be pregnant?
Okay, well, he knew how. But why? They’d used protection.
If you called an ancient condom that had been stuffed in his wallet years ago protection.
Deacon fought a wild curse. Why hadn’t he checked the damn expiration date on the latex?
How could Lana be pregnant?
He stared dumbfounded at her for several long seconds, then jerked out of it when a honk wailed in the air. He straightened the wheel before a head-on collision could destroy his and Lana’s chances for escape.
Focus.
Deacon focused. He shoved Lana’s shocking confession from his mind and concentrated on the road ahead, maneuvering through the streets of D.C. There’d be plenty of time to freak out later. Right now they just needed to get the hell out of Dodge.
“You okay?” he asked roughly as he zipped onto the on ramp of the highway.
She nodded, but he noticed she was shaking hysterically as she continued to put pressure on her wound. Her blond hair was stuck to her cheeks, and tears continued to flow from her eyes. She was scared. Every pore in her body radiated fear. Despite himself, he glanced down at her stomach, flat beneath her blue sweater.
Pregnant. Jesus Christ.
Shaking the thought right out of his head, he drove until they reached the next exit, constantly flicking his gaze to the rearview mirror to make sure they weren’t being tailed. A higher power had been smiling down on them earlier. Lana might have been hit, but the others hadn’t had time to find a vehicle and finish the job. The SUV was parked in the underground, which meant Deacon had a head start on his former partners in crime.
He sped down the exit ramp, moving his head left and right until he spotted a small strip mall at the corner of the intersection. Steering toward it, he drove into the lot, parked the car and reached for Lana.
She blinked in surprise. “Why did we stop?” she whispered. It was the first sentence she’d uttered since dropping her bomb of a confession.
“We need to switch cars.” He unbuckled her seat belt, then hopped out of the car, rounded it and helped Lana out of the passenger seat.
She sagged into him, her blond hair tickling his chin as she rested her head against his shoulder. He quickly scouted the lot and led her to a small Toyota near the back. An older model, didn’t even have an alarm. Deacon hotwired the thing in less than two minutes flat and then they were on the road again, heading out of the city.
They wound up at a small, weathered-looking motel beyond the Virginia border. Deacon would’ve kept driving for several more hours if not for Lana’s injury. He needed to clean up that bullet wound and take a closer look at the damage. At least she hadn’t lost consciousness. She’d been awake the entire ride, her gaze glued out the window. She hadn’t said a single word.
Shock? Or had her confession troubled her as much as it did him?
Deacon kept his head low as he ducked into the tiny office and paid for a room. The guy at the desk, a skinny teenager with a shaved head and a nose ring, didn’t even react when Deacon signed a fake name on the registry. Deacon paid cash, accepted a big red key with the number 8 on it and got back in the car, steering it toward the far end of the lot.
He parked in front of room eight and turned to Lana. “We’re here,” he said gruffly.
She just nodded and reached to unbuckle her seat belt. The two of them got out of the sedan and Deacon unlocked the room door. He went in first, drawing his weapon out of hab
it to clear the room before Lana stepped inside. When he flicked on the light, she blinked like a disoriented Alzheimer’s patient. Her blue eyes took in the ugly orange bedspread, splintered wooden table and frayed brown carpet. She seemed completely unaffected by the shabbiness.
“Sit down on the bed,” he said, already bending down to unzip his duffel.
He took out the first-aid kit and sat next to Lana. She winced as he gently removed the scrap of material from her arm. Dried blood was caked onto her fair skin, bringing a rush of fury to his gut. Those bastards had shot Lana. As the rage-inducing revelation entered his brain, Deacon curled his fists and drew in a calming breath. He wanted to strike something, but he couldn’t. Not now, not until he made sure Lana was all right.
After that, though…well, he knew that he’d hunt down the man who’d pulled the trigger, even if he spent the rest of his life hunting. Echo, Tango, Oscar—he didn’t care who it was. The man was dead.
Lana made a hissing sound as he placed a piece of gauze soaked with rubbing alcohol directly on her skin. “Sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll be quick.”
He skillfully cleaned the wound, not a stranger to the task. He’d had to self-treat dozens of times over the years. Once her arm had been cleaned, he examined the injury, pleased to find that the bullet hadn’t even gone through. It had simply grazed her, leaving a red streak resembling a burn on her skin.
“Almost done,” he murmured.
Lana didn’t say a word as he gently placed a square bandage on her arm and taped it down. When he’d finished, he picked up the blood-stained gauzes, threw them into the garbage can in the closet-size bathroom and returned to the room to find Lana rubbing her stomach with shaky hands.
Her blue eyes met his. “I guess I should have told you sooner.” Her voice was soft, wry almost.
“Probably,” he agreed.
He moved back to the bed and sat down. Their knees touched. An involuntary wave of heat swelled inside him. He forced the rising arousal down. This wasn’t the time. The adrenaline high from the past couple of hours had succeeded in making him hard, a common affliction among soldiers apparently, but right now, he needed that arousal to go away.