Hot Pursuit

by Julie Ann Walker

  “Don’t you fucking say his name!” Lawrence snarled, more spittle flying, more hot breath crystallizing. “You don’t deserve to have it pass your lying, murderous lips!”

  Christian took a deep breath and tried again. “Okay,” he soothed, patting the cold air in deference. “Okay. You’re right. But before you do something you might regret, you need to hear what really happened in Iraq.”

  “I know what happened,” Lawrence snarled. “You opened fire at a roadblock filled with Iraqi policemen. And when you got caught, my brother had to go in and save you!”

  “I was under orders to resist capture,” Christian said evenly. If Lawrence’s face was the picture of rage, then Christian hoped his was the picture of calm. He got the impression he was walking a knife’s edge. One wrong move, one wrong word, and Lawrence would snap and gun them all down. “I had been tasked with bringing down corrupt policemen and—”

  “You’re a liar!”

  “Lawrence, please,” Christian pleaded, seeing that the man was working himself into a frenzy. Two minutes ago, when he’d thought the Michelsons were no better than Spider’s henchmen, he’d wanted to send them to meet their Maker tout de suite. Now, he simply wanted them to understand. “The media never had the whole story. The SAS made a scapegoat of me when things went south and—”

  “Shut up! Shut your lying mouth!” Lawrence screeched. Then he turned and yelled over his shoulder, “Ben! Go to the door and tell that last bastard to get his sodding ass out here! Tell him I’ll give him thirty seconds before I start putting holes in his mates!”

  A dark shadow peeled away from the gloom of the trees near the front of the manor. The massive shoulders on the shadow left no doubt it was Ben. As the younger Michelson brother skirted the lot of them and headed toward the house, Christian had a terrible realization.

  “How did you find us here? Did you follow us from the airport?”

  Lawrence nodded, confirming Christian’s suspicions that the vehicle that had caught Angel’s eye in the rearview mirror must have been the Michelsons’. So then why had the brothers waited until the middle of the night to confront Christian? And why were they insisting that everyone come out on the front lawn if all they wanted to do was talk?

  The answer was obvious. Still, Christian held out a tiny sliver of hope. “So what say we have that chat now then, yeah?”

  “It’s too late.” Lawrence’s big chest heaved with emotion, his breath creating cloud after cloud in front of him.

  “He’s not dead,” Christian insisted firmly, hoping the Michelsons’ upcoming plans hinged on that salient fact and not pure old-fashioned revenge. “The pilot your brother shot… He’s not dead.”

  Lawrence had been looking over Christian’s shoulder, watching his brother make his way across the flagstones and up the stairs toward the open front door. But that had his dark eyes pinging to Christian’s. “He’s not?”

  “No. He’s alive. The bullet went through and through.”

  For a moment, Christian thought Lawrence might call the whole thing off, lower his weapon, and slink off into the forest. But then the elder Michelson’s expression hardened and what hope Christian had that this all could get sorted without bloodshed vanished.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Lawrence shook his head. “Because you’re still the reason my brother’s dead. You’re still the reason my mother and father are dead. And you’re gonna pay!”

  Christian bore the responsibility for Teddy Michelson’s death. He might not have been the one to fire the round that had torn through Teddy’s jugular—that had been the work of a corrupt Iraqi police officer—but he also had not been able to get out of the firefight at the roadblock without being caught. And that had necessitated his rescue and put Teddy and all the other soldiers of the 22nd SAS Regiment in mortal danger.

  Not a day went by that Christian didn’t rehash the events leading up to that roadblock, wondering if there had been some clue he had missed, something to let him know the Iraqi officers had been on to him. No matter how many times he went over it, however, he always came back to the same conclusion: Nothing. There was no way he could have known.

  It was bloody infuriating. Completely demoralizing. And given the way the SAS had kicked him to the curb afterward, he sometimes wondered if it might not have been better if the Regiment had simply refused to send in a rescue team. Teddy would still be alive. But then, of course, Christian would undoubtedly be dead.

  Still, did that matter in the grand scheme of things? Was his life worth more than Teddy’s? Had all the good he’d done working for BKI, the countless times he’d done his part to make the world a safer place, made up for Teddy’s death? Is that how the scales of the universe worked?

  Christian suffered no illusion that if he asked Lawrence those questions, the man’s answers would be no. To the Michelsons, nothing Christian had done could make up for losing their beloved brother.

  “Mum and Dad were devastated by Teddy’s death,” Lawrence said. “Two weeks after we put Teddy in the ground, Mum stepped in front of a bus.”

  “Oh God,” Christian whispered. Even though his heart was lying on the ground somewhere near his feet, he still felt the organ shatter.

  “Dad couldn’t stand the grief. Had a massive heart attack after we laid her to rest beside Teddy.”

  Christian screwed his eyes shut, hurting for all the damage, all the pain done to so many after the police station incident.

  “I understand.” He opened his eyes, determination snapping his spine straight. Glancing at Emily, he ran his eyes over her beloved face, wanting to memorize every curve, every line, every subtle texture. He would hold that memory in his mind’s eye when he did what must be done. “I do. So why don’t you and your brother take me into the woods and do with me what you will.”

  “Christian, no.” Emily stared at him in horror.

  He didn’t answer her. If sacrificing himself to the Michelsons’ need for vengeance would keep her and the others safe, he’d gladly do it. “The others…” He lifted a hand, indicating the two men to his left, the woman—his woman—in front of him. “Your quarrel isn’t with them; it’s with me. They’re innocent in all this.”

  “Innocent?” Lawrence laughed, and the sound exploded over the lawn like a cannon blast. “Bollocks they are. Innocent people don’t create a firebomb in a small village to escape the press. Innocent people don’t take the back roads to the airport when the motorway woulda been twice as fast. Innocent people don’t break into an old manor house to hide for the night.”

  His argument was so smooth it sounded rehearsed. Is that how Lawrence was rationalizing his plan? Had he convinced himself that Emily, Ace, Rusty, and Angel were all as culpable as Christian? A cold fingernail of dread—and inevitability—scraped up Christian’s spine.

  “None of you are innocent,” Lawrence spat. “None of you deserve—”

  He was cut off by the sound of his brother poking his head into the front door and yelling, “Hey, you! Wake up and get your stupid ass out onto the front lawn, or all your mates are gonna get it!”

  Silence followed that pronouncement, and still Angel was MIA. Christian was about to try to explain away his absence when Lawrence yelled to Ben, “Never mind! Let’s finish this lot, and then we’ll find the last one!”

  And there it was, laid out in words as plain as day. Finish this lot.

  Panic and remorse and the need to try one last time to change the outcome this night was barreling toward at breakneck speed had Christian opening his mouth to plead with the older Michelson. But before he could say anything, Ben palmed his Glock and turned around, nodding at his older brother. And in that split second, Christian saw the angel of death appear in the dark shadows behind Ben.

  No, not the angel of death. Just Angel.

  “Angel, no!” he shouted when Angel raised his hands. Christian needed a few more m
inutes to try to convince Lawrence—

  But it was too late. Angel grabbed Ben’s jaw and gave it a hard, backward yank. The movies got loads of things wrong, but the noise a person’s neck makes as it breaks wasn’t one of them. The sound of Ben’s vertebra snapping was as sickening as it was final. Ben Michelson was dead before his body hit the ground.

  “Noooo!” Lawrence roared, flinging Emily away from him and swinging his weapon toward Angel, a murderous gleam shining in his eyes.

  It was done. There would be no quarter given to the Michelsons this night.

  Christian had enough time to see that Emily was okay—she’d stumbled but had managed to stay on her feet—before he lunged. He made it a step before Lawrence’s pistol barked, the sound oddly amplified by the cold stillness of the night.

  Pain burned through his arm, but he ignored the sizzle, still barreling toward Lawrence, sensing Ace and Rusty hot on his heels. He took an additional three steps before jumping and tackling Lawrence to the ground.

  Lawrence roared his fury when Christian landed on him and was quick to get one hand on Lawrence’s wrist, the one holding the gun. Christian curled his other hand into a fist that he used to smash Lawrence’s nose. Bam! Crunch! Blood gushed over Lawrence’s face.

  Christian knew his knuckles would hurt later—bone meeting bone was never fun—but right then he felt nothing but determination. He had to disarm Lawrence. And fast. With his brother dead, Lawrence was beyond reason.

  Christian’s punch would have knocked out most men and dazed many others. But Lawrence was built like a rhino, and mindless with rage to boot. He seemed to shake off the blow as if it was nothing, and before Christian knew it, a hard punch landed against his ribs. Lawrence’s meaty fist felt like a pile driver. Christian’s rib cage creaked in warning. Another one of those punches, and he’d be in a world of pain.

  They rolled and spat and kicked and snarled, fighting for control of the weapon. The smell of Lawrence, body odor thinly disguised by harsh-smelling cologne, surrounded Christian in a toxic cloud until finally, he was able to bring down his elbow on the crook of Lawrence’s arm. As he’d hoped, the move momentarily paralyzed a nerve, causing the Glock 17 to slip from Lawrence’s grip.

  Christian palmed the weapon, rolled off Lawrence, and stood. His chest worked like a bellows from the effort. Adrenaline left a sharp, tangy taste on his tongue.

  Aiming down at Lawrence, he curled his finger around a trigger that was warm and worn smooth. “Don’t move!” he commanded when Lawrence pushed to his feet.

  Either Lawrence didn’t hear him or else didn’t care. The brute wiped a hand beneath his nose, smearing blood across his cheek, and then turned on his heel.

  For a second, Christian thought Lawrence was going to flee the scene—and even though it would be hell on all their covers, he would have let him go. Then Christian realized Lawrence had no thought of leaving, because he reached for a sheath on his waistband and came away with a tactical fighting knife that sported a matte-black blade. The fool was determined to fight to the death, taking as many of them with him as he could.

  “Stop!” Christian bellowed, giving Lawrence one last chance. Hoping beyond hope the man would realize he was outgunned and outnumbered.

  No such luck. Lawrence roared his mindless outrage and sprinted toward Emily.

  That’s all it took. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing as Christian aimed and fired. The boom of the Glock as it belched up a round sounded profane. The round entered the back of Lawrence’s skull, and a plume of pink and red mist exploded from the front of his head.

  Christian could tell by Emily’s expression of shock and horror that Lawrence’s face was gone. She took a step back, a hand going over her mouth.

  Lawrence’s body wobbled once. Twice. Then crumpled to the ground.

  Shit. Shit! If only Lawrence had listened to reason.

  “Are you okay?” Christian demanded of Emily, still blowing hard and trying like hell not to stare at the man he’d just sent to meet his Maker.

  The second she nodded, he allowed himself to succumb to the weight of his regret. He fell to his knees, and Lawrence’s weapon dropped from his nerveless fingers. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Angel casually shove Ben’s weapon into the waistband of his jeans before stepping over the body.

  Two men dead in ten seconds. Just that easy.

  He had been right the first time. It had been the angel of death that had appeared behind Ben. But if Angel deserved that designation, then surely Christian did too.

  “Damnit!” His anguish felt like a hard, sharp nail lodged in his throat. No, not a nail. A railroad spike. “Damnit!”

  “They came here to kill us,” Ace said quietly, putting a hand on Christian’s shoulder.

  “At first I thought they were covering their tracks, taking out the witnesses who saw Ben shoot that pilot,” Rusty said. “But then there was that look on Lawrence’s face when you told him the pilot was still alive.”

  Yes. Christian remembered it well. It was the moment he had gotten his first inkling of just how gruesomely this night would end.

  “He was crazy,” Ace said. “You could see it in his eyes. All he wanted was blood, revenge for something that wasn’t even your fault.”

  “But it was my fault, don’t you see?” That railroad spike twisted in Christian’s throat. “If not for my failed mission, their brother would still be alive. Same for their mother and father.”

  “Christian, you can’t—” Ace began, but Christian tuned him out.

  He glanced numbly at his arm, blinking at the deep furrow Lawrence’s bullet had cut through the fabric of his sweater. The ragged edges glistened with his blood, but the round had only grazed him.

  That didn’t seem right, did it? Two men were dead and he was only grazed?

  His mind immediately hit on his mother, on the regret and the self-condemnation that had slowly eaten her from the inside out. Strange that besides their dark hair and the subtle dimple in their chins that would be the thing they had in common and—

  “Christian?”

  He looked up to see Emily standing beside him. So beautiful and sweet with her dark eyes and wild, wind-blown hair. She knelt in front of him and took his face in her hands. It was only when the cool kiss of her soft palms landed on his cheeks that he felt the wetness there. Was he crying?

  “You are not to blame for any of this. You hear me?”

  He tried to look away, but she gave his head a shake, forcing his eyes back to hers.

  “There are a lot of people at fault here. The SAS. Lawrence and Ben. But not you. You didn’t do anything wrong. So don’t get sad. Get mad! I am!” Despite the cold, her face was mottled red. “I’m so fucking mad on your behalf!”

  And though he would not have thought it possible, he felt a somber smile tug at his lips. Dear, sweet, ferocious Emily. A tigress. His tigress.

  A part of him knew she was right, knew the words she spoke were the truth. But another part of him figured he was a tad bit right too. At least some of it had to rest on his shoulders.

  “Emily…” Her name was an invocation, a prayer.

  Once and for all, she proved she was a mind reader and pulled him into her arms. She claimed his mouth in a kiss that tried to heal all the things that were broken and hurting inside him. Lithe arms crushed him to her, because she was Emily and she knew he needed her strength in this moment of doubt and despair.

  He thought he heard a phone ring, but the tornado of emotions swirling inside him and tossing sharp, painful debris at his head made it impossible to concentrate. It wasn’t until he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder that reality—and a bit of sanity—returned.

  “I hate to do this,” Ace said, “but I have Boss on the line. He has good news. At least, I think it’s good news.”

  Christian regretfully released Emily’s lips. B
ut he didn’t release her. No. He needed to keep hold of her.

  “Seems Philippe’s partner was able to get here earlier than planned.” Ace held the phone against his chest. “She’s waiting at the airport and wants to know when we can get there so she can submit a takeoff time to air traffic control.”

  Christian glanced around at the carnage, at the…death. Such senseless death.

  “Right-oh.” He nodded, wanting nothing more than to leave merry ol’ England behind. Once again, the place had proved the undoing of him. “Let’s get the bloody hell off this sodding island, shall we?”

  Chapter 21

  36,000 feet over the Atlantic…

  Emily glanced down the aisle of the swanky private jet at the lavatory door. Still closed. Which meant Christian was still inside tending his wound.

  She had asked if he needed any help, but he had waved her off, looking so tired and defeated that her squishy, far-too-tender heart had ached for him.

  Nothing that had happened during the last twenty-four hours was his fault. But Christian being Christian, all noble and principled and self-sacrificing—when the big, dumb dope had told Lawrence Michelson to take him into the woods, she’d nearly had a heart attack—was determined to shoulder at least some of the blame for the brothers’ deaths.

  Ridiculous, since it’d been Angel who’d offed one of them.

  Wondering if the former Mossad agent was suffering any aftereffects from the night, she glanced over to find him reclined back in a plush armchair. He was fast asleep. Like, seriously. His face was as still as a picture. His arms were folded over his chest. And he was so ethereally beautiful that she was reminded of all the vampires that’d taken over television since that whole Twilight thing went gangbusters.

  Nope. No guilt or regret there.

  “I can feel you watching me.” Angel’s deep, scratchy voice made her jump. Okay, so obviously he wasn’t asleep. That was even spookier. “And I know what you think.”

  “Oh yeah?” she asked, even though he had yet to open his eyes or turn toward her. “And what do I think?”