Sweet Danger

by Cheryl Pierson

  Hardin eyed the young boy and his pregnant wife. He looked at her ring-less finger.

  Girlfriend. The boy looked about like every other young punk out there, these days. Long brown hair fell across his eyes. The Mitchell and Company shirt and pants paired well with the arrogant attitude he wore. Hardin's nose wrinkled. He could smell the bristling defiance and self-important aura the boy exuded. It made him want to puke.

  "That your bastard she's carrying?" he asked, watching the boy's hackles rise at his choice of words. He gave a thin smile, directing his narrowed gaze at the girl's bare finger.

  Tommy Norton looked down, then nodded. "Yeah. I guess it is. My kid, I mean."

  "Well, boy, why don't you hold your head up when you say that?" Hardin kicked Tommy's leg where he sprawled on the floor, the semi-automatic rifle on the boy's chest.

  "No, please!" Jennifer leaned forward, as if she meant to protect him.

  "Good God." Hardin lowered the rifle with a disgusted snort and looked at Jesse.

  "Young love," he smirked. "You in love, Nightwalker?" His eyes raked Lindy. Who could blame him, if he was? There was something about her. Something a lot of men would find…loveable. He watched Jesse speculatively. "This your woman?"

  Chapter Three

  Jesse let his breath out, slow. Hardin could be so damn mercurial. He had to be careful—every step planned before setting his foot down, or speaking the words.

  "Hardly." He shrugged, wincing at the reminder from his shot-up shoulder. "Linden lives a few doors down from me. Just coincidence we both happened to be in here today."

  "Hmm." Hardin glanced down with a soft, disbelieving chuckle. His eyes swept back up to meet Jesse's. "She seems…like maybe she's more than a friend."

  Jesse's blood ran cold. He passed it off with a dismissive shake of his head and a short laugh. "I wish." He sobered quickly. "She's a bit young for my tastes, Hardin. I don't fancy robbing the cradle. If she were some older, I might be tempted, but…" He let his sentence hang, giving Hardin a grin. "I don't have much luck with women."

  Hardin's lips edged up caustically. "No," he agreed after a considering pause. "In fact, didn't your wife kill herself?"

  Anger washed over Jesse, as he stiffened at Hardin's offhand remark. He knew the casual mention of Erica's death was calculated, but it took everything in him to control his seething emotions. By Hardin's slippery smile, Jesse knew his reaction had been noted. Hardin had predicted it precisely.

  Jesse released his breath and looked away, aware of Lindy's steadying hand at his side. He kept his face carefully blank.

  "Yeah. Erica…she died four years ago." After you were in prison. That knowledge was disconcerting. Hardin had been keeping tabs on him from his cell. His hatred ran deep—and strong. Not just words and empty promises. Hardin had vowed his revenge and had been collecting the information to do it.

  "Died shortly after your baby came along, didn't she?" Hardin goaded.

  Jesse nodded, wordlessly. He had to play the game, for now.

  "And the child?"

  "What about her?" He raised his head to look at Hardin, his expression bland.

  Hardin's mask slipped. "I'd heard it was a boy."

  Jesse smiled, the shot of satisfaction running through him at Hardin's sudden uncertainty. "Guess your sources weren't on the money on all counts, Hardin. Why all the interest? You want to contribute to her college fund?"

  Hardin's eyes narrowed coldly. "Someone'll have to take care of her, after her daddy dies. Right, Jess?"

  Jesse shook his head. "Nope. The tribal elders will see to that—whenever it might happen."

  Hardin looked at him as if he had something more to say, but thought better of it. Jesse kept his expression devoid of emotion. Hardin's lips compressed in a thin, tight line.

  "Tay! Come look at this!"

  Hardin glanced toward his man, Rod Macklin, and nodded. With a final searing look at Jesse, he started in Macklin's direction. "Soon, Jesse. That's when it's going to happen."

  The way things were headed, Jesse couldn't help but agree.

  * * * * *

  Captain Ryan Lucas stopped his blue unmarked Crown Victoria just at the edge of the perimeter that had been set up. Opening the door, he swung his lanky frame from behind the wheel, glancing around for his second-in-command, Lieutenant Jim Rogers. He adjusted his clip-on radio as he walked toward the "wall of blue," the line of sanity dividing the safety of the city from the craziness happening a few hundred feet from them.

  "Captain." Lieutenant Rogers walked toward him, his hand out.

  "'Lo Jim." Ryan shook Roger's extended hand firmly. "What do we know so far?" He let his gaze range beyond Rogers for any activity in the brick buildings across the deserted street.

  Rogers shook his head. "It's not good. Two tellers killed in the bank robbery, three customers wounded—one in critical. We were lucky to be able to get in and get them out of there as fast as we did. I asked the bank manager and his secretary to wait for you—knowing you'd want to talk with them." He nodded toward a heavy-set black man who sat in the backseat of one of the cruisers, the door open. His feet were on the ground, elbows on his knees, as he cupped his chin in his hands. His secretary sat beside him, staring ahead at the back of the seat.

  Ryan grimaced. "I'll make it quick."

  "One of the wounded customers said she heard the man who shot her call out the name 'Tay'—that worried the hell outta me." Rogers raked a dark hand through his short close-cropped hair in a nervous gesture before resettling his hat. "She was certain that's what he said and the head man turned around in response."

  "Tabor Hardin?" Ryan chewed on his lip. "He's supposed to be in jail, at least for the next twenty years or so. Did I miss the notification of his release somehow?"

  Rogers snorted. "Release, hell. The bastard was in for consecutive life sentences." He hesitated a moment. "From the witnesses' rather disjointed descriptions, we're pretty sure it's him."

  Ryan nodded, and Rogers continued. "We know there were two killed outright at the bank, and"—he nodded at the fallen people on the sidewalk across the street—"at least three more fatalities in there at Silverman's. And those are just the ones we can see."

  "Anyone try to contact them yet?"

  Rogers shook his head. "We were waiting for you."

  Ryan sighed. "Yeah, sorry. I've…been under the weather…to put it mildly. Fighting off the flu, and it's kicking my ass pretty good. Didn't mean to leave you in a spot, Jim." He hadn't slept last night, he'd been so sick. His head pounded like someone wielded a sledgehammer behind his eyes, and he could feel the nausea gathering again.

  Rogers waved him off. "You made it in good time. We haven't been here long."

  "Guess I better go talk to the two witnesses first, so I can cut 'em loose. Can you round up a black and white to drive them to the hospital when I'm finished?"

  This wouldn't take long. It couldn't. Not unless the meds he had taken kicked in to perform a major miracle.

  "Sure thing. That's the easy part."

  * * * * *

  Rod Macklin nodded toward the street. "Look at that!" His blocky face split in a grin. "Didn't take long, did it?"

  Hardin scowled, looking at the same scene that seemed to bring so much pleasure to his accomplice. The police cruisers and unmarked vehicles stretched as far as the eye could see.

  No, it hadn't taken long at all. Oklahoma City Police Department was quicker than he remembered. Damn good at their jobs. It could send the rest of this operation south in a real hurry. He wondered how Allan Rupert was getting along in the daycare. That was the real reason for all this.

  He glanced over to a nearby booth in the deli's interior where Brindle McAdoo was adjusting the portable police scanner and other monitoring equipment.

  He, McAdoo, and Leon Jackson, had been in prison together at McAlester. McAdoo had been in for murder, as had he, while Jackson had been doing his time for kidnapping two fifteen-year-old girls from the sta
te fair one year. All that mattered to him was his men knew their stuff—the "stuff" they were hired for—and they were loyal to him.

  Allan Rupert would handle the other four who were carrying out the second half of this operation, just as Hardin handled his men. However, he couldn't stop the nagging feeling something might have gone wrong with the other half of this operation. Rupert's half.

  "You ever see the like?" Macklin gloated. A chuckle rumbled from his throat. "Look at 'em out there. Not a clue as to what's really goin' down."

  Hardin's answering smile was thin, as was his patience. "They'll learn soon enough."

  He turned to glance behind him at the startled yelp of pain from one of the hostages. Jackson was occupying himself. He might have known Jackson would go for one of the uniforms first. Damn. He wished the idiot hadn't done that. It was bound to add to the chaos. He needed to be able to think.

  The cry sounded again, longer and more intense. This time, a couple of the other hostages protested almost as loudly. That would end soon enough, once they got a piece of the action themselves. But for now, he wanted to be able to collect his thoughts.

  "Knock it off, Leon," he called over his shoulder, turning his gaze back to the glorious sight outside. It was soothing, somehow. The only other time he'd seen this many cop cars in one place was when Betty, his double-crossing bitch of a sister, had betrayed him a little over five years ago. She'd looked so totally shocked when he'd come after her, slitting her throat as she tried to unlock the front door and run to safety.

  Yeah, they'd all come for him then, just like today, but he'd disappointed them. He'd gone along peacefully just as they'd asked, stepping over his sister's body and the widening pool of blood, to open the door and give himself up. They'd tacked on the murder charge for his sister, but he ignored that as best he could. His real prison time had been served for the torture and murder of that cop and his wife. He didn't even like to take credit for Betty's death, as quick and uneventful as it had been. But he could feel himself getting hard just thinking of how he'd done that cop, Kerry Masefield, and his lovely wife. She had quickly learned to call him master and would do anything he asked of her to keep her husband alive. Masefield, of course, protested at first, but it was amazing what a powerful tool pain could be.

  Hardin's gaze roved over the police cruisers, the unmarked cars, the barely visible faces of the men who kept well behind the protection of the cars. An unwelcome thought formed in his mind. Was this scheme going to work?

  The bank robbery had been a decoy for the real heart of the idea—the kidnapping of Governor Royce Anderson's twins from the daycare behind the deli. If all had gone as they'd devised in the beginning, the deli would never have been involved, but the cops had gotten there too quickly, forcing Hardin and his men to use this place for cover.

  There'd been some deaths that could most likely have been avoided if everything had fallen into place as it should have. He rubbed his shoulder absently as he replayed the bank robbery in his mind. For the hundredth time, at least, his thoughts went to the kidnapping.

  Had it gone off smoothly? If worse came to worse, he and the boys could skinny over through the ceiling to join Rupert and his men. They could escape that way—if the cops weren't already crawling all over the daycare. He was bothered by Rupert's steadfast resistance to using any kind of communication device. Rupert was full of excuses as to why having cell phones or radios wouldn't be a good idea. He'd gone along with Rupert, but now he wished he hadn't.

  What was going on next door? He slammed his hand against the wall. "Leon." He beckoned to Jackson who needed something to occupy him other than torturing the prisoners. There might be time for that later on, but for now, he needed answers.

  Jackson stood before him, ready to do his bidding. He wiped the box cutter on his pant leg. "Boss?"

  "Leon, I want you to climb up in the ceiling and go across to the daycare. Just listen for a minute before you let 'em know you're there. Make sure everything's going okay. Don't drop down into a room full of pigs."

  "Nah, you can count on me."

  "I know. That's why you're here." He slapped Jackson's shoulder, and the small, wiry man disappeared into the kitchen of the deli without a word.

  "Hey, who's that?" Macklin's question brought Hardin's attention back to the scene unfolding across the street. He turned to look out the window. A midnight blue unmarked car had pulled up. A plainclothes detective emerged, the early sun catching the deep red-gold of his neatly combed hair for a moment. A stocky-built black officer detached himself from the others and came toward the slender man, offering a hand in greeting.

  Hardin sucked in his breath for a moment, then let it out. "Ain't that nice?"

  "You know him?" Macklin asked.

  "Ryan Lucas." Hardin's lips curved upward. Of all people. Rupert would be as glad to see Lucas as he'd been to welcome Jesse Nightwalker to the party. "Jesse Nightwalker's old partner. Hail, hail, the gang's all here."

  He watched, his eyes appraising as Lucas and the uniformed officer talked. "I wonder how much Nightwalker's life is worth?" He chuckled softly. "Or if I even care."

  Chapter Four

  Jesse's shoulder sent an agonizing jolt of pain through his body with each heartbeat. At least, he wasn't bleeding anymore, he thought caustically. Small favors. He kept his expression carefully blank, his thoughts hidden. Maybe Hardin would release the older hostages, Abe and Mary Silverman and Mrs. Montgomery. Maybe even the pregnant girl, Jennifer. But there was no pretending he'd release Linden Oliver. He'd seen how Hardin's eyes roamed over her and understood Hardin linked Lindy with him—no matter what he might say to the contrary.

  Lindy wrapped a blood-soaked towel around Tony Johnson's hand, pressing firmly. With his hands chained around the metal column of the chair, he couldn't even lift his arm higher than his heart. The two slashes were deep, a crimson stream still flowing unchecked from the left one. He gasped as Lindy applied pressure across his palm and at the heel of his hand.

  "Hang in there, Tony," Caspar muttered. "It looks like it's slowing down now."

  Johnson glanced up at Caspar, his face white. "It's just a couple of cuts, John. It'll be all right." But his voice shook when he spoke, and Jesse could see that his hand was unsteady beneath Lindy's careful ministrations.

  "Bastards." Althea Montgomery carefully set her smashed Bismarck aside.

  Abe nodded his agreement. "They are that, Mrs. M. They surely are that."

  Lindy glanced up at Jesse as she reached for the bandaging. She gave him a smile—a genuine smile—one that lit her caramel eyes and made his heart take a funny tumble. Lindy Oliver had been beautiful every time he'd seen her—and he had taken notice of her at the apartment complex where they lived. She was just the right height, he noted, maybe eight or nine inches shorter than his six-three, perfect for kissing—with curves in all the right places, dark eyes that glowed when she smiled, and auburn hair that fell past her shoulders. She'd been cute as hell when she'd tried to stare past him earlier, her embarrassment at being caught studying his ass making her cheeks flushed.

  When she smiled at him like she was right now, she was gorgeous. What would it be like to have his life back? To be able to entertain the thought of starting a relationship with her? She didn't even realize how beautiful she was, but with each passing moment, Jesse became more aware of her charms—for all the good that would do either of them.

  She couldn't be more than twenty-two or three, at least six or seven years his junior. He liked the way she handled herself, though. Poised, in spite of all that had happened.

  As she turned her smile on Tony, something went through Jesse's chest—right through his heart—a different brand of pain that put his shoulder to shame. Seeing that smile turned on another man, even innocently, rocked him. He felt like he'd been sucker punched.

  Lindy said something and Johnson nodded, giving her a half-hearted grin of his own. Jesse sat up a little straighter, as whatever it was in his chest
clenched tighter. Sitting up didn't ease it one damn bit. His lips compressed into a tight line. He glanced at Abe. The old man had been watching everything with delight in his whole expression. As their eyes met, Abe gave him a knowing look.

  Under different circumstances, Jesse might have found Abe's unabashed matchmaking efforts more palatable, but in light of the seriousness of their situation, there was nothing amusing in it. He scowled in answer and turned away, ignoring the old man's muted chuckle. His heart thundered in his chest from a mixture of physical pain and…what?

  Anger took over. He was acting stupid. Lindy Oliver wasn't his property. Besides, she was only being friendly. So, why did his lips tingle with the memory of that kiss? And why was his heart racing at the mere thought of his mouth on hers?

  Right now, he needed to forget about Tony Johnson and his cut hand. Forget about Linden Oliver and her caramel velvet eyes, and think about maybe minimizing the damage from here on out. Hardin should be happy with two uniformed officers and an undercover cop as hostages. But he wouldn't be. He wouldn't be, because he was a sadistic son of a bitch. He'd hold onto Lindy Oliver and take his pleasure with her, if he had time, then murder her for the hell of it.

  If he found out whose son Tommy Norton really was… Would the kid have enough sense to keep his mouth shut? If he tried to strike a deal, he wouldn't get out of here alive. As it was, three cops might satisfy Hardin's thirst for blood. His problem was going to be bargaining for Lindy's release. Tommy Norton was on his own.

  * * * * *

  Ryan dialed the deli number wondering if anyone would pick up inside. On the fifth ring, as he was about to give up, the telephone was hastily answered. A raspy voice said, "Silverman's Bakery and Deli—how can I help you today?"