Crimes of Passion
Page 56
She’d begged him to stop.
Her eyes betrayed her thoughts and his smile reflected her revulsion.
Elizabeth blocked out his face and his words and thought instead of Nat. She needed to give him a clear shot so he could blow this bastard away. She forced herself past the hood of the car, circling DeLattio to give Nat a better target. She didn’t want to die, but it looked like she might have to. DeLattio turned to watch her.
That’s it, you bastard. Just give him a shot.
Andrew didn’t want her dead. Not yet. Not until he’d had his revenge and a repeat performance. It was weird, but it didn’t scare her anymore. She just wanted it to end. And she wanted him dead. Elizabeth inched closer, only an arm’s length away. She could feel the fury vibrating from him so powerfully she could actually smell it.
The bastard shoved Josie away, kicked her so hard she went flying into the mud, and then lunged for Elizabeth. He caught her by the throat with one hand and squeezed. Desperate, she scrabbled behind her back for the other weapon, chest burning with the need for oxygen, but she couldn’t reach it. One more try, Elizabeth. Don’t let the son of a bitch beat you now.
He grabbed her arm, wrenched it way up between her shoulder blades and ground his hips against hers like a lover. Panic assaulted her, every fiber going rigid with fear. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t suck in a single drop of air. Her fingers were numb and nerveless, her vision beginning to gray. Finally the grip on her throat eased, allowing the smallest amount of breath to leak through. The burning in her throat lessened, her arm was stretched painfully tight but no longer wrenched from its socket. The hand around her throat did a slow, stomach curling glide against fragile skin, then DeLattio slid the cold muzzle of his Beretta flush against her temple. He smiled. Perfect lips, perfect teeth. No soul.
Elizabeth’s gaze flickered awkwardly to where her friend lay twisted in the mud. “Go to the house, Josie.”
DeLattio glanced over as Josie struggled to her feet.
“Run,” Elizabeth urged. The man in front of her would kill just for the fun of it and the pale glimmer in his eyes told Elizabeth he was already thinking about it.
Josie scrambled towards the house—right into Nat’s line of fire.
Shit.
DeLattio’s eyes turned black with malice and he adjusted his grip on his gun. Elizabeth spat in his face, flinched as raw fury scoured her. He raised his gun into the air for a fraction of a second and she knew he was going to kill her. No reprieve, no repeat performance, no dance.
She grabbed his arm, held the gun upwards and kneed him in the groin so hard she lifted him up off the ground. She wasn’t drugged now, the son of a bitch.
A bullet ripped out, shattered the windshield beside her.
She yanked the Beretta out of DeLattio’s fingers and flung it hard beyond the fence. Still holding his hand, she twisted his fingers in a parody of affection, then kicked him in the kidneys. Hatred filled her as she watched him go down, rolling in agony. Using her boot she flipped him onto his back, straddled him, her knees sinking into the cold wet mud, her hand wrapped tight around his windpipe.
Elizabeth had no trouble retrieving her gun this time. She pulled it free, stuck it in his mouth and DeLattio flinched as the metal struck his teeth.
Revenge had never felt so glorious or redemption so far away.
Her lips curled into a smile that stretched her skin tight. “What do you think, Andrew? How do you like it?”
Blood drained from his face and his pale eyes went wide with the knowledge that he was about to die. Why shouldn’t she kill him?
A blur of movement at the edge of her vision caught her attention. Marsh stood watching her.
“It’s not worth it, Elizabeth.”
“Isn’t it?” She never took her eyes off her prey. She craved his death so badly the idea was like a drug in her system. She just had to squeeze...she just had to squeeze...she just had to squeeze the goddamned trigger.
Puzzled, she studied her finger.
She couldn’t do it. Why the hell couldn’t she do it?
Slowly, reluctantly, she drew the gun back an inch. Her hands shook as she tightened her grip.
She saw the exact moment DeLattio realized she couldn’t kill him. A feral light entered his eyes and he sneered, cruel lips drawn up against pearl white teeth. “Whore.”
She fired a shot, blasted the dirt next to his head. The noise was deafening, but she fired another round at the other side of his skull and hoped his eardrums met in the center and detonated.
Rolling off him, her ears ringing with a high-pitched screech, she staggered away, stumbling and tripping when her feet didn’t work. Marsh could deal with the bastard, she never wanted to see him again.
She kept moving, breathing shallow pants that grounded her. An emotion suspiciously like forgiveness, swelled in her chest. Not for him—but for herself. Nat was ahead of her, illuminated in the headlights, rushing out of the house with his rifle in hand, everything good and right with her world. He smiled, those gorgeous eyes crinkling with relief, before going wide in alarm as his gaze slid beyond her. His face shouted a warning, but no sound penetrated her world.
She turned as if in slow motion, her heart beating so loud in her ears she knew the precise moment it stumbled. She toppled back from the impact, pain like a thousand volts of electricity bursting through her leg.
Why hadn’t she searched him for a backup weapon? A rookie mistake, one drilled into her at the academy. Stupid, stupid mistake.
Her thoughts dulled, slowed like ice.
DeLattio grinned, mud streaking his face as he lay on the ground. He aimed the gun beyond her to Nat and she screamed, her heart pounding with almighty fury as she tried to raise her weapon.
DeLattio’s face was taken off by a high velocity bullet that shattered his skull on impact.
Part of her wanted to cheer. Part of her wanted to raise her arms into the air and chant a Hallelujah chorus, but then the pain was too great, white-hot spikes of agony, driven deep into her body, laced with mercury, acid and poison.
DeLattio’s blasted features seared her vision. She did not want to meet him in hell.
Where was Nat? Was he hit? Where was he?
Then she saw him, the man who meant everything to her. The man who’d made her feel whole after a lifetime of being broken. The man who’d given her a chance at happiness even though she was condemned to misery.
“I love you.” She hoped the words came out. Hoped he could hear her even though her ears were still ringing and pain blocked her senses. She tried to lift her hand and stroke the rough line of his jaw, wanted to erase the anguish that sparked in the depths of his eyes, but she couldn’t get her hands to work properly.
She wanted to thank him for loving her. He hadn’t said the words, but she knew. No one had ever loved her like that before. Regret tugged at her as he was pushed aside and Marsh tried to stem the flow of blood. It was too late. She tried to move her lips into a smile, into a phrase of solace that would let them forgive themselves—and maybe her. Then the darkness came. She fought the sensation until her eyes couldn’t fight it anymore. Peace and a hazy contentment had her drifting away where pain couldn’t reach her anymore.
TWENTY
“Eliza!” Nat shouted so loud his chest hurt. “Eliza!”
Blood soaked the front of her thigh, darkened her jeans to black. He sat useless, gripping her shoulders as Marshall Hayes ripped off his belt and used it to tourniquet the top of Eliza’s leg.
“Got a knife on you?”
Nat fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the tool he kept there. He’d been too late, too slow to save Eliza.
Marsh passed him the end of the belt. “Pull tight.”
Numbly, Nat pulled, watched the other man lean down to put an extra hole in the strap. He tried not to stare at the flesh that gaped, or the sheen of shattered bone that worked its way through the pooling crimson. The hard edge of leather bit into his hand and the bl
eeding slowed. But the blood was everywhere. Hands, face, legs, arms, ground. Spread like syrup across the Kevlar vest that she wore for protection.
Wordlessly, he took the tool back from Marsh’s hand and slipped it in his pocket, released his grip on the belt. Nat said a quick prayer as he watched the shallow rise and fall of Eliza’s chest, a reflexive jerk as her lungs demanded oxygen.
She was breathing, just.
Please, God, let her live.
Her face was pale, so pale he thought she was fading away. Christ. He touched her cheek, licked his thumb and wiped away a fleck of dirt. Her flesh was warm, soft. His fingers shook as he cupped her cheek. He’d never told her he loved her. Not once had he said the words. Fear had held them back, kept them locked up, he’d been too goddamned scared to tell her.
“I love you, Eliza.” He brushed the hair off her forehead and kissed her. “Don’t you die on me. I love you.”
Cal stood behind him, placed a hand on his shoulder in support. The blonde woman rushed over and fell to her knees beside them in the mud. Nat wanted to scream that this was all her fault, but he knew better. He glanced over to the corpse of the man who’d terrorized Eliza and wished he’d been the one to take the shot.
Marsh pulled out a cell phone, turned it on and swore. “How long does it take an EMT to get here?” He shoved the useless phone back into his pocket. Stared at the blonde who wept in the dirt.
“Too goddamn long.” Why had he sent Sarah away? Shaking his head, he bent to pick up Eliza.
“No.” Marsh seized his arm, ignored his flat-eyed stare. “Don’t move her. We need to splint her leg first.”
Nat slumped back on his heels. He closed his eyes and squeezed away the tears. “It can take an hour sometimes.” They needed a miracle.
“Damn it.” Marsh looked around. He grabbed a couple of planks that rested against the side of the house. “I need rope or some tape. Then get some blankets and your truck...” Marsh focused his attention on Cal, as if he’d already figured out Nat was incapable of action.
Eliza was dying. Nat just wanted to be touching her when she did.
***
County General Hospital, April 17th
Nat couldn’t sit or stand still. Dread kept him moving. When he stopped even for a second, his sanity started to burst. When he closed his eyes, all he could see were his hands trying to stem the flow of Eliza’s blood and despite his efforts, it pumped out of her irretrievably.
Bracing his arms against the wall, he said, “What the hell is happening in there?”
The nurses ignored him. Doctors went on their way, treating patients and saving lives. He pushed away from the wall, slumped down in a brown box-like chair, rested his hands on his knees and leaned back. Stood up. Unable to keep still. Unable to bear the sight of his blood-stained jeans. Tunneling a hand through his hair, he loosened the dirt that caked it, brushed it onto the gray linoleum floor. Frustration and fear mixed within him, a cocktail of despair. He clenched his fists, his jaw. Stared up at the ceiling as if the gray tiles could give him answers. He’d spent way too much time in hospitals waiting for people he cared about to die.
Sarah was observing in the OR. They were trying to stop the bleeding and pin Eliza’s shattered femur back together. He’d given blood. Shit, he always gave blood, but it never seemed to save the ones he loved.
Nat glanced down at his clothes. He was filthy and raw. Hell, he must look like a lunatic, but the only thing he cared about was Eliza fighting for her life on the operating table. Cal rose from his seat, laid a hand on his arm that was meant to comfort. Nat shrugged it away, unable to bear the thought of solace in such a desolate place. Cal moved away to the window, his mouth tugged down by worry.
Was this how Ryan felt? Nat massaged his thumb across the palm of his other hand. Was this why he lost himself in alcohol and sex? Ezra was here too, waiting for news like the rest of them. Nat didn’t know when Eliza had stopped being a guest and had become, instead, a part of the family, but Ezra’s crinkled old face was in his hands as he slumped in the chair.
The feds were gone, filling out reports and helping the locals process the crime scene. Abandoning Eliza in her hour of need. Again. He twisted a magazine in his hands.
Josephine Maxwell had gone with them. Nat didn’t know if she went willingly or not, but he was glad she wasn’t waiting here with him. He hated the fact it was Eliza and not her in the OR. It didn’t make him proud, but he’d deal with that later. Right now he’d bargain with the devil himself to keep Eliza alive. His heart felt like a blade of ice, his head a volcano about to explode, and all he could feel was a premonition of death.
If only he’d been quicker this would never have happened. If only…
A flurry of activity started around the nurse’s station as the night-shift buzzed around in organized chaos. A nurse approached him, someone he’d never seen before. A large African-American woman with big brown eyes and hair cut close to her skull. Kind eyes. So why do I want to run away from her? She was going to tell him Eliza was dead. That was why.
“Come this way, Mr. Sullivan.”
He followed her like a small obedient child.
She led him through the double-doors at the end of the hall and down a gleaming corridor lined with glass windows. Nat hated hospitals, the smell, the lights, the concrete walls. She took his hand, wrapped large warm fingers around his. Nat closed his eyes not wanting to look through the window.
“She’s alive, Mr. Sullivan, but barely.”
Surprise blasted his eyes wide open and he gazed through the glass. Eliza lay swathed in bandages, a cast. Her skin was pale against the crisp white sheets. Drips and tubes flowed into her body and monitors beeped and buzzed with a frail life force.
She looked waxen and fragile, but she was alive.
“It was a clean break. The bullet passed straight through the bone, but the artery needed work. She’s lost a lot of blood and is in very serious condition. If she lasts the night...”
Nat stared, didn’t realize he’d slumped against the glass until the nurse patted him gently on the back.
“We gave her a transfusion and she’s stabilized, but we’ll have to monitor her constantly until she’s out of danger—”
“Can I sit with her?” Nat cut in. Embers of hope stirred in his chest and he needed to touch the woman he loved.
The nurse wrinkled her nose and narrowed her gaze over his dirty clothes. “Well, normally it’s relatives only...”
“Please.” Nat would beg on his hands and knees if he had to.
“As you’re Dr Sullivan’s brother I suppose so.” She eyed him up and down, chewing a ruby lip as she considered his destiny. No one was keeping him out of that room; he jutted out his jaw and stood tall.
The nurse seemed to sense his determination. “Look, she’s still unconscious from the anesthetic and will be for the next little while, and she’s going to be weak.” The nurse pursed her lips and made a decision. “Come with me,” she ordered.
Nat glanced back at the pale figure with her dark hair fanned out on the pillow. Reluctantly, he followed the nurse to a shower room in the doctors’ quarters, and she gave him a clean set of scrubs.
Ten minutes later, fresh and clean, he followed the nurse back down the spotless corridor. He ignored the antiseptic smell, the dull whisper of the nurse’s soft-soled shoes. Hope was beginning to trickle into him and he didn’t intend to let it go.
Entering the double-doors of the ICU, he looked at Eliza. Swallowing hard, he went and stood on the left-hand side of the bed and looked down at her face. She was so very pale, her skin almost transparent in the subdued lighting of the ward. Her heartbeat thumped steadily on the monitor and she had tubes running into her nose and arms. She wore a hospital gown, the sheet pulled up high across her thigh. A glistening white cast encased her leg. Nat reached out a finger, stroked her hair and tucked a stray curl behind a perfect ear. He pulled her limp, cool hand into his and sat down next to the bed.
“I love you, Eliza. Please don’t die.”
***
Marsh stood over the remains of Andrew DeLattio as they zipped up the body bag. The bullet had entered his left temple, exited through the right and obliterated everything in between. Marsh felt no grief or remorse, just a cold sense of justice that the bastard was finally off the streets.
Andrew DeLattio couldn’t hurt anyone else.
Charlie Corelli had been killed by that first shot through the windshield, and his body carted away to the morgue. Dancer had used the dead men’s cell phones to uncover the identity of an agent who’d transferred from New York to Quantico about a year ago. The guy had been feeding DeLattio information in exchange for regular contributions to his personal pension fund. He’d already been picked up by his colleagues at the training academy and charged. Marsh let out a sigh, stuck his hands in his pockets and looked up at the sky. Sun was rising on a new day. Thin streaks of red, pink and gold blooded the sky in ribbons of melting color.
Eliza was out of surgery and the doctors were optimistic for a complete recovery. But it was all his fault she got shot in the first place.
The chill found his skin beneath his shirt and jacket, made the hairs on his chest contract. He rubbed his arms to ward off the cold, stared up at Eliza’s cabin at the edge of the trees and across towards the horse barn. Wherever the shooter had been it had been a damned fine shot. Peter Uri. Had to be. No one else could have pulled it off.
Elizabeth hadn’t been the assassin’s target. DeLattio had.
Marsh hadn’t even twigged there was another shooter until after they’d got to the hospital, and by then Uri would have been long gone. Elizabeth had still been fighting for her life.
Marsh held his emotions in check, betraying no outward sign of distress. Josephine Maxwell had completely screwed with his brain.