Everything confused him when he had to make decisions. It was good he had an older brother to help him. He just wanted to hear Ronnie’s voice. He leaned against the cool interior, shoving the panic aside. He could always stop that anxious feeling, just by talking to Ronnie.
He took the phone from his pocket, cradling it in his hand—and began to dial the number.
Chapter 15
Sweat beaded Johnny’s face as Alexa made a quick, decisive cut through the flesh of his thigh. A muffled cry escaped, but Johnny managed to hold most of it back. He gritted his teeth, holding himself hard against the sharp agony as she began to try to extract the bullet.
Muscles clenched, and he arched away reflexively, then remembered the business they were about with the lucid part of his mind, and stopped the movement. She murmured softly as she worked—words that made no sense, but it didn’t matter. All he needed was the reassuring sound of her voice.
One last shot of molten fire streaked through him as she brought the lead out of his flesh.
He cried out, but she caught the agonized groan, putting her mouth over his to muffle the sound. And this time, she came to him, completely without reservation—as if she hadn’t even thought twice about it. She dropped the bullet and tweezers on the floor of the tubing beside them as her lips came atop his.
For a moment, they both were perfectly still, as though the shock of the kiss was more than either of them could bear. Their lips touched, but they didn’t move, until Johnny raised a very slow hand to the back of Alexa’s neck and caressed it gently.
He took control of the kiss, feeling Alexa’s uncertainty at being the aggressor dissolve. He felt her lift her lips cautiously and a grin quirked his mouth as she did. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “That was the best pain killer I’ve ever had. I think I can…manage it, now.”
She was only a few inches from him—so close he could see the question in her face. “I’m all right. Really.” He thought of the kiss and added hastily, “For now, anyway.”
She smiled at the tease and sat up, reaching for a clean strip of the sheet. She wet it and gently wiped his face and neck. He took a deep, shuddering breath as she washed away the stream of blood.
She smeared some ointment on it and folded a thick square of bandaging, then began to tear some of the medical tape to keep it in place. She would not meet his eyes.
He smiled. “I’ll bet you’ve never done anything that forward in your whole life.”
Alexa did glance up at him then, before turning back to the wound. “They say desperate times call for desperate measures.”
He gave a sardonic chuckle. “Let’s try it again, Lex,” he murmured. “Without the—desperation—this time.”
Slowly, she raised her gaze to meet his.
“Come here,” he whispered.
She moistened her lips. “I need to—”
“You need to come here.” He reached for her and pulled her to him, more roughly than he had intended, made clumsy by the blood loss and pain.
She let herself be drawn down, quickly shifting beside him so she wouldn’t make contact with his injured side. “Johnny—”
But he shook his head as Alexa eased him back down fully, holding her close to him, her lips hovering just above his once more.
“Kiss me, Lex,” he whispered hoarsely. “Like we’ve got all day. Long and slow—like we’re gonna walk out of here together, into forever.”
The compressors turned on just then, saving Alexa from making any kind of reply but for the one Johnny had asked for so eloquently. Slowly, she closed the short distance between them, her lips stroking his in a feather-light kiss that stole his breath.
She returned it to him in the next instant as her tongue tasted him hesitantly, and he tightened his grip in reaction.
“’Lexa,” he murmured.
She lifted her head, afraid she’d hurt him somehow.
The things he wanted to say to her would not come. Maybe they were dreams that were better left unspoken for now, until they got out of this mess—if they ever did. His lips met hers and he kissed her, long and hot, igniting the fire inside both of them for more.
Alexa moaned softly, her hand splaying across his unwounded side.
He could feel the fear within her, as well as the hunger. He understood. He, too, was afraid it wasn’t real, this desire—just a figment of the situation they found themselves in. If they had met in the local grocery store, would the attraction still have been there?
He reveled in the feel of her soft lips moving over his, the taste of her mouth. This was real. Here, or at the local Fast Market, or in his bedroom at home. What he felt was real. And Alexa Bailey was true blue, a straight-shooter who would never have entertained a thought of doing to him what Sharon had done all those years ago.
But could she handle being with him? A cop? His fingers wound in the short, silky strands of her hair. He’d have to convince her, somehow. He couldn’t let her go. Not now. The question was, how could he handle her not being his?
Her hand made light contact with his thigh, and he was swiftly brought back to the present. He groaned and swore against her mouth, and she sat up quickly.
He was done in. Truth was, he hated to sleep—to leave Alexa alone with Daniel.
Their odd companion could come back any time. He could be here right now, for all they knew, lurking in the shadows of the huge tubing…
There was nothing Johnny could do anyway, except shoot Daniel. Shoot the man who had carried him here to safety. What was he thinking? But the feeling of distrust would not be set aside, no matter how he tried to rationalize or shove it away. There was a reason for this unease, no matter that his disjointed thinking processes tried their best to convince him everything was all right where Daniel was concerned. It wasn’t; and with every part of him, he knew it.
♥ ♥ ♥
Brendan Roberts had figured it out. It had taken him a while, he had to admit, but he had to believe his trust in people had caused this grievous error. He should not have trusted one of his own men. He could see that now.
Albert Pickens was one of them—McShane’s damned terrorist bunch.
Roberts had assumed Pickens had been captured from another part of the hotel, since he’d come into the lobby with McShane. Now, he was coming to understand that Pickens—at least at that point—had not been a hostage. He’d been a participant.
The Prime Minister’s gaze wandered to the young police officer McShane’s men had beaten. Logan’s beating had been brutal, but it was what Brendan knew to expect from the terrorist and his “army.” There was no denying their thorough abilities to torture, to maim…to kill. Pete Logan had withstood the punishing, well-placed blows stoically. Roberts had watched Logan quell the constant urge to fight back, tamping it down with a supreme effort, as the younger man reminded himself of the consequences—should he forget himself for even one brief instant.
It was in Logan’s nature to fight back, Roberts thought, watching the injured man’s steady breathing. Roberts knew that if Logan had had only himself to worry about, he would have fought, no holds barred, and most likely, he’d have singlehandedly beaten McShane’s thugs within an inch of their worthless lives.
Scotland Yard and the FBI would be collaborating by now, trying to come up with a way to get him out of this alive. He sighed, chewing the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. There just might not be a way out this time. McShane, damn his soul, was consumed with a rage so black and unyielding that it was, what Roberts had privately called “demonic”. There was no reasoning with McShane. He had his own ideas about how things were going to be, and once he set a plan in motion he was notorious for seeing it through to the end. So notorious and single-minded, in fact, that he’d been booted from the IRA and gone rogue with his own followers.
The law enforcement agencies would have their hands full. And it all made sense as to how events had unfolded the way they had, since Albert Pickens had been involved. He had set it all up�
�stepping in to create the itinerary for the trip after Roberts’s personal secretary, Mrs. Plumb, had met with a most unfortunate automobile accident. An accident Roberts was now positive had been planned to get the loyal older woman out of the way. She would have been sure all the “I’s” were dotted, the “T’s” crossed, and none of this would have been possible—had she lived.
He had been lax. Mrs. Plumb would not have allowed that—not for one minute. Now, he had to figure a plan to deal with these rogue bastards.
Damn, he hated to even draw a deep breath. The smell of death was beginning to permeate the entire hotel, reminding him of his failure to take the correct precautions.
He led one of the greatest nations in the world, yet he’d made a series of unforgivable blunders. Blunders that had led to the deaths of so many—his eyes strayed to where Logan lay, unmoving—blunders that could still be the cause of death for many more. His gaze roved quickly across the nameless faces of the innocent hostages, grouped on the floor of the lobby. He tried not to make eye contact; dear Jesus, they had already become too personal a liability for him to accept with any grace.
He raised his stare to the ceiling. Heaven was just beyond, but unreachable for him. Incredible to think that he and McShane would probably wind up sharing a corner of Hell, once this was all over. A caustic smile twisted his lips briefly.
The Serpent could not have come up with a more ingenious, enduring punishment—for both of them.
Chapter 16
Daniel began to dial the phone. His hands shook, and Ronnie had always told him not to let that happen. If he felt anxious or worried, he was supposed to call Ronnie. Only, he didn’t have a phone to call with anymore…except this one.
It was dumb, really, what he’d done with the phone Ronnie had give him. Ronnie didn’t know about the accident yet, either, and Daniel surely did hate to tell him. He surely did. Because, when Ronnie found out how dumb he had been about it, well, he sure would think his younger brother was a stupid-ass. Daniel shook his head. Sooner or later, he was going to have to tell Ronnie he didn’t have the phone anymore.
And when he told Ronnie he didn’t have the phone, well, Ronnie’d want to know how he’d lost it, and whatnot. Then, he’d have to tell his brother what he had done, and Ronnie was going to be so mad—so mad he might not bring Bobby’s Burgers up to Daniel for a month. Daniel would surely hate that for a fact, because he loved those cheeseburgers and fries. That’s what had gotten him in trouble with the phone to begin with.
Daniel stood in the shadows just inside the doorway, leaning against a section of duct tube as he dialed. “Two-three-two,” he muttered, “eight-five—”
The door opened abruptly, with a gust of wind, blowing in the big red-headed man Daniel recognized as one of the terrorists, as well. Sorley O’Brian, he thought, the name leaping readily to his mind.
Daniel receded into the shadows, melding himself to the pipe, out of sight.
O’Brian stepped inside, letting the door shut behind him as he took a cursory look around, then walked forward, across the spot where Johnny Logan had lain bleeding just a few hours earlier.
O’Brian’s nose wrinkled.
Daniel held his breath. He closed the top of the phone over the buttons, waiting until the compressors turned on thirty seconds later to let the lid click all the way shut.
O’Brian took several hesitant steps into the openness of the huge building, picking his way over the tubing and ductwork. He stopped, pale blue eyes going to the high, sheltering ceiling, scanning the intricacies of the pipes, tubes, and valves.
Daniel watched as O’Brian lumbered forward again, with all the grace of a grizzly bear. A sneer of contempt curled Daniel’s upper lip. This was what he needed to fear? This? He lifted his head a notch, watching the predator in his territory.
O’Brian once more scrambled to regain his footing as he tripped over a pipe. A soft chuckle escaped Daniel, but he knew there was no risk of being heard—not while the compressors were running.
The terrorist’s nervousness gave Daniel pleasure. Don’t come into my home, he thought, wishing he could go after O’Brian. If he did, he’d have to kill him. That didn’t bother him. Not anymore. He started to take a step forward around the pole, but stopped. If he did kill O’Brian, wouldn’t the others come looking for him? Sure, they would. Daniel forced himself to relax, to melt back into the shadows.
O’Brian would go soon enough, and when he was done looking, that’d be the end of it. O’Brian disappeared around the corner. The compressors turned off, the silence just as harsh in the moment that followed—and almost as deafening as the noise they had made.
Then, another sound caught Daniel’s attention. From the other side of the wall, O’Brian cursed. Though the language was foreign, Daniel knew it was a curse from the tone. And he understood exactly what it meant.
The bed. The refrigerator. The microwave. All his things had been discovered. He stood, quiet and still, listening as Sorley O’Brian scattered his possessions and knocked the microwave to the floor; then the refrigerator.
Why? Why was O’Brian destroying his home? Daniel gritted his teeth and took two steps away from the shelter of the shadows. If O’Brian came around the corner now, Daniel would be vulnerable to whatever the terrorist decided to do. Which, more than likely, would be to shoot him down dead, like all the ones below in the hotel.
He didn’t want to die. He forced himself to step back—back to the welcoming darkness, where Sorley O’Brian couldn’t find him.
“You’ll never guess what the bloody hell I’ve found up here.”
By the sound of O’Brian’s muffled words, Daniel knew he was radioing the others. Telling the bastards about his special place. His home. Wasn’t it enough that he’d torn everything all to hell? Busted the microwave, from the sound of the splintering glass—how the hell was he going to make popcorn now? No more beer—the refrigerator had hit the floor like a ton of bricks—
Daniel’s breath came hard and fast, impotent rage searing through his body like a jagged bolt of rogue lightning.
Damn that Sorley O’Brian.
“Naw, there ain’t nobody here—not now, anyways.”
Daniel flinched. He listened, holding his breath, as the big man rounded the corner once more and headed for the door.
The booted feet came to a slow halt just inches from where Daniel stood. O’Brian stopped, his hand pressing the listening device at his ear, an expression of concern on his face.
Daniel stood still, his fingers on the smooth contours of Johnny Logan’s cell phone where it rested inside his shirt pocket. He didn’t want to give Johnny’s cell phone back. It was a nice one. Daniel calmed himself, letting his breath out slowly. If he let go a little too rough, O’Brian would look straight into his eyes.
A broad smile crept across the big Irishman’s homely features as McShane’s unintelligible words thrummed through the earpiece.
“Aye, Kier, don’t we always? I know, I know,” O’Brian said amiably. “Shoot first—then ask questions…if they’re still alive. I just have one—‘Are you the bastard who turned off the chocolate cake before it was done?’”
His laughter echoed through the vacant space of the building, and Daniel wanted to throw his hands up to his ears to block it out.
The familiar helpless feeling washed over him, leaving him drenched in his own sweat, his knees shaking. He hadn’t felt it for a long, long time—but it was back; oh yes, it was back. It wasn’t fear. It was anxiety. His home had been ruined. Damn it, he wished Ronnie was here! His gaze roamed over the giant redhead. He could take him. They were almost of a size, he and this Sorley O’Brian.
If Sorley O’Brian had stood there another thirty seconds, Daniel thought, he would have been treated to the killing he seemed to crave so badly—his own. Daniel leaned against the post for support, his hands clenching to stop their shaking, to stop himself from doing the thing that would bring the rest of those murdering bastards up here.
O’Brian made his way to the door. He paused, casting one last glance about the big room before closing the door carefully behind him.
Daniel’s breath rushed out, and he wiped the beads of sweat from his face. He let his body slide down the pole, down to the floor, where he sat.
They’d be back, he knew, now that O’Brian had discovered his home and so methodically destroyed it. He couldn’t even go pick up the mess O’Brian had made of his place.
At last, Daniel pulled himself up, his muscles protesting. His legs and feet were numb, and he stumbled as he took the first steps toward the devastation O’Brian had done.
But he forced himself to take the steps, righted himself quickly, and kept moving. Yet, he rounded the corner with hesitation, afraid of what he’d see. He closed his eyes, then forced himself to look.
The ruin was just as bad as he had imagined, from the noises. The microwave lay on its side, the door broken and bent at the hinges. The refrigerator, too, lay askew a few feet beyond the wreckage of the microwave.
His mattress was toppled from the metal bed frame, propped haphazardly across the tops of the oven and the refrigerator.
His quarters! He strode forward and shifted the mattress a little so that he could see.
The bastard had pocketed his and Ronnie’s quarter collection! He made a low noise in his throat. Maybe they had fallen on the other side of the bed, onto the floor.
Daniel dropped to his knees, peering under the bed frame. The roll of statehood quarters was gone.
His eyes burned with tears. Letting O’Brian’s stealing the quarters get to him was stupid. He couldn’t spend them anyhow, on account of they was a collection, and on account of there wasn’t nothin’ to spend ’em on up here—on the roof. But Ronnie and him had started collecting those together, and Ronnie had left them with him. Ronnie had trusted him to keep their quarters safe, and he had let his brother down. He hadn’t kept them safe from that damn Sorley O’Brian. The son of a bitch had walked straight in here and looked under the mattress, just like he knew right where to go.
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