by Diana Duncan
“Maybe you should have done the right thing, instead of slinking away. You could have admitted your culpability and taken what was coming to you like he did. Like a man.”
“I’m more of a man than he could have ever dreamed of being.”
“A legend in your own mind.” Con did a covert visual sweep of the exit. No signs of the “chopper.” Keep him talking. Raise the stakes. Buy a few more minutes. “Did you follow him to Riverside after Denver fell through?”
“I tracked his whereabouts. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Brian finally got what was coming to him. So will you. I’ll retire with all this beautiful money, and live the high life. The life I deserve.”
“You’ll get what you deserve all right.” Con stared DiMarco in the eye. Dammit, the slimebag was dancing all around the edge of an outright admission, never tipping his hand. Con hadn’t heard any viable evidence, and DiMarco knew it. Crazy, not stupid. “Did you frame and kill my father?”
“I know a rotten apple in the high-and-mighty O’Rourke family tree is unthinkable. It eats at you, doesn’t it? Not knowing.”
Con gritted his teeth. Play the game. Ignore the pain. “I do know. I want you to confirm it.”
“How does it feel every time you visit that empty grave? Not knowing where his body is? Bet it rips Maureen’s heart out.” Triple aces on the table.
Agony arrowed into Con’s chest. “No, it doesn’t,” he lied. He’d be damned if he’d give DiMarco the satisfaction of losing it. DiMarco hadn’t told him a thing he could take to the D.A. All the evidence was circumstantial. All the “testimony” hearsay. Without a body, the murder was impossible to prove, and the bastard knew it. “We know where his soul is. We’ll see him again. You won’t. You think you went to hell before? Eternity’s hottest wiener roast has a standing reservation with your name on the books.”
“You hang together pretty good, kid. I’ve kept my eye on your family all these years. Yep, Daddy would be proud. You want more?” He held up his beefy wrist. “See this watch?” The watch Con and his brothers had worked so hard to buy and fix up. The watch he had seen his father wearing on the last day of his life. DiMarco laughed, and bet the pot. “The hands stopped at twelve-forty-nine and thirty seconds. The second I saw Brian O’Rourke depart this world…screaming like a woman.”
Con clenched his fists so hard his short nails cut into his palms. He shook with the desire to wrap his fingers around DiMarco’s throat and squeeze the breath out of him. Hold the line, Officer O’Rourke. Stay in the game. For your honor. Your family. For Bailey. See you and raise you one. “You wouldn’t know the truth if it was tattooed on your forehead.”
Outside, the sound of whirring blades filled the air. Bright lights cut a swath through the darkness. Con risked a quick glance at the front door. Showtime.
DiMarco patted Con’s cheek. Raise and call. “The chopper is here. Time to die, kid.”
Outside the theater, Bailey watched as Tony tugged a remote from a vest pocket and pointed it at the door. “Explosives disarmed.” His lips curled in an evil smile. “As soon as my crew shows up, we’re outta here. In case I forget later, be sure to say hello to your father for me. Maybe I’ll give my condolences to your mother personally. The lonely widow might be glad to see me.”
Terror’s sharp talons sunk into Bailey’s chest. Once DiMarco’s crew returned, she’d be vastly outnumbered. Time to execute her hastily formed plan. What had Con called it earlier? Improvise, modify, adapt, overcome. And pray it worked. She whirled inside and pointed the gun at DiMarco. “Freeze. Drop the weapon.”
Con’s startled gaze locked on her. His eyes widened and he swore.
DiMarco froze for an instant, then turned his head to stare at her. He grinned and kept the gun pointed at Con’s temple. “Look who it is. Charlie’s Angel. This isn’t the movies, cupcake.”
“I’m not acting. Drop it.”
“Sure thing. I’m gonna drop my gun for a broad who doesn’t even have the heart to kill a spider.” DiMarco peered at her. “What the hell is that in your hand?” He squinted. “A toy? A friggin’ water gun?” He started to laugh. “What are you gonna do, cupcake, dribble me to death?”
The real gun was tucked into her front waistband, under her sweatshirt. She didn’t know how to aim or shoot it, and Con was safer with her bearing the squirt gun. At least if she accidentally shot him with acetic acid, he wouldn’t die. He’d left the pack containing the weapons stashed behind a life-size cutout of Tom Cruise at the end of the hallway. Thus, his “pleasure cruise” hint. She knew how his mind worked. He meant for her to take the weapons, hole up with Letty and Mike and hide.
“Are you so sure it’s a toy?” Bailey risked a glanced at Con. Once Tony got him outside, he’d kill him. DiMarco would go psycho when he found out the chopper was a decoy and he wasn’t escaping with his precious money. He and Rico had claimed the snipers couldn’t shoot in this weather. Con was unarmed and unprotected. At the mercy of a madman who would gladly die before surrendering to the police. As Con had said, SBC—suicide by cop.
“Give me a break. I was Black Ops for years. That sorry imitation doesn’t fool me.”
The gun might not, but she was about to. Good thing Tony didn’t know about her and Con. A huge advantage. In his wildest dreams, DiMarco would never have guessed she’d come back for Con. He had another think coming.
She’d be damned if she’d hide and cower while her man died.
“Maybe it’s loaded with deadly poison.”
“Yeah, right. And I wear women’s underwear for thrills.”
“What you do for jollies doesn’t concern me.” Her hands were shaking like leaves in a windstorm, and she sucked in a breath. “Let the officer go and we all walk away with what we want. Your chopper is here, you’ve got your money. Grab it and leave.”
Tony’s eyes gleamed with avarice. “Wrong, cupcake. I don’t have my satisfaction.”
Whatever twisted philosophy he followed, he followed it to the max. A zealot. Her throat had turned into the Sahara, and she tried to moisten her mouth. Zealots did not hesitate to die for their beliefs. And take innocents with them. “If you kill a police officer, they will hunt you to the ends of the earth. You’ll never get a chance to spend one dollar of your haul.” She attempted to swallow. “Is your satisfaction worth that?”
“Yeah. It is.” His obsidian gaze crawled over her body, making her long for a shower. With Lysol bodywash. “You’re a real hot number, aren’t you?” DiMarco nodded. “Yeah. You really do remind me of that special someone. Instead of killing you both, cupcake and I will get better acquainted.”
“Don’t touch her, maggot,” Con snapped, drawing Tony’s attention back to him.
“So, it’s like that is it?” Tony smirked. “I’ve already touched her, and she liked it.”
A low growl rumbled in Con’s throat, and Tony winked at Bailey, clearly enjoying Con’s anger. “You know what kind of piddly ass wages cops make, cupcake? We could have a lot of fun. Bet you’ve never partied on a tropical island with a rich man.”
Con’s entire body tensed, and Bailey’s heart galloped in her chest. She could not look at him with that big, lethal gun pointed at his head and consider the possibility that he would again put himself between her and the bad guy. There was no Kevlar between the bullets and his brain.
“I’m sorry, Tony. I cannot let you walk out of this theater with him.”
“Damn, you are cute when you’re riled.” Tony’s words were playful, his demeanor dead serious. “Okay. I’ll shoot him now. I only need one hostage, and you’ll be a hell of a lot more fun.” She didn’t doubt him. He meant to murder Con in cold blood.
Her pulse hammered in her ears so loudly she could barely hear. She was trembling all over. She’d done plenty of things tonight she hadn’t thought herself capable of. But looking into Tony’s eyes and making a cold, calculated decision was different. Hurting, possibly killing another human being, even a vile criminal,
was much harder when done in chilling reality. Without the fight-or-flight instinct thrumming in her veins. Without her immediate survival at stake. Con made this decision every day. Then lived with the consequences. How did he do it?
“Bailey.” Con’s low hail was soft, and deathly quiet. His glowing mahogany gaze caressed her, cherished her, his most treasured possession. “It’s okay, baby. I love you for who you are. Always.”
Tears stung her eyes and a lump swelled in her throat. Con was staring into the jaws of death…and telling her that even if she didn’t have the courage to save him, he understood. And loved her anyway.
Bailey blinked back the tears. She’d found her courage hours ago, wrapped in the faith of the man she loved. A man who loved her in return. Unconditionally. Protecting your loved ones wasn’t a burden. It was a privilege.
She sent a silent message to Con. My heart chooses you.
His full lips wobbled for a brief second, and then he pressed them into a firm line. His gaze embraced her. Message received.
She cocked her head at Tony. She only needed the gun at Con’s temple to waver for a moment. “I’ll go with you. But I have three conditions.” On the word three, she flashed a quick glance at Con.
Con’s eyes flickered in recognition. As DiMarco chuckled and again puffed his cigarette, Bailey shifted and brushed her free hand over the front of her sweatshirt. The casual motion looked like she’d merely adjusted her stance. But in reality, she’d signaled Con, telling him where she’d hidden the pistol.
Tony returned his smoldering cigarette to the dish. “I can’t wait to hear this.”
“One.” She did not look at Con, but felt the weight of his intent gaze focused on her. He would do his job. Now, she had to do hers. She watched DiMarco. She wanted, needed his complete attention. “Let the cop go. Alive. We don’t need him, and I don’t relish becoming a raccoon for the FBI bloodhounds.” He wouldn’t even consider it, but that didn’t matter.
“But he loves you,” Tony mocked. “Always.”
“Mom always said it was as easy to love a rich man as a poor one.” Ellen Chambers had preached that sermon. At least once a week. “I guess she was right.” Not. Bailey shrugged. Though she feigned nonchalance, every nerve in her body shrieked and cold sweat dampened her skin.
“Typical broad.” DiMarco snorted at Con. “What’d I tell ya? They never come through in the clinch. She’s throwing you to the wolves for the money, kid. Dying should come as a relief.”
“Two.” Broad? She’d show DiMarco a broad who came through for her man. Bailey swallowed hard and tried to stop shaking. Stay balanced. Hit the target the very first time. If she missed, Con died. “About the money. We leave your crew, and split the take.”
Tony grinned. “Enterprising little hummingbird, aren’t you? That point is negotiable…we’ll discuss it later. What’s your third condition, cupcake?”
Bailey shifted the water gun from her right hand to her left. Her fingers tightened on the grip. Her stomach rolled and nausea rose in her throat.
Con’s heightened state of alertness hummed in the silence, like a live wire connecting him to her. She had the eerie sensation she could read his thoughts and he, hers. As if they were one person, sharing one mind.
Their survival in the next few seconds depended on it.
She knew the power of the weapon she held. The primal, instinctive fear it inspired. A fear that overrode reason. She knew its ability to maim, to kill.
To scar.
She harnessed the dragon and rode it into battle.
“Three.” Before the word completely cleared her mouth, she aimed the water gun at the cigarette and pumped the trigger. Fire exploded from the dish and crackled up Tony’s arm. He screamed and flailed. An instant later, she yanked the pistol from her waistband with her right hand and tossed it to Con.
He caught the weapon on the fly, and barked, “Down!” She hit the floor facedown. Two gunshots roared in fast succession.
Then all hell broke loose.
Tony’s crew tore into the theater, weapons drawn. Con shoved the money cart in front of her, then his body slammed on top of hers, sheltering her. All eight theater doors imploded with a huge crash and the SWAT team stormed inside. A brilliant light flashed, blinding her. A deafening boom shook the building. Choking, sulfurous smoke roiled, burning her throat and making her gag. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Could only listen and pray.
Boot steps thundered, vibrating the floor. Men’s deep voices shouted. “Down! Get on the floor! Everybody on the floor!”
Gunshots exploded, bullets whined.
On top of her, Con fired his gun. A series of clicks sounded in fast succession, and his weight settled more firmly. He must be out of ammo. Suddenly, his body jerked. Thick, warm liquid soaked her sweatshirt. The coppery tang of blood assaulted her nostrils.
Con’s blood.
Chapter 15
4:00 a.m.
“Con!” Bailey’s scream was lost in the turmoil. She struggled to roll over, but his body pinned her to the floor. In the thundering, smoky melee, she couldn’t tell if he was purposely holding her down, or if he was merely dead weight on top of her.
Her throat closed up in horror. Dead weight. Dear Lord.
“Clear!” Eight different deep male voices boomed. “Clear!”
Boot steps trampled the carpet. More shouting. Con’s weight lifted. Seconds later, a man’s strong arms scooped her up and carried her through the thick, swirling haze. She coughed and gagged, battling to catch her breath. Involuntary tears streamed down her face, and she couldn’t see who held her.
Every shrieking instinct proclaimed it wasn’t Con.
She had to find him! Bailey beat her fists against the man’s Kevlar vest and struggled to escape. One big hand captured hers and his hold tightened, immobilizing her. She blinked rapidly and squinted up at him. He wore a black helmet, with the face-plate lowered against the smoggy gloom. A blue-and-gold patch rode on the upper arm of his black uniform. SWAT. One of the good guys.
Where was Con?
Her rescuer swept her outside, and sharp, cold air slapped her face. Stinging pellets of freezing rain struck her skin. She sucked in desperate breaths, exhaling the noxious smoke. The man whisked her past a row of lit ambulances. Raised stretchers inside the open vehicles held bleeding bank robbers and police officers, surrounded by gun-wielding cops and busy paramedics. Uniformed police and SWAT team members shouted and sprinted past in the swirling sleet. In the wet, white pandemonium, everywhere she looked, she saw the red gleam of blood.
She caught a brief glimpse of Liam and Aidan bent over a cop on a stretcher. Grady leaned close to the patient, his face grave, his movements rapid and precise. Her rescuer quickly turned aside, his body blocking her view.
“Con!” She fought the man’s iron hold. “Put me down!”
He shifted, holding her more securely. “Medic,” he roared. He strode to the last ambulance in line and stepped inside, then laid her on a stretcher.
Bailey sat up. “Let me go!”
“Easy.” One big hand tugged off his helmet, while the other urged her back down. Hunter Garrett’s tawny mane spilled to his shoulders as he leaned over her. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” He stuck his head out the door and again shouted for a medic. None came, and he muttered under his breath.
She fought his restraining hold. “I need to get to Con!”
“His brothers have him.” His soft Carolina drawl was kind, his blue-gray eyes implacable. “Stay still. You’re bleeding.”
A sob caught in her burning throat. “It’s Con’s blood.”
“All right.” He grabbed a pair of scissors and cut off her shirts, leaving her in the lacy camisole. “Just let me check.”
Chilly air washed over her and she shivered. Couldn’t stop shivering. “How badly wounded is he? Tell me!”
“I don’t know, honey. Sorry.” He wiped her arm and shoulder with a damp cloth. The white cotton came away streaked
with red. Con’s blood. Hot anguish balled in her chest. Hunter set the cloth aside. He cupped her chin in his broad palm. “Look at me. Con will get the best possible medical attention.” He studied her eyes, her face. “Now calm down and talk to me. Do you hurt anywhere?”
Yes. My heart has been ripped out. She shook her head.
His quick, impersonal hands skimmed her limbs, her ribs, before tucking a blanket around her trembling body. His gentle fingers brushed aside her hair. “DiMarco burned you.”
Con! Please be all right. “It doesn’t matter.”
Hunter’s square jaw tightened. “It does to me.” He applied soothing ointment, followed by a bandage. “There. Is that better?”
She sat up, shoving aside the blanket. “You have to let me go to Con!”
“I can’t do that. The best thing for him right now is for you to stay calm and let me take care of you.” He encircled her wrist to check her pulse.
“Hunter.” She gripped his vest straps in both hands and yanked, bringing the surprised cop nose-to-nose. “Take me to Con this instant, or I will—”
“Playing doctor with my woman, Garrett?” Con’s deep voice asked from outside.
Bailey’s heart stuttered on a surge of wild relief. “Con!” She scrambled past Hunter.
Con stood outside, his arms spread wide. “Come here, darlin’.”
She leaped out of the ambulance, into his waiting arms. Tangled emotions—held at bay too long—slammed against the battered wall of her composure. Overwhelmed, she burst into tears.
Warm, vital, alive, Con held her tight. “Easy, baby. It’s all right. I’m here.”
Clinging to him, she sobbed. “You were shot. There was b-blood all over. I th—thought you w-were dead!”
“I’m sorry, darlin’. I tried to get to you.” He stroked her hair. “A round ricocheted off the cart and grazed my scalp. Dazed me for a second. Liam and Aidan grabbed me and hauled me to the ambulance. They held me down while Grady checked me out and bandaged the wound. Took both of ’em to do it, too, the swine. I have to stop in at the ER for stitches on the way home.”