RidingtheWaves

by Jennifer LaRose

  Agreeing to bring Rashand down was one thing, but this unexpected event had Brent’s hair standing on end. Hell, he thought it’d be a well-organized entrapment. Instead he felt like he’d been tossed into a game of hide-and-seek with a group of criminals.

  Sterns had ordered Brent and Timmons to stay in the alley where they’d be out of the line of fire in case the situation took a bad turn. The line of fire. Not a very encouraging statement. A getaway route adjoined the backside of the alley to a street that they’d been instructed to utilize as an escape at first command.

  Once they spotted Rashand, Brent’s role was to vocally entice him outside but to remain hidden in the shadows. Sterns and the cops would take it from there.

  He should’ve kept business strictly to the sea, rather than get thrown in some freaking alley tucked behind the streets of Miami. This so-called mission was something he’d only seen happen on TV.

  He’d promised Annalee he’d try to come back, but Christ, under these circumstances it didn’t look very promising. Hopefully when he’d made love to her before he departed he’d left an impression. Her moans and body language turned him on so damn bad he’d nearly exploded prematurely a half dozen times. He brought out the dildo for assistance and he’d fucked her for three hours straight, switching between him and the toy until she begged him to stop. He made damn sure she wouldn’t forget him anytime soon.

  Five days ago he’d experienced the fuck of his life and said goodbye to the woman of his dreams. Five damn days. And he’d had a hell of a time concentrating on much else ever since. At least he had the chance to call her daily. He’d instructed her not to call his cell, because he never knew what times he’d be stalking Rashand. Something as small and minor as a ring or a buzz could cost him his life.

  The voice communicator hooked to Timmons’ shoulder buzzed. He lowered his face to the mouthpiece and depressed the button. “Timmons,” he whispered.

  “Delaney is emerging from the alley’s obscurity,” Sterns grouched through the speaker. “I can see his shoulder. Tell him to move back unless he’s chasing a death wish.”

  Sergeant Timmons whacked Brent in the arm. “Hear that, Delaney? Get your head out of your ass. Move any closer to that street and your new residence might be a wooden casket.”

  Yeah, common sense dictated he had a good chance of ending up there anyhow. He backed up and glanced at the two-story structure across the street. Every window offered a straight shot into the alley. Kissing bullets wasn’t his idea of fun. “Are we sure he’s in there?”

  “Of course not, but someone’s in there moving around.”

  “Great.” Brent squatted low to the ground and pulled out his binoculars. “Are we even sure it’s him who’s been spotted?”

  “Absolutely. We have a file loaded with photos to back up the claim.”

  Brent looked through the night-vision lenses and focused on the second-floor windows. The inside of the building remained pitch-black but a faint glow of light from the street lamps dimly shined on the outside bricks. The rays trailed off at the alley’s entrance where he and Timmons ducked in the shadows.

  “If it’s not the Sadist in there, someone else is going to jail,” Timmons said, dropping down beside Brent. “There’s no reason to hang around a dilapidated warehouse in the middle of the night unless it involves drugs.”

  “Hustling drug dealers wasn’t part of the bargain.”

  Timmons cupped Brent’s shoulder. “Right, but sometimes unexpected shit happens.” He gave Brent’s shoulder a squeeze. “Delaney, I’m gonna make a cop out of you yet.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.” Brent lowered the binocular view to the first floor. A red speckle of light on the west side of the building caught his eye. He zoomed in the lenses and scoped the area. A dark figure stood leaning with its back to the bricks and foot propped against the wall. “We’ve got activity on the western end. Why isn’t anyone covering that section?” He raised the binoculars for a head shot and observed the distinct profile of a man puffing on a smoke. “It’s not Rashand.” He handed the binoculars to Timmons.

  “It looks like Avery, our snitch. What the fuck!” Timmons shifted the binoculars to the opposite end of the building. “Sterns told him to stay out of this area tonight.”

  Footsteps pounded the street in the distance. “What the hell?” Timmons mumbled.

  The footsteps quickly drew near, mimicking the sound of a stampede. By the clumping of the thundering feet, at least fifteen or more bodies were heading in their direction. Suddenly gunshots tore through the area. A chain of bullets rebounded off the buildings, broke street lights into bits and shattered windows. Glass shards flew through the air, crackling as they toppled to the concrete.

  “Ahhh, mother fuck!” blared through the darkness.

  “Shit! Avery’s down,” Timmons yelled. “Get the fuck outta here, Delaney! We’ve been set up.”

  Timmons yanked the gun from his holster, grabbed Brent by the arm and dragged him toward the end of the alley. A bullet whizzed by their heads. It ricocheted off the metal dumpster with a ping. A sharp pain hit Brent’s thigh, bringing him to his knees. “Fuck, I’ve been hit.” Warm blood oozed through his pants and his entire leg went numb.

  “Where?” Timmons yanked him to his feet and threw an arm around his back.

  “Left thigh.”

  “We gotta get the hell outta here. You gonna make it?”

  Brent started hopping toward the adjoining road that butted into the back of the alley. “Yeah.”

  Timmons tightened his grip. “Let’s go.”

  When they made the turn onto the road, Timmons tucked Brent in between two more dumpsters and squatted down. Dim lighting from the only two working street lamps offered a faint glow. Vacant, rundown buildings lined the road. A deserted apartment complex stood along the opposite side with half the windows busted. A crooked white door dangled from an upper hinge. Yeah, it definitely reminded him of something only seen in the movies.

  “Put pressure on that wound,” Timmons said, his voice shaky. “You’re losing a lot of blood.” He tore the neck strap from the binoculars and tied it around Brent’s thigh above the bullet hole.

  Brent couldn’t feel a damn thing. By the amount of blood saturating his pant leg, the slug probably nicked an artery.

  “We’ll get you outta here, don’t worry.” Timmons depressed the button on his radio communicator. “Delaney is down,” he said in a low, desperate tone. “Assistance needed.”

  No response.

  “Fuck! They probably can’t hear because of the gunfire.” He depressed the button again. “I repeat, Delaney is down. Assistance needed in southwest corner of Beidel Street.”

  “Copy that,” Detective Sterns replied. “Help’s en route.”

  “Make it quick.”

  Loud footsteps pounded through the area, echoing off the walls of the dilapidated structures. A glass bottle skidded across the gravel street and shattered. Grunts and breathless voices dominated the darkness as the thundering footsteps grew louder. Abruptly they stopped right around the corner.

  The click of a button resounded in their space and a bright beam from a flashlight slithered into the area, settling on Timmons’ back. The barrel of a gun was placed on the side of his head.

  The trigger cocked. “Looks like you boys got yourselves into some deep shit.” The menacing voice turned into a threatening string of laughter.

  A deafening blast shot through Brent’s ears. Something wet and warm spattered his face and chest. Just then Timmons fell sideways and toppled across his shins. A chunk of his skull was missing and bright-red blood poured from a mangled section of Timmons’ head.

  Fuck!

  Not Timmons! Jesus Christ, he had a wife and three small kids.

  The motherfuckers!

  If he had use of his leg…

  Damn it. He’d kill every one of the lowlife bastards.

  Rashand would pay. Whether these thugs worked for him or not, he was
going to pay. If it was the last thing Brent ever did, he’d permanently remove the bastard from the fucking earth.

  Clenching fists at his sides, he looked up into the barrel of a .38.

  * * * * *

  Annalee paced the family room, rubbing the back of her neck. Another damn winter storm wreaked havoc outside, and the house creaked now and again from heavy winds blowing bare tree limbs against the aluminum siding.

  She’d worn a layer of goose bumps during the past hour and couldn’t warm up no matter what she’d tried. Had she known she’d be so cold, she would’ve put a t-shirt on under her jogging clothes for added warmth after she’d climbed out of the shower. Usually she wasn’t so cold. Maybe she was getting sick, or maybe she’d just suffered a severe case of nervous jitters.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Not once today had she talked to Brent, and he’d gotten into the habit of calling morning, noon and evening. What the hell?

  She’d picked up her cell phone twenty times in the past three hours and punched in the first six digits of his number, but never followed through making the call. He’d specifically told her not to contact him because of the dangers. Where in the heck was he?

  She never expected the separation to be this hard. What had happened to her? Since when did a case of like cause her to worry so much? Had she known how desperately she’d miss him, she would’ve begged him harder to stay. This was pure hell.

  “Come on, Annalee, it’s been nearly a month, are you ever going to take me back?”

  She stopped by the television, raising her brows. Jared had been so quiet she’d forgotten he came to pick up a few stray articles of clothing and was sitting on the couch. “No, Jared, that is not going to happen.” He couldn’t be serious.

  “I told you, I don’t love Willow.”

  “I know, it was the sex. I get it.” She glanced in the kitchen at the digital microwave clock. It seemed like midnight rather than 8:45.

  Why hadn’t Brent called? Seriously, he didn’t owe her anything but he wouldn’t leave her hanging. He just wouldn’t do that. Even if he’d drifted out to sea on a new mission, he’d at least call to tell her goodbye.

  No, he would not avoid her on purpose. There had to be a logical explanation. Unless—no, she refused to go there. The thought alone brought tears to her eyes.

  “We could be getting married in seven months,” Jared said, breaking into her thoughts. “Are you involved with the big guy I saw at the party?”

  I wish. How could she answer that? They’d lit each other’s fire and shared fabulous sex, but to consider them involved was a little premature. “You don’t know how badly you hurt me. I’ll never, ever forget it.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “That’s because it’s none of your business.”

  “I can forgive you if you can. Love heals all wounds.”

  Was he friggin’ kidding? “Only if it’s strong enough.” And in her case it wasn’t. Honestly, she couldn’t say whether or not she ever truly loved him. The feelings she once had were no comparison to how she felt about Brent. That’s not saying she loved him either, but they shared something special. Something so strong it drew them back together after a lengthy separation.

  Did she feel safe with Brent? Yes. Did she hate being apart from him? Absolutely. Did she miss the absence of his arms holding her tight? So much it hurt. Had she ever felt that way with Jared? Not as deeply.

  “You can’t fall out of love that fast, Annalee. You’re letting anger control your feelings.”

  It was possible, which might be the reason she’d gotten over him so easily. Well, it wasn’t easy, but it happened over a shorter period of time than expected. Brent wouldn’t have been able to manipulate her emotions as quickly if she’d been in love with Jared. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but,” she removed her hand from her neck and sat down on the chair, “since you fucked my best friend, I’ll never take you back. What you’ve done is unforgivable.”

  “We’re past that now,” he said, standing and taking a step toward the chair.

  He’d definitely dipped into la-la land. “Oh so now I’m suddenly good enough for you? What happened? The whip break?”

  “Quit talking shit.”

  “I think it’s time you grab your things and go. Your clothes are stacked on the kitchen counter.” She stood and headed toward her bedroom. “Lock the door on your way out,” she blurted over her shoulder. But she hadn’t made it as far as the hallway when he grabbed her by the arm and spun her around.

  “What’s your problem, Annalee? Why can’t I get through to you?”

  She knocked his hand away. He gripped her shoulders, squeezing so hard she winced. “Let go of me, Jared.”

  “Not until you’re ready to talk sensibly.”

  “There’s nothing to say.”

  “Let’s start a new beginning.”

  She closed her eyes and then slowly reopened them. He looked desperate and ready to cry. “No. It’s over.”

  “I swear I’ll never hurt you again.”

  “Jared, I’m sorry. Please, just go.”

  He dug his fingers deeper, causing an ache that brought tears to her eyes. She tried pushing his hands aside, but his grip intensified. “Stop it, you’re hurting me.”

  “Do you care how much I’m hurting?” He squeezed, nearly bringing her to her knees. “No, Annalee, you don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself. You’re a selfish bitch.”

  “And I suppose you were thinking about me while you were fucking Willow?”

  “If you weren’t so damn fragile none of this would have happened.”

  “So it’s my fault?” In a final attempt to break away, she dug her nails into his hands and pried. His palms slackened for an instant before he clamped so tightly the pain forced her legs to buckle and she hunkered forward. “Damn you, Jared,” she squeaked.

  In that instant, her cell phone rang. Brent!

  She raised her leg and kneed Jared square in the balls.

  “Ahhh,” he screeched, grabbing his crotch. He dropped to the floor, pulling his legs to his chest. “Damn you, Annalee. You didn’t have to do that,” he wailed through clenched teeth.

  “Then leave your hands off me,” she warned while trotting toward the coffee table to answer the call. She grabbed the cell and slid the bar to unlock it without looking at the incoming number. “Hello?”

  “Annalee?”

  “Brody?” Her breath caught and tummy vaulted in a bad way from the proper use of her name. She avoided the slight throb still ticking deep inside her shoulders and sat down on the couch. “What is it? Where’s Brent?”

  “He’s in the hospital.”

  She jumped to her feet. “Why? What happened?”

  “He’s been shot.”

  Oh no. No. Please, God, no. “What hospital? Is he okay?”

  “He’s back in Seattle. They transferred him near my mom and dad this morning.”

  “Is he…” She slapped a hand across her mouth.

  “No,” Brody replied quickly. “The bullet nicked an artery in his thigh and he lost a lot of blood, but this morning, thank God, they upgraded his condition to critical but stable.”

  Meaning he still had a good chance of dying. Oh Jesus. Oh Lord. “When did it happen? Why didn’t you contact me sooner?”

  “Last night. They rushed him into surgery immediately. No one contacted us right away either. We received the call at five o’clock this morning.”

  They’d waited sixteen hours to notify her! She lodged a hand in her hair above her bangs. “You know how I feel about him, Brody.”

  “I know. I know, sweetheart. And I apologize.” He sighed heavily into the receiver. “Brent wouldn’t want you seeing him like this, but,” he paused, “I’ve seen the look in your eyes when you gaze at him. I figured the decision to call you may get me pulverized, but I talked it over with my mom and dad and we decided it best to tell you what happened.”

 
Tears filled her eyes but she couldn’t determine whether they signified relief or fear. “What should I do?” First of all, calm down. “I’m flying to Seattle. Will you pick me up at the airport?”

  “You know I will. Call me after you make flight arrangements.”

  “I will,” she said and hung up the phone. She glanced at Jared. He’d sat up on his knees but he still had his hand cupped over his balls, and his face was contorted in pain. “Jared, I have a plane to catch. You need to leave.And if you ever come here again, I’ll call the police and have you arrested.”

  * * * * *

  Brody handed Annalee a cup of coffee and sat down on the couch beside her. During the entire flight she was a nervous wreck, but it held no comparison to sitting in the hospital waiting area, awaiting her turn to visit Brent. Her leg shook nonstop and her heartbeat thumped rapidly to the point she couldn’t determine when one beat stopped and the next started.

  Mr. Whiltby told her to take all the time off she needed and treated it as a personal leave of absence since the event didn’t qualify for FMLA. Someone seriously needed to amend the rules to provide an employee time off to nurse a lover back to health.

  She constantly glanced from the closed ICU door to an elderly woman sitting behind a desk.

  “He’ll be okay, sweetheart,” Brody said, covering her hand with his. “He’s holding his own, but don’t freak when you see him.”

  Biting on her lip, she nodded. “It happened on the assignment, right?”

  “Yeah. His partner wasn’t as fortunate. They blew his brains out. Sorry for my choice words.”

  “It’s okay.” Not really. She wanted to vomit.

  “They think the intent was to capture Brent, because they pistol-whipped him when they could have shot him at pointblank range too.”

  Her eyes widened and heartbeat skidded to a stop. “Oh my God. Pistol-whipped?” Could have shot him at pointblank range? What would they have done if they captured him? Torture him as they had tortured Captain Kobby? It’d been months and he still refused to disclose details of the torment they’d inflicted. The poor man had been badly beaten. Really badly, and barely recognizable.