“Go! He’s after you!” she yelled at a shocked Laramée, who ran out but stumbled right back in when a tall man dressed in black rushed inside the room.
“Archer! Get out!”
His jacket was gone, his shirt had been ripped open. The wire hung loosely over his pants. He took a split second to gauge the situation then his face twisted in a mask of rage.
Our cover is so blown!
Not only did Archer not listen to her but he came to her help. Shit!
The young man yelped when Archer grabbed him by the neck, literally ripped him out of Joan’s grip, sent him waltzing against the wall. Gunshots erupted out in the club proper. Screams followed.
“Ty!” Laramée yelled. “Ty! Get the fuck in here!”
More gunshots rang out.
When the young man came at Archer, knife leading, the much-taller man only sidestepped economically, reversed his stance at the last possible moment—Joan was about to faint from the fright alone. He slashed for Archer’s face once, twice, thrice. Quick and hard. Archer skipped back, chin tucked in. And while he parried the next brutal attack, Joan watched impotent as Laramée ran out of the room.
“I’ll be fine! Get him!” snarled Archer, closing his substantial hand over his attacker’s wrist.
“But—” What if something happened? What if Archer got hurt?
“Get him!”
Torn between the two goals—catch the crook, save the lover—Joan chose the first and sprinted out of the lounge, the soles of her naked feet squeaking amidst the rest of the noise.
Chaos had broken out inside the club, people ran to and fro, down the stairs, out across the stage. The music still blared its thumping beat, the lights still blinding with a laser show near the corner and the rest dipped in blue.
Her guys had already breached the place and ran for the bar, the yellow Police written on the backs of their dark jackets a perfect contrast. But they weren’t the only ones with guns. A bullet whizzed by, pinged on the metal handrail not an inch away from her hand. Joan crouched behind the column and peeked over the balcony. Other people returned fire from one of the emergency exits. Those weren’t with the police and probably part of whatever turf war was going down.
She then spotted Laramée and Ty, who seemed to favor a leg, or perhaps both, as they hurtled down the clear steps to her right.
An image flashed in her mind. Little girls wearing lipstick and high heels.
Without thinking things through—her trademark—Joan took a run, bent in half, a hand over her head to fend off bullets—very effective.
Ten feet at least. Ten goddamn feet.
She leaped at the pair of backs a good six, seven steps down.
For the split second she was airborne, Joan cursed her stupidity. One didn’t tackle a bad guy going down a set of stairs! Only pain there.
Oh shit, oh shiiiiit…
Out of some sheer dumb luck, she landed partly on Laramée and partly on his security man, tackling them both. A yell of pain tore out of her when all three went tumbling down, thudding painfully hard as they rolled and flailed and rebounded. Something broke in her hand. She was sure of it. Blinding pain hit her lower back. Still, she held on to Laramée’s shirt collar with everything she had.
Little girls in lipstick.
When only a handful of steps remained, she dredged up strength from some reserve she had no idea she possessed and closed her other fist around his collar. He was not slipping away this time, she had not worked so hard for nothing. By their side, Ty was having a difficult time rolling to his knees. He bled profusely from the mouth.
“Police! Don’t move!” someone yelled very close to her. “À terre, crisse!”
While she held on to Laramée’s shirt with everything she had, Ty floundered to his feet, jumped the last few steps and was seen running along the catwalk a few seconds later. He limped badly and held an arm close to his chest. A very large, very tall man with a mustache waited for Ty as he reached the end of the stage. Both went down in a tangle of limbs.
Someone cut the music. The lightshow stopped, replaced with unforgiving emergency light from different corners. Several voices yelled “police” in French and English. Another language added itself to the mix, something with a lot of rounded vowels. Russian? Then the guns fell silent. She swore she could see dust floating down. Her hands hurt. Something hot dribbled down into her eye.
Ouch, shit.
In her hands, Laramée’s shirt had torn in the front. She whimpered when he elbowed her then half crawled, half rolled down the last few steps. She was pawing numbly at the back of his shirt when he shuddered, collapsed on the spot.
Still with her fist balled tight, Chantal’s stoical face bent down close so she could stare at Joan right in the eye. “Calvaire, Murphy, I can’t leave you for a maudite minute.” Swearing in both official languages and simultaneously. Chantal’s specialty.
Joan grimaced, nodded. “Cuff him.”
Oh no…
“Archer!”
She didn’t know how she did it, only that the next second, she stood on shaky legs, using the handrail to pull herself up, two steps, three, four. By her side, Chantal argued, trying to keep her from climbing any farther. Then a yell from upstairs made Joan’s blood freeze in her veins. She looked up and swore her world had vacillated.
Archer was still fighting it out with that smallish, effeminate Russian man. Obviously, he knew how to fight for he seemed to be giving Archer a run for his money. The pair had stumbled out of the lounge and onto the balcony itself. She yelped when the young man rushed at Archer, who stumbled sideways, received the human projectile and was propelled several paces backward, right against the rail. He collided against it, bent back dangerously far, his denuded chest exposed when he windmilled frantically to keep himself from tumbling down to the dance floor twenty feet below. But his attacker wasn’t so lucky. With the force of his charge, the young man rolled right over the metal tube. Something flashed. Archer, still bent back over the handrail, grunted when the other used him as an anchor to keep from falling over. Used only one hand though.
God. No.
A gunshot ripped the air, made Joan nearly jump out of her skin. Archer’s attacker let go and plummeted to the ground.
Joan didn’t care. Chantal’s arm was still extended, smoking gun unwavering, by the time Joan had sprinted up the entire staircase. Her heart would break, she knew it would.
What she’d seen flashing was the vicious knife that had nicked her earlier. But it hadn’t only nicked Archer. For there it was, planted right down to the guard in Archer’s chest.
Archer, you big…
Fear and rage choked her sobs back down her throat. Had to be strong. Had to lend support. Had to be there for the man who loved her. The man she loved in return. Had to keep her chin up, had to stay focused. Don’t look at the knife, don’t…
Christ, she was going to faint.
She only realized she’d reached him when he collapsed in her arms. Pale eyes rolled up at her. A tear traced a shiny wet line down his cheek.
“Shit…sorry.”
Then Joan was falling into the abyss.
Chapter Eleven
Archer swore he’d swallowed a bucketful of liquid fire. And he was drowning in it. Coughing weakly for the burn in his chest, he realized he lay on his back and that something pressed down on his feet. He hated how heavy blankets would do that and tried to kick up the covers a little. A fresh wave of molten pain spread to his chest. Then the weight was lifted off his feet. He sighed his thanks, opened his eyes.
Mel was in the process of sitting in a fake blue leather armchair but when she glanced up into his face and saw him looking back, she snapped to her feet and knocked aside the wheeled table to get closer.
“Hey,” she murmured.
Archer cringed against the noise. Mel should learn another tone of voice. Her normal one was killing him.
“Hey.”
“I’ll go get Joan. She went to
get us something to eat.” She was already near the door.
“Wait,” he said, trying to lift a hand but only managing to wiggle the needle on top of it. “Ow. Wait, Mel.”
“Sure.”
Did that girl use a transporter or something? She moved too quickly for his eyes to follow. She stood directly above his face once more.
“Joan?”
“She’s fine. A scratch or two, nothing bad.”
Relief flooded him. Then as though his situation weren’t bad enough, the whole Adriano angle came rushing back.
“Do…you have…your PDA?”
She nodded, reached for the pocket of her white cargo pants. Beltless. Ah, Mel, Mel, Mel.
“I got it right here. Why?”
“Type.”
“What?”
Archer would’ve rolled his eyes if he thought it wouldn’t hurt. He just sighed. And, holy shit, did that hurt worse! What was wrong with his chest? He reached up tentatively, with Mel looking as if she wanted to help or prevent him and hovering uncertainly.
“I’ll get it for you. What do you want?”
“My chest hurts. What’s wrong with me?”
Her big dark eyes welled. “You’ve been stabbed. You stayed in surgery all night.” She knuckled her eyes. “I’ll go get Joan.”
“I don’t want to see her!”
Mel’s face sagged. She looked down, fussed with the sheets.
His little outburst cost him several agonizing seconds during which all he could do was close his eyes and wait for the fire to die down. Getting stabbed hurt. Ha.
“Start…typing.”
“Typing what, Archer?” Mel asked, eyes welling again. She slipped her PDA out, looked ready to argue but must have thought he was in enough pain already. Good girl.
“A letter. To Joan. You print it out…give it…” Archer’s world spun for a few seconds. “Give it to her. Okay?” He swallowed. Ow, ow, ow. Shit.
“Okay.”
So Mel had learned to whisper after all.
By the time he was done dictating a letter in which he explained everything—since he was too much of a chickenshit to say it to Joan’s face—a letter that took a lot longer than should’ve been necessary but his voice kept breaking, fire was bubbling up his throat. He closed his eyes.
I fucked up big this time.
Just thinking about what he’d done shredded the last of his strength. “Sleep. Okay?”
“Do you want something to drink first?”
“No…thanks…Mel?”
“Yeah?”
“You need…a belt with…those pants.”
He never heard if Mel commented or not before sinking into a dark, burning pit.
* * * * *
When Archer woke next, it was dark in what portion of hallway he could see through the doorway. Mel’s snoring made him grin weakly. He’d recognize that hiccupping snore anywhere. Someone’s hand was over his own. He didn’t want to wake his friend so just looked down.
“Joan?”
Shut up, man.
Too late. Her head snapped up as if a spring had broken somewhere.
“Archer,” she whispered. A real whisper. Velvet brushing against his cheek.
Man, he loved her.
Dark blonde hair spilled over her face and she raked it back impatiently while at the same time scooting forward in…whatever she sat on. He couldn’t see a backrest. She must have been so uncomfortable.
“Do you need anything? Does it hurt?”
“Only when I breathe.”
She smiled. It was all the painkillers he needed. And he also knew Mel hadn’t given her the letter. A tic tugged at his eyelid, which triggered a worried expression in Joan.
“Do you want drugs? The duty nurse is very nice—”
“I don’t want anything.”
Rephrase that—I can’t have what I want. There. Much more fitting.
Anger settled in. Anger at his own foolishness, Joan’s recklessness, Mel’s beltless cargo pants, at life in general. People were right, life was a bitch.
“Did he touch you?”
“Laramée, you mean? No. I’m all right.” She rested her chin on her fist against the mattress. She was so close he could feel every breath. Pure torture. “You saved my life, did you know that? Thanks.”
He’d saved her life and almost paid with his own. A small price to pay. He’d do it again too. The whole thing. Just for the grace of being near her, even if his time with her was about to end. He wouldn’t do as his dad had done, put his own needs first. He’d smoked in his wife’s face her entire adult life, never once even considered quitting or always finding a good excuse not to. She’d died of lung cancer after not having smoked a day in her life. Grief and guilt—and lung cancer—had killed his dad not long afterward. But the damage had been done. Archer would do things differently. He’d put Joan first, even if it meant ripping out his own heart in the process.
“You’re gonna have to leave, okay.”
The shock on her face. The pain too.
“What do you mean? I’ve brought my stuff. I can stay.”
“We can’t see each other again…it…it wouldn’t work, okay? You have to leave.”
Archer couldn’t even look at her in the eyes and closed his.
“But you said… Back at the club…” Her voice sounded so flat, so dull.
Numbness crept into his chest and he knew with terrible certainty nothing would ever be the same. Or I can blame it on the meds. “I didn’t… Please, Joan.”
She was silent for a long while. Finally, he felt her shifting. “We’ll talk about it later. You’re tired.”
Anger bubbled closer to the surface. Damn her. Being nice to him when he didn’t deserve it. Archer noticed the snoring had stopped.
“Mel, you give her that letter. You print it out somewhere and you give it to her, you hear me?”
He’d started wheezing and had to stop talking for a while.
The weight that had been her leaning along the bed was lifted and he realized Joan had stood. The side of his arm and thigh was already growing cold. He wanted to cry. His heart would break for real.
“Mel?”
“Yeah,” a sliver of Mel’s usually loud voice replied. He barely heard her.
“You get her out of here. Now.”
Still with his eyes closed, he had to guess what was going on. Someone was moving a chair, the legs scraping on the terrazzo floor. The sound of clothes, a soft rustle.
“I’ll come back later on, okay?” Joan said, her voice subdued, carefully measured.
“No,” Archer snapped, hating himself more by the second. “No, you won’t.”
He heard them walking away. Then silence.
Something wet seeped into his ear. Crying hurt his chest. But keeping it inside would kill him. So he let go. Let the tears come.
* * * * *
Joan had never felt this way. Like shit for something she hadn’t done. Not that she knew of anyway. Why was Archer acting this way when it seemed to pain him as much as it did her? It made no sense. Her hand hurt. Dammit. At least there were no broken bones as she’d feared, only sprained muscles and tendons. Not bad considering she’d tackled two men down a flight of metal and thermoplastic stairs. It’d taken her two hours to get processed, cleared, then another hour to get rid of Chantal and Sauvageau, both of whom had offered, insisted and argued, to stay with her. Chantal had brought her some clothes at least. A gym bag full of sweats and T-shirts. Her idea of fashion in times of crises.
“Don’t mind his tone. He’s in pain,” Mel said after a tentative glance her way. She closed Archer’s door with a faint click.
Joan agreed with a nod. Poor guy. “How long have you known him?”
“Kindergarten. He was the only English kid in the class, couldn’t understand a thing. I told my mom I was going to marry him.”
They shared a quiet smile.
“Where are you from? Vancouver I think Archer said?”
Joan nodded. “Yeah. I go back twice a year, for Christmas and for Easter. Then my folks come visit me in the summer, when there’s not ten feet of snow.”
“He… Ah, he’s not a mean guy, you know. He’s been through a lot.”
“Mm. I’m just so relieved he’ll be okay. He scared the shit out of me. So, what letter was he talking about?”
They made their silent way to the waiting area at the end of the hall and sat in slippery-smooth plastic chairs the color of kiwi flesh. Under the dimmed hospital ward light, the other woman’s face took on a deep shade of rose. She slid a hand in her pants pocket, started to slip something out, stopped and pulled her hand out. She did that a few times. Like a snake charmer reaching inside the basket but changing his mind three times.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t have a printer.” Mel started crying.
A printer? What the hell’s wrong with these two?
She wrapped her arm around the petite woman, brought her close and patted her head until the sobs had quieted to hiccupping sniffles.
Joan wrapped her hand underneath the bottom of her T-shirt and wiped Mel’s eyes with it. Chantal knew her stuff.
“Okay, you two are acting very strange. I think it’s time to tell me about whatever it is that’s bugging you.”
The look of panic in Mel’s eyes was almost comical. Almost. “Tell you…that’s for him to tell… I have his letter here. But I don’t have a printer…” Tears welled in Mel’s eyes again. Her bottom lip trembled.
Joan patted the air. “It’s okay. Just tell me. I’d like to hear it from you. Woman to woman, you know guys aren’t good with that stuff.” She crossed her leg toward Mel, leaned into her, showing as much positive and reinforcing body language she could. Despite feeling like shit herself, she always tried to make others comfortable. There must have been a name for it in psychology books. Probably came under L for loser. “Tell me what’s wrong, okay. I’m not known for going ballistic on my friends. You can tell me.”
“Ohh, man, this is so awkward.” Mel shook her head, wiped at her nose and took a big breath. “Something happened about two years ago. It hurt him. A lot. You have no idea. I’ve been picking up pieces of him since.”
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