Midnight Hero

by Diana Duncan

  “Me?” Nausea rolled in her stomach. “Why me?”

  “As far as they’re concerned, they’re chasing a frightened, but surprisingly resourceful bookstore clerk. I don’t want to clue them in unless they force my hand.”

  “Wh—what do I say?”

  “Ask for their demands. No matter what they request—unless it’s to turn yourself in to them—hesitate, then bargain. See if you can gain concessions. Tell ’em you’ll do your best to acquire it. Be careful not to give away any intel.”

  She sank her teeth into her lip and fidgeted with the cold metal handle on the wardrobe looming beside her. “If I mess up?”

  He tugged her close and enfolded her in his embrace. “You can do it. You’re great at handling people.”

  She inhaled his scent. It wrapped around her, as warm and reassuring as a fleece blanket. Normally, she was good with people, even cranky customers and scared, sick kids. Nothing about tonight was normal. “What if I say something wrong?” She swallowed hard. “What if I get our friends hurt?”

  “Don’t worry, darlin’, your sharp brain will handle everything just fine. And I’ll be right here.” He cupped her face and planted a soft, confident kiss on her mouth, then looked her squarely in the eye. “We’re out of time, with no options.”

  Her friends needed her. She firmed her chin, stepped back and tugged a tablet and marker from her pack. She handed them to him. “For coaching.”

  “Great idea.” He looked at her. “Ready?”

  She swallowed again. Nodded. “How will you let the robbers know about the walkie-talkie you stashed in Santa’s sleigh?”

  He grinned. “Like this.” He switched on the blue unit and began to whistle.

  It took her a second before she recognized the tune. “Here Comes Santa Claus.” Impressed by Con’s agile imagination, she waited for a response.

  A long, too-silent minute passed. He checked his watch and held up three fingers. Three minutes.

  Another sixty seconds. No response. Oppressive cold and darkness pressed in on her from every side. Anxiety sat in a lead weight on her chest. Con frowned and held up two fingers. Anxiousness turned to dread. Looked like SWAT would have to break in and attempt a perilous rescue.

  Con held up his index finger. One minute. She tensed. Then her earpiece hummed. The hard, Bronx-accented voice she recognized as Tony’s sounded in her ear. “Hey, Santa’s little elf.”

  Con turned aside and spoke in a low, rapid tone into the red unit. “SWAT Command, this is the Nutcracker. Have established contact with the suspects. Abort entry. Repeat, abort entry.” He paused to listen, then turned back and gave her a thumbs up.

  Whew. Too close for comfort. Bailey sucked in a shaky breath and strove for a calm demeanor. “Call me the Sugarplum Fairy.”

  A short, shocked silence later, Tony responded. “Ah. The spider rescue squad.”

  He knew who she was? Bright panic flared, and she sent a wild, silent plea to Con. Help!

  He stroked a finger down her cheek, then wrote on his tablet, Have faith. Work him.

  She straightened her shoulders. Nan, Letty and Mike’s welfare was riding on her ability to pull this off. She could do it. “I imagine you’re ready to get out of here. I sure am.”

  “Who’s with you, cupcake?”

  “I’m alone.”

  Tony guffawed. “No way.”

  She borrowed a leaf from Syrone’s playbook. “I was a Marine.”

  “And I’m a one-legged ballerina.” Tony barked out a gruff laugh. “I’m supposed to believe a dainty bookstore babe not only used to be a Marine, but also took out two of my best men, set off the sprinklers, summoned SWAT, and jury-rigged Molotov cocktails?”

  “Listen buster, don’t underestimate a woman who reads.” She’d wager brains over brawn any day. She sounded composed, even nonchalant. Amazing, considering all the saliva in her mouth had dried up. “So, you want to chitchat all night, or you want to tell me what it will take to be rid of you? I’m ready to go home, Tony.” She emphasized his name to let him know he wasn’t anonymous to either her, or the police. “How about you?”

  Con’s grin bounced back.

  “You’re too smart for your own good,” the robber growled.

  “Maybe, considering I’m not the one giving a not-so-impressive performance of Custer’s last stand…in a mall.”

  Con’s grin spread, white and wicked in his stubbled face.

  “I can think of a dozen better ways you can put that sassy mouth to good use, cupcake.”

  A scowl wiped out Con’s grin. Uh-oh. He went into guard dog mode whenever anyone disrespected her. She patted his arm. He was right about her doing just fine. She might be useless in a fist-fight, but she had plenty of ammo for verbal jousting. “Even with a vault full of money, you couldn’t pay me enough. We’re wasting time. What do you really want?”

  “My missing crew members back. Assuming they’re still alive?”

  Con wrote on his tablet, Don’t be too agreeable. Keep him off balance.

  “Maybe. I might tell you where to find them after the hostages are safe. Anything else?”

  “A chopper. Thirty minutes or less.”

  Con nodded and wrote, Multiplex parking lot. More time. Free a hostage.

  “I might be able to arrange that. The multiplex lot is the only place big enough for it to land, but it’ll take longer than thirty minutes. Delivering a helicopter is a skosh more complicated than sending out for pizza.” She drew on the research she’d conducted about Con’s job for the correct terminology. “Show me some good will. Release the pregnant woman.”

  “Way too smart for your own good. No can do.”

  She looked to Con for guidance. Chopper big order. Try again.

  “Come on, Tony.” She used the soothing tone she applied when her boss went on one of his frequent rampages. “I’m sure you’re a reasonable man. Let’s compromise, work this out. We’re all anxious to get out of here. If I’m going to order up something as big as a chopper, I need a hostage.”

  “How about a dead hostage, cupcake?”

  Fear jabbed, swift and deep. Her startled gaze locked on Con’s. His eyes narrowed, the deep brown irises lethal twin lasers. He scribbled, Futile, no profit.

  She took a deep breath, then slowly released it. “That would be suicide, and I don’t think you went to all this trouble to steal that money only to waste it. You don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “Yeah, I do. Starting with you.”

  Con’s scowl grew black and murderous. She tamped down her fear, even as she watched Con ruthlessly harness his rage. Control, one of his many formidable talents. One hundred and ten percent focused on the job. His resolute focus would save them. And their friends. “Threatening me won’t gain you anything.”

  “Satisfaction, cupcake. Worth almost as much as money. I hope I have a chance to personally demonstrate.”

  Con’s words slashed across the paper, but his hands were rock-solid steady. Everyone safe, or no chopper.

  Had Tony reaped his diseased brand of satisfaction after Brian O’Rourke’s murder…by stealing his victim’s watch? If so, he’d already wounded the man she loved. She wasn’t about to let him damage anyone else she cared about. Bailey clenched her jaw. “Promise you won’t hurt any of the hostages.” She adjusted her headset mic with sweaty hands. “Or no dice on the chopper.”

  A long heart-shaking pause ticked past. Finally, Tony replied, “For now. Get that bird in a hurry, or all bets are off.”

  She switched the blue walkie-talkie into standby mode. Now that the crisis moment had passed, her knees went wobbly.

  Con hugged her to his broad chest. “Great job, slugger. If you ever get tired of the bookstore, you could have a long and lucrative career as a hostage negotiator.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.” She rested her cheek on the soft cotton of his sweatshirt, drawing strength from the steadfast thud of his heartbeat. “Nobody ever died from reading a book.”

&nb
sp; “Nobody is going to die tonight, either.”

  She sent up a fast, fervent prayer that he was right.

  Con released Bailey and stepped back. The store was quiet. Too quiet. He should be able to sense the subliminal vibe that accompanied another living presence. Should feel the weight of Syrone’s interest focused on them. Instead, the atmosphere felt as sterile and empty as a morgue. Dead. Hair prickled on his neck. Every instinct Con possessed screamed to hurry to his friend.

  He battled the urge and accessed the red walkie-talkie. First things first. Subjugate his feelings. Stick to procedure. Adherence to training would tip the odds toward everyone’s survival. “Command, this is Nutcracker. Suspects demand a chopper. Thirty minutes, that’s three-o minutes. Do you copy? Over.”

  “Ten-four,” Aidan replied. “Stand by.”

  Con watched Bailey as he waited for his brother to discuss options with the team. Her strawberry-blond curls were rumpled, her complexion rosy from exertion. She’d tied the silver hummingbird charm he’d given her around the outside of her turtleneck. Her intelligent blue eyes held his, as if she could discern his thoughts, hear what Command relayed to him.

  Hell, sometimes he thought she could read his mind. She always knew what he needed. When to talk and when to remain quiet. When to provide companionship and when to leave him in solitude. When to comfort and when to confront. Her moods and his were almost always in sync, a police officer’s dream. A man who dealt with constant conflict on the job needed peace and understanding at home. Bailey was the calm eye in the center of his storm.

  Admiration and respect arrowed into him. She’d handled the negotiations well. Proven her mettle under fire again and again. She’d stood her ground, even when Tony had threatened her, and insulted her with crude innuendo. Satisfaction. No matter what warped credo he followed, the slimebag better not get anywhere near Bailey. Con’s hands tightened into fists. Even if he didn’t already owe Tony for Pop, Con would kill him if he put his hands on his woman. He’d give the bastard satisfaction. An AK-47 enema.

  “Nutcracker, about that chopper.” Uh-oh. The edge in Aidan’s voice made Con’s shoulders stiffen. While Con had struggled to learn to control a volatile temper, he could count on one hand the number of times his roll-with-the-punches brother had lost his cool. Whatever Aidan was about to relay, he didn’t sound happy. “The ice storm has grounded all aircraft. Can you stall? Over.”

  Con swore. “Maybe. We’ve got—” he glanced at his watch “—twenty-eight minutes. We might be able to bluff. I’ll be in touch. Over.”

  He looked at Bailey. He didn’t have to say anything.

  Her eyes widened. “No chopper?”

  “The bad weather has everything grounded.”

  “Tony sounds ruthless and edgy. He might go off the deep end.”

  “We won’t let him.” He strode to the store’s entrance and executed a fast scan. Dark. Quiet. Empty. Maybe now that the bad guys thought escape was imminent, they’d get busy transporting their money and stop the hunt. He wouldn’t count on it.

  “Let’s check on Syrone.” Syrone hadn’t made a sound during their communication with the robbers. A former Marine would know better. Man, he hoped that was it, and not the worst-case scenario torturing his mind.

  “Syrone? It’s Con and Bailey,” Con warned in a low, but distinct hail. He wasn’t keen on getting shot. No answer. With Bailey beside him, he strode to the makeshift barricade at the rear, and then shoved aside the dresser.

  “Oh, no!” Bailey gasped.

  Con’s gut tightened. The big man had slid from his semi-sitting position, leaving a bloody streak on the wall. His eyes were closed, and he lay slumped on the mattress. The machine gun sat askew across his lap, and his hands hung at his sides. He appeared limp and lifeless.

  Con cleared the thickness from his throat. No stranger to death, he would never get used to it. Especially if the Grim Reaper had claimed another friend. He glanced at Bailey, her face white and strained in the gloom. She’d been shocked and horrified by a fight. If Syrone were dead, the discovery would devastate her. “You’d better wait over there, sweetheart.”

  “He’s my friend, too. I’m not going anywhere. We have to help him, Con.”

  Hoping Syrone wasn’t beyond help, Con knelt and eased the Kevlar hood off him. He pressed two fingers to Syrone’s neck. His ebony skin was cool. Too cool. Con didn’t feel a pulse. His spirits sank, sorrow and dread hovering over him in a heavy, smothering cloud. “C’mon, big guy. Don’t do this. Those rug rats of yours need their daddy.”

  Bailey stifled a sob. “Is he—?”

  He shifted his hand, pressed harder. Ah, there! Weak, thready, barely palpable. “He’s alive!”

  “Thank God!”

  Con briskly patted Syrone’s cheek. “Syrone. Hey, wake up.”

  Syrone stirred. Moaned.

  Con patted him again. “Syrone. C’mon, buddy.”

  “Wha—?” Syrone mumbled.

  “Open those big brown peepers and talk to me.”

  Syrone’s eyelids eased open. “Irish? Why did you hit me?”

  Relief weakened Con’s limbs. “Sleeping on the job, man.”

  “Oh, crap.”

  “My sentiments exactly.” He unwrapped the quilts and unbuttoned Syrone’s shirt. “Let’s have a look at the damages.” Blood had soaked through, and the sodden bandages had loosened. He reapplied a thicker, tighter dressing.

  Syrone shivered. “I’m cold clear to my bones.”

  “I know.” Frustrated, Con turned to Bailey. There wasn’t much they could do. Shock would kill their friend. He required surgery, and probably a transfusion. And he needed warmth. Perhaps the two of them could bundle up with him and share body heat. They couldn’t afford the time, but couldn’t leave Syrone to die, either. “He’s fading fast. We need more quilts.”

  “I’ve got something better.” Bailey dug in her backpack and tugged out a box of disposable hand warmers. She passed a handful to Con. “From the camping store…they’ll last six hours. I have foot-warmer heating pads and a Polarshield blanket, too.”

  Wonder surged through him. Untrained, scared, she’d risen to the occasion and come to his aid countless times tonight. Her quick thinking and unquenchable spirit awed him. “Baby, what would we do without you?” He kneaded the packets to activate them, tucked the already-warming pads under Syrone’s armpits and against his chest, and buttoned him up. He applied the foot warmers to Syrone’s socks and then put his boots back on. Finally, he wrapped him in the crinkly Polarshield blanket and two quilts. “Okay, big guy, that’s about as personal as I care to get with you.”

  “Likewise, Irish.” Syrone sighed. “Damn, that feels fine.”

  Con again turned to Bailey. Worry shadowed her delicate features, but she gave him an encouraging smile. Outwardly frail and sensitive, his girl possessed innate strength and fortitude. For years his job had been his first and only love. Now, he wasn’t ashamed to admit she was the center of his universe. What would happen to her, to the hostages when the chopper didn’t arrive? How would he protect them? From here on, the scenario could unravel at warp speed and spiral out of control. People could die.

  He shook his head. Focus. One crisis at a time. “Do you have any more of that candy syrup from the toy store?”

  “Yes, but I thought he couldn’t have anything by mouth.”

  He whispered in her ear. “If we don’t get him stabilized, he won’t live long enough for it to matter.”

  Clearly shaken, she passed him the small wax containers shaped like cartoon characters.

  He twisted the ears off the wascally wabbit and poured the thick, grape-scented liquid into Syrone’s mouth.

  Syrone coughed. “What are you feeding me, Irish? Poison to put me out of my misery?”

  “Super-secret healing elixir, brewed by celibate Tibetan monks under a full moon.” He urged his friend to swallow the contents of the second container. A duck, cherry, unless he missed his guess.
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br />   “Ugh! Those monks need to go low-carb. This stuff would strip the paint off my SUV.”

  Con laughed. “Probably. But as my darlin’ explained to me earlier, it’s instant glucose.” He encircled Syrone’s beefy wrist and took his pulse. “Not bad. Much better than when we found you.”

  “I owe you my life, Irish. Times two. You, too, Bailey. You’re both due for major payback.”

  Bailey shook her head. “You’d do the same for us.”

  “Hey.” Syrone blinked. “How come you’re still here? Weren’t you supposed to escape out the access door?”

  Con fed Syrone another dose of cherry syrup. “The suspects C-4ed the vault, and the concussion took down Santa’s workshop. The access door is blocked. They claim they’ve wired all the exits.”

  “Has SWAT been able to contact them? See what they want?”

  “They wouldn’t accept the throw phone, but I made contact. Oh, if you need to reach me…” Con handed Syrone the extra red walkie-talkie. “My handle is Nutcracker. SWAT’s patched in, too, just in case.” He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to. Syrone’s lowered brows told him the ex-Marine knew Con was providing backup. If the bad guys took Con out, Syrone would know when to call in the cavalry. “Have you seen any action back here?”

  “Quiet as the grave, Irish. So, what’d the perps want? Are we gonna blow this gig anytime soon?”

  “They’ve asked for a chopper in the multiplex parking lot in thirty minutes.” Frowning, he opened the last wax container—a martian—and administered the odious green lemon-lime liquid. “Not going to happen, because of the ice storm.”

  Syrone swallowed, shuddered. “What’s the plan?”

  “Bluff like hell.” Con took Syrone’s pulse. Stronger and more regular. He’d be okay—for a while. If they didn’t get him to a doctor, the hand and foot warmers would outlast him. “I’ll check in every thirty minutes. If you don’t hear from me, call in SWAT.” Again, he didn’t elaborate. Syrone read him loud and clear. If Con missed a radio check, he would be either unconscious or dead.

  He squeezed Syrone’s hand. “My gut says the crap’s about to hit the fan. It’ll go down fast. Hang in there, Marine.”