Sweet Danger

by Cheryl Pierson

  "Pick on somebody your own size, Tay," Jesse replied, looking him up and down. "Go screw a munchkin, or Leon Jackson—"

  Hardin's fist flew like lightning, connecting instantly with the bullet wound. He punched hard and straight, rocketing Jesse back into the front of the counter, between stools two and three.

  The pain stood in a class all by itself, so sharp and sudden that his body wavered between blacking out and throwing up. In the end, he did neither—just clutched for the bullet hole in a reflex he couldn't stop.

  He couldn't hold back the jagged cry of pure agony, either. That seemed to please Tabor Hardin mightily. His laughter echoed from far away as Jesse's agonized mind played havoc with all his other senses, all but the pain that engulfed him. It was real, and it was there to stay.

  Hardin's laughter was cut short amidst the sound of a table overturning, flesh against flesh, and a chair splintering.

  Jesse's lungs burned, starved for air as he finally drew breath again. When he raised his head, Tommy Norton lay on his back a few feet away like a dead mackerel, the chair broken to pieces. The fool kid must have tried to jump Hardin again.

  Caspar and Johnson both yanked at their bonds ineffectively, as Hardin stood looking at his handiwork. He ran his hand over his patchy hair, shaking his head as he looked toward Jesse, then gave a grunt of satisfaction.

  Instantly, Lindy knelt beside Jesse, the only thing that kept him sane. She unbuttoned his shirt, then took the scissors Mrs. Montgomery offered from her gnarled fingers to cut away a section of his undershirt, now blossoming red over rust, fresh blood over old.

  Jesse's pain was overshadowed by the concern in Lindy's expression as he slitted his eyes open to watch. Sweet caring poured out over him in her look, her touch. His fists balled in helpless frustration. How were they ever going to get out of this alive?

  "Bastard!" Mrs. Montgomery spat.

  "Can it, you old bag," Hardin retorted. He gave Tommy's ribs a ruthless kick then walked away, making another search inside his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. "Little asshole," he muttered.

  Jesse sucked in his breath as Lindy applied pressure to stop the renewed bleeding. Through half-lidded eyes, he looked at Tommy. The kid was still breathing, but he was out cold. "All that for nothin'. Crazy kid."

  "No," Lindy murmured, relieving the pressure a little as the bleeding began to slow. "It wasn't all for nothing. He's been goading Tommy ever since this all started. He was sure to react. You saved him—for the time being, at least." She gave him a worried look, then went on. "Odd how it bothered him that Tommy didn't claim the baby."

  She broke off and glanced away, giving her attention to his shoulder and nothing else. Concentration knit her brows and she sank her teeth into her lower lip. Beautiful. There was no other word for Lindy Oliver. Her skin was flawless; her lips trembled slightly as she finally met his eyes again. He held her with a look that said everything he wanted to tell her but couldn't. Finally, she glanced away, checking the shoulder wound again.

  Jesse gave a sardonic laugh. "'Odd's' the word for Hardin…and then some."

  Lindy was silent a moment. Then, "Maybe…he knows how that feels. Being unwanted, I mean." She rose slowly, careful not to jostle him. He leaned back against the counter. His world moved strangely, as he felt himself slipping into the blackness. Lindy was going after something to help patch him up, but she'd be back beside him soon enough. That much, he knew about Lindy Oliver.

  In the next instant, he felt himself sliding further. Two wrinkled hands grasped his arms, helping to guide him down gently to the fresh-scrubbed floor. Mrs. Montgomery lifted his head and put two thick folded towels beneath him for cushioning. Not as good as a pillow, but damn near.

  "Thanks," he whispered.

  "That bullet needs to come out."

  He nodded, hovering on the verge of sleep. He couldn't fight it any longer. "I know."

  Mrs. Montgomery patted his hand. "Lindy—she can do it. I think that little thing can do whatever she sets her mind to."

  He nodded again, but couldn't form the words. Another pat told him the old woman had heard him loud and clear, all the same.

  I think so, too.

  Chapter Eight

  Ryan took the bottled water from Jim with an appreciative nod. "Thanks. I feel like hell."

  Rogers smiled. "Well, you're looking the part right now, too."

  Ryan nodded, twisting the cap off. He took a drink, letting the cool water slide down his parched throat, hoping it didn't come right back up. Rogers was giving him the look—the one everyone had been giving him since he'd shown up this morning.

  "You shouldn't—"

  "Don't start." He held up a hand, surprised at the effort it took. "I can't afford to be sick, today of all days. Let's just put an end to this so we can all go home."

  Rogers glanced toward the female police officer kneeling beside Mrs. Silverman, apparently trying to coax her to lie on the gurney. The older woman was having none of it.

  "Let's see if we can help," Ryan muttered, following his gaze. He stood up and started toward the ambulance, Rogers at his side. "She's in shock. Sure would help if she could give us some information—but in her state, that's doubtful."

  Rogers' lips tightened. "Be hard to trust what she tells us, if she talks at all."

  They approached the ambulance where Mrs. Silverman leaned on the wide bumper, half-sitting, half-standing, staring at nothing.

  "Any luck, Amy?" Ryan asked.

  Officer Amy Tanner shook her head regretfully. "No. She hasn't said a word. I don't think she's hearing me, either. Maybe at the hospital…"

  "Are you planning to ride along?"

  "I can, if you think it would do any good. So far—nothing."

  Before Ryan could reply, Mary Silverman's voice cut in. "Captain Lucas, is that you?" She peered up at him over the top of her glasses.

  An uncertain smile of surprise crossed his face. "Yes. Yes, it's me, Mrs. Silverman."

  "How's that baby?" She reached out a hand, and Ryan took it between his palms.

  "The baby's doing well. Thank you for bringing her out to us."

  Mrs. Silverman gave a vague nod.

  "Uh, Mrs. Silverman…could you tell us what's going on inside your place?"

  She withdrew her hand quickly, fixing him with a harsh glare. "Well, I guess you ought to know! You're the police, after all!"

  "Yes, ma'am, but—"

  "Three of your people are in there, and they're in big trouble, mister! Big trouble!"

  "Three police officers?" He should question her about the civilians, but he had to know this first. "Who?"

  Mary Silverman shook her gray head, letting her breath out in a long, disapproving hiss. "John and Tony are in there…and Jesse. Jesse Nightwalker."

  Jesse. Was it true? He felt the wind go out of him completely. His breath caught, and he closed his eyes.

  She made a tsking sound. "He usually comes in a bit later. Today, he was early." She shook her head, then fixed Ryan with a piercing gaze. "He's hurt. He and my Abe both got shot. Why don't you do something, Officer?"

  He hadn't thought this situation could get any worse. Now, he understood they had no luck at all.

  * * * * *

  One by one, Rod Macklin handed the children out of the attic crawlspace into Leon Jackson's waiting arms. There were eight of them, and they were all scared—all but one. Hardin couldn't help but take note of the boy's reaction, even from where he stood.

  The last one out was a dark-haired boy who squirmed quickly away from Jackson, following his classmates.

  Hardin told them to sit along the wall in the bedroom, across from the kitchen and dining area. Across from the foot of the narrow bed, a door led into a small sparse half-bath. The dark-haired boy barely sat down before he raised his hand, eyeing Leon. Hardin suppressed a grin as his eyes met Leon's.

  "What is it, kid?"

  The boy nodded toward the bathroom. "I need to go."

  Jackson
's lips curled. "Well, g'on then. Don't pee your pants. Anybody else needs to go, you better line up behind…" He peered down at the boy. "What's your name, kid?"

  "Nash."

  "His real name is Nashoba," another boy supplied. "It means 'wolf' in Choctaw. That's what he is—a Choctaw."

  Jackson's eyes narrowed. "That so? Rod, we got us a real live Indian on our hands! You a warrior, boy?"

  "No."

  Jackson looked surprised, which elicited a soft chuckle from Hardin. That didn't happen too often. "Why not?"

  Nash stood up and headed for the bathroom. "I'm too young," he said. "But someday, I will be one. Like my uncle."

  "Your uncle? Who's he? Sitting Bull?"

  Macklin laughed loudly, but something in the boy's expression stopped Hardin's smile.

  "Chief Sitting Bull was Sioux," he replied, reaching to pull the door shut.

  Jackson frowned. "Smart ass little bastard."

  * * * * *

  Lindy untied the makeshift bandage she'd wrapped around Tony Johnson's hand. The cuts were deep; one across the heel of his thumb, and one tracing his lifeline, in a perfect arc of blackening red. She washed away the drying blood gently. He could have done with some stitches in both cases—but she wasn't ready for that yet.

  She met his eyes and saw the grim humor lurking there, as if he understood where her thoughts had gone.

  "I think you've done about all you can do, Lindy."

  She sighed, not ready to admit defeat. "I know it hurts." She bit her lip, reaching for the measuring cup. "I'm not sure if this will help, but I'm going to try it anyway."

  "What's that?" Johnson asked.

  "Sugar." She carefully pulled apart the edges of the longer gash and took a teaspoon, dipping it into the cup of sugar. She trailed it into the cut, filling the chasm to the top. Johnson took a deep breath, his hand unsteady as he held it open. Lindy smiled at him reassuringly. She was startled to realize how young he looked—probably no older than she was.

  "How's it going to help?" His voice was as shaky as his hand.

  Lindy concentrated on opening the other cut up, then spooned the sugar into it as well. Johnson's lips compressed tightly.

  "It eats the bacteria," she said. "Prevents infection. At least, hopefully it will—until we can get you to a real doctor." She reached for a clean towel to re-wrap his hand, then pinned it in place with the two safety pins she'd scrounged from the bottom of her purse.

  He gave her a doubtful look. "That's one I haven't heard. You sure?"

  She smiled. "I've never done this before, but that's what the research says."

  "Research? For what?"

  "I write novels," she told him, the admission soft, as if she didn't quite believe it yet herself.

  "Get out!" He grinned at her. "No kidding?"

  "No kidding. I haven't sold anything yet, but I've done lots and lots of…well, studying for what I want to write about." She nodded at his bandaged hand. "So, here's hoping it paid off."

  "Lindy, do you think some of that sugar would help this shot-up knee of mine?"

  She turned to Abe, cup in hand. "It couldn't hurt, could it?"

  He grimaced as he moved his leg, his forehead beading with sweat. Althea Montgomery glanced up from where she knelt between Jesse and Tommy. "Listen. Did you hear that?"

  The sound was more evident now. Voices. Scuffling feet. Abe glanced toward the direction of the doorway to the back room, but the counter blocked his view.

  "What's back there, Mr. Silverman?" Lindy asked quietly. She poured the thick trickle of sugar into his wound.

  "A bedroom." He groaned as she began to re-tie a clean towel over his knee, his breath shallow. "I turned part of the storage room into a bedroom. When we got robbed three times in two months, I started sleeping downstairs so I would hear when they broke in."

  Caspar shook his head. "Anybody ever tell you that could be dangerous, Abe?"

  "Only for those punks. I was sleeping good—with an old Bass .44 under my pillow." He chuckled. "Yep, those were some sweet dreams all right."

  Movement to her right caught her attention. Jesse was awake. Her heart pounded, racing quickly as she turned to him. He started to push himself upright. Her own breath caught and held sympathetically.

  "Hold on a second," Lindy said, as she moved quickly to his side. "Let me give you a shot of this sugar while I'm making the rounds." She colored instantly at her own words, casting him a quick glance.

  He slid back down to the floor as Lindy pulled away the blood soaked towels and what was left of his undershirt.

  "So, did they try to rob you again, Mr. S.?" Tony asked.

  Abe shook his head disappointedly. "Naw. I talked it around a lot—you know, that I had taken 'security precautions'." He smiled. "I think I know who was doin' it. I mentioned one day that I had a gun—would blow a jackass's head off from a two-mile mark, so I knew I could hit one from two feet and there wouldn't be much left to bury."

  Mrs. Montgomery glanced up from her vigil over Tommy. "I didn't know a Bass .44 could do that."

  Abe smiled at her. "It can't, Mrs. Montgomery. Point is…they thought it could. Haven't been robbed in over two years."

  Jesse's lips quirked as he met Lindy's somber gaze. She gently wet the bullet wound and began to clean away the blood. "Where's that magic pistol now, Abe?" Jesse asked, wincing at Lindy's careful touch.

  "Why, still in there, I reckon. Still under my pillow. I stopped sleeping down there about six months ago, but I never did anything special with the gun. It's right where it always was."

  Jesse sucked in his breath sharply as Lindy spread the edges of the wound open and began to pour in the sugar.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

  * * * * *

  "How'd you catch that bullet, anyway, Jesse?" John Caspar's voice deepened and roared loudly through Jesse's head as the pain intensified, then receded. Had to be careful how he answered that one. It had been an accident. They'd all been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But if Lindy thought she was the cause of him being wounded, she'd never forgive herself. Jesse didn't reply—not until he figured out what he wanted to say, the right way. His shoulder radiated rippling waves of lava-hot pain through his body, stealing his breath for an instant.

  "Protecting me."

  Jesse's eyes opened, and he found himself looking through the small slit into the knowing, velvet pools of Lindy Oliver's steady gaze. Those two words vibrated between them. Jesse's mind went back to those frantic seconds between the time they sat down, talking about pastries and lies, to the moment he'd seen Hardin walk in. Once again, he felt Lindy's warm skin under his hands as he pushed her roughly to the floor, following with his own hard body atop her soft curves. Unable to resist, he'd given her, that one searing, fleeting kiss and told her to run. But she hadn't. Protecting her. And that was how he'd, as John Caspar had put it, "caught the bullet"—the one with Lindy's name on it.

  Caspar grinned. He turned to wink at his partner. "So now we know what Superman really looks like, Tony."

  Lindy's eyes still held Jesse's. "Yeah," she breathed. "And it ain't Clark Kent." In spite of the pain, Jesse smiled at the tease. "Thank you," she said, in a low tone.

  "Hey, Lindy, nothing stops the Man of Steel," Caspar quipped.

  "Get in line, you little bastards!" Leon Jackson's shrill voice cut across the relative quiet, and the door to the back room was thrown open. The sound of small, sneakered feet preceded Jackson as he walked backward into the front of the deli, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder. Rod Macklin brought up the rear.

  As Jackson stepped away, allowing the hostages their first full look at the eight children, Jesse knew Caspar had been so wrong. There was at least one thing that would stop the "Man of Steel"—and Jesse, too. The little boy who was line leader, staring out at him from under a fringe of long, black bangs.

  His son.

  Chapter Nine

  So that w
as it. Suddenly, it all came clear in Jesse's mind. Royce Anderson's kids were in Nash's class. He knew that because they'd come to Nash's birthday party a few weeks ago. The bank robbery, their flight into the deli, the "waiting" Lindy had mentioned—now it added up. Ransom money. Anderson would fork it over, but what about the other kids?

  Quickly, Jesse lay back, flat on the floor, hoping Nash hadn't recognized him during all the confusion. But his boy could be very perceptive. He waited, his heart racing. God, don't let him recognize me. If he did, he'd provide Hardin's gang with the deadliest weapon of all.

  Nash was the one thing he had let go in his life that he'd give anything to have back. He should have given up the undercover work and kept Nash with him. What he wouldn't give to do it all over again. But he didn't know squat about raising a baby alone. Jake and Melissa had offered, pressured actually, and he…he had caved.

  He pulled Lindy closer to him, unable to keep the desperation from his expression. By her stunned look, she was still trying to assimilate the fact that eight kids had been added to the hostage list. The others sat silently, clearly shocked. He hated having to tell her in front of everyone, but there was no way around it.

  Her fingers clasped his, as she finally recovered enough to read his anxiety. "What's wrong, Jesse?"

  "That first kid in line—" he whispered the words, and Lindy leaned closer, waiting.

  He swallowed hard. "He's mine."

  There was a breathless heartbeat of silence between them.

  "But—you told Hardin you had a daughter."

  Jesse winced inwardly at the disbelief and anguish in her tone. There wasn't time for long explanations, so he'd give her the condensed version. She looked so stricken, he wondered if he should have said anything at all.

  He couldn't help but think of the obsession Hardin had shown earlier with Tommy. There was something there, a tear in Hardin's psyche that was going to become a huge problem for him now, no matter what he did. He might have no choice in the matter, anyhow. A lot depended on what Nash said, how he reacted.