Hector grinned. “Would you rather I shoot you first, querida?”
“Yes! I don’t want to watch him die!”
“Fine with me,” Hector said. The gun swung back in my direction.
“Hell, no.” Rafe ignored it to step in front of me. “You wanna shoot her, you do it through me.”
“No!” I swear I could see Hector’s finger tightening on the trigger. “Don’t be stupid, Rafe. Get out of the way!”
The situation was weirdly familiar. We’d been here before. I’d been strapped to the bed in Perry Fortunato’s bedroom, and we’d managed to distract Perry with talk, and then Rafe had taken him down, with a little help from the knife he’d had in his pocket. Even if he had one this time, I didn’t think it would do us much good. Hector wasn’t likely to be swayed by a mock argument.
Although he might be swayed by something else. Or if not swayed, at least distracted for long enough that Rafe had time to make his move.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t much I could do to create a distraction. I was stuck to the chair. I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t go anywhere. And although I had use of my mouth, it was already obvious that Hector was impervious to anything I said. Although the chair he’d taped me to wasn’t bolted to the floor. I tested it to make sure. It wobbled.
I took a deep breath—this wouldn’t do my headache any good—and flung myself backwards, praying for the best.
There’s something very disconcerting about freefalling back, knowing your head is about to meet the concrete with the kind of crunch that could knock you senseless. Under normal circumstances, it was something I’d never do. I was never one of those children who throw themselves on the floor or practice fainting or getting shot. I was a proper little girl, sitting around with my ankles crossed and my hands folded in my lap, playing with Southern Belle Barbie.
In this case I did my best to keep the back of my head from hitting the concrete too hard—a second knock on top of the one Hector had given me would only reinforce the concussion I suspected I might have—but I did lift my feet to make sure the skirt slid as far up my thighs as I could manage. Hector was a guy and according to Rafe I have good legs—I thought it might be enough to catch his attention.
My back hit the floor with the bone-jarring crunch I had anticipated, and the skirt slid up almost to my crotch, my taped legs waving in the air. Hector glanced my way and I saw his jaw drop. Then I didn’t see anything else, since I was flat on my back on the floor. I did hear things: a sort of whoosh through the air, an exclamation of pain from Hector, and a second later, the sound of something heavy and metallic hitting the floor. I surmised from the evidence that Rafe had indeed taken advantage of Hector’s momentary distraction to—perhaps—kick the hand holding the gun. The gun had gone sailing through the air, hitting the floor, and I guess I should be grateful the bullet missed me. It pinged off something overhead, but didn’t hit any of us.
The fight wasn’t over, however. Just because Hector was now gun-less, didn’t mean he was down and out. He still had his knife somewhere, and he also had fists.
There was the sound of blows, of feet scuffing across the floor, grunts and curses in Spanish and English. I tried to shift my weight—and that of the chair—so I could see what was going on. At the moment, all I was looking at was my own bare knees, and more of my thighs than I was comfortable with.
I needn’t have worried. They didn’t stay in one spot for long. Pretty soon they’d moved around to where I could see everything that was happening, and believe me, I wished I couldn’t.
Rafe’s in good shape. I’ve had the chance to personally inspect every inch of him, and believe me, there’s nothing about that man that isn’t physically perfect. He’s tall, he’s strong, he’s beyond fit, and he has learned how to fight. He’s also not afraid to fight dirty, which can be a real asset in a situation where your opponent is trying to kill you. I’d put my money on him against anyone pretty much anytime.
This time, I was a bit concerned.
Oh, he was still tall and strong and fit, and he definitely had the motivation to fight, and to use any trick he could to win. Hector would kill him—kill us both—if he didn’t. But Hector was a formidable opponent. I hadn’t expected them to be so evenly matched. Hector was at least ten years older and a bit shorter, as well as a little thicker around the middle, and I’d thought Rafe would have an advantage. But Hector must have been just as motivated, what with the rage of losing his business empire, the knowledge that he was on his way to prison, and the more personal realization that Rafe had fooled him, and fooled him good, for several months. They went at each other like two junkyard dogs, snapping and growling, in what I sincerely hoped wouldn’t turn out to be a fight to the death, but which—given Hector’s need to survive and escape—might just end up that way.
While I was stuck on the floor, taped to my chair, upside down like a turtle.
I wiggled and jostled, wriggled and squirmed, but try as I might, I couldn’t get loose. My hands were now under me, but still tightly fastened together, and on top of that they were going numb. Trying to move them hurt.
All around me, the fighting went on. Hector hit Rafe, who hit him back. Twice. And fighting dirty was no asset this time; Hector fought just as dirty as Rafe did. That whole thing about honor among thieves? I guess it goes out the window when a lengthy prison term is at stake.
There was nothing for me to do but what I was already doing. So I did, praying for a game-changer, some sort of intervention that would tip the scales in our favor.
And that’s when Hector got tired of the scuffling and brought out the knife.
“I’ll take her home,” Rafe said.
It was fifteen minutes later, and I was upright and mostly all right. My wrists and ankles still smarted from where the duct tape had been ripped off, but it was no worse than a bikini wax.
Rafe was not so lucky. He had bruises coming up all over his arms and face, and a cut at the corner of his eye that I’d been worried about until one of the paramedics slapped a butterfly band-aid on it and declared him good to go. His knuckles were bruised and bloody, and the paramedic had poured some disinfectant over them, but Rafe had refused bandages. I think I was the only one who noticed that his right wrist seemed to be bothering him. He’d sprained it once before, in another fistfight at eighteen, so maybe it was weaker than his left. Since he didn’t mention it, I didn’t either. I kept an eye on it, though, and if it started swelling up, I’d definitely tell him to do something to it.
Hector was on his way to the hospital in an ambulance, with a cop and an FBI agent riding shotgun. To go back to the fight for a second, even if I’d really rather forget about it: Rafe hadn’t seemed surprised to see the knife, so perhaps he knew that Hector carried one, or he’d surmised as much when he’d overheard Hector threaten to cut me during our phone conversation earlier. I had hoped Rafe might have had a knife of his own tucked away somewhere, but no such luck. So for a minute or two, Hector kept lunging at Rafe with the knife, while Rafe did his best to avoid getting cut. They circled around the floor a bit, but he always seemed aware of where I was, and always veered off in the other direction if they threatened to come too close.
Eventually he must have gotten tired of weaving and dodging, because he waited for Hector to strike again, knife extended, and then, instead of moving away, he got in closer, bending his knees and then knocking Hector’s knife arm up with his shoulder. The knife went flying, same as the gun had earlier. Rafe followed up with what I can only describe as a wicked punch to the throat, and Hector fell to his knees, choking.
Rafe went to scoop up the gun and knife. While Hector was clutching his throat, trying to catch a breath, he used the knife to cut the tape around my wrists and ankles, and then told me to go open the door to let ‘the others’ in. I did, and was practically stampeded by a horde of alphabet agents and cops, with Wendell Craig in the lead, closely followed by Tamara Grimaldi.
And now here we were, with
Rafe offering to drive me home.
Detective Grimaldi squinted at me, up and down and up again. “Don’t you think she should go to the hospital instead?”
I shook my head. “No more hospitals.” Between the miscarriage and getting shot and what happened to Aislynn and Kylie, I’d seen enough hospitals lately to last me a while. And besides, that’s where Hector was headed, and I didn’t want to be in the same building with him.
“One of the paramedics looked at her,” Rafe said, ignoring me. “He said she’ll be all right.”
Grimaldi sighed. “Fine. Take her home.”
“Her car’s outside. I’ll use that. I’ll need a ride back.”
Grimaldi nodded. “I’ll come get you. Call when you’re ready.”
“Thirty minutes,” Rafe said.
I pouted. If he wanted to be picked up in a half hour, that meant he had no plans of indulging in hanky-panky once we got to my place. Hanky-panky, at least with Rafe, takes longer than thirty minutes.
Grimaldi nodded. “I’ll see you in thirty.”
Rafe nodded too, and turned to me. “Let’s go.”
I went. Through the warehouse, where the TBI and police, and for all I knew the FBI too, were processing the crime scene. He kept his hand on the small of my back, a sort of intimate gesture I hoped meant something other than just the fact that I was wobbly.
The ambulance had already left, with Hector inside. He’d survive, but his larynx might not; the paramedic who looked at him said it might have been crushed. Sad to say, I couldn’t find it in myself to care. Rafe was safe; that was all that mattered to me. Oh yeah, and I’d survived with my skin intact. That was also something to celebrate. Except it didn’t seem like he wanted to. In fact, he’d hardly looked at me at all since he cut me loose from the chair. Or spoken to me. Or even responded when I spoke to him.
Was he angry with me?
“Are you sure you can’t stay longer than thirty minutes?” I asked diffidently when we were on our way across the slick parking lot toward the Volvo. Hector must have hijacked my car for the ride here, probably because he didn’t want to drive his own car with the Georgia-plates any more than necessary. I wondered whether he’d bundled me into the trunk or just kept me in the back seat for the drive.
Rafe glanced at me and the corners of his mouth turned up. My heart started beating again. “Once I get started doing what you want me to do to you, I ain’t never getting outta here. And I’ve got places to go and people to see.”
“Like who?” We reached the car and he opened the passenger side door for me and helped me in. I was still a little dizzy, and my head hurt from the whack Hector had given me, but the paramedic had shined a light in my eyes and declared I didn’t have a concussion.
“Heather,” Rafe said, his voice turning hard. “Tammy’s going after Heather, and I wanna be there. And once the hospital releases Hector, I’m going back to Atlanta with him.” He closed my door and walked around the car to the driver’s side.
I don’t want to let you out of my sight, I thought. What I said was, “What if you don’t come back?”
“I’ll come back. Keys?”
He held out a hand. I dropped the keys into it and watched him insert one in the ignition and turn the car on. After a few seconds to let the various fluids make their way throughout the engine, he backed out of the parking space and headed for the road.
“I’m afraid,” I admitted.
He shot me a glance, a flash of dark eyes under long lashes. “Nothing’s gonna happen. Hector’s on his way to the hospital. And we’ll get Heather. Everyone else is in jail.”
I nodded. He was right, of course. But that wasn’t what I was afraid of.
He still hadn’t told me he loved me. Granted, in the warehouse with all the other cops and paramedics—and Hector—may not have been the best place for such a confession. I could understand why he hadn’t broached the subject. But I wanted to hear it. I needed to hear it. And if he didn’t say it... did that mean he didn’t?
Yet I couldn’t ask him. I’d said too much already. Asking a man straight out if he loves you, when he won’t come out and say it himself, would be beyond mortifying, it would be contrary to everything mother always taught me about the relationship between the sexes. The man is supposed to do the pursuing, while the woman is the prize at the end of the hunt, sitting demurely on her tuffet waiting for appropriate proofs of adoration and worthiness to be placed at her feet.
I’d already blown that possibility by confessing my feelings before he did. But I wasn’t about to compound the offense by begging.
So I sat, hands folded in my lap, while he maneuvered the Volvo out of the parking lot and onto River Road in the direction of my apartment. I was literally biting my tongue to keep from soliciting a response—any response—but I kept quiet.
He did, too, just kept his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road. Until we’d driven a block or two, when I shot a glance at him—not my first one—and noticed a furrow between his brows.
I furrowed my own. “What’s wrong?”
“Is that smoke?”
I leaned forward. It was hard to tell, with the general grayness of the weather and the light sleet that had picked up again during the hours I’d been inside the warehouse, but yes, something appeared to be leaking from underneath the hood of the car. “Oh, no. Is the engine overheating?”
That was all I needed. I had trouble enough just feeding myself; I had no money left over for expensive car repairs.
“No,” Rafe said. “That’s smoke, not steam.” He made an abrupt right, pulling the car onto the gravel shoulder of the road and slamming on the brakes. “Get out.”
“But—”
He shot me a look. “Out!”
“All right, all right.” I opened the door and swung my legs out. “There’s no need to be mean. I’m going.”
I slammed the door and walked around to the front of the car. While I’d been taking my time getting up and out, he’d unlocked the hood latch. Now he lifted the hood. I gasped as a tongue of flame licked out at him, accompanied by a cloud of black smoke.
He took a step back. “Shit!”
“Oh my God!” I squeaked, hurrying closer. Only to be grabbed around the waist by an arm as hard as a vise. Nothing wrong with his wrist that I could discern.
“Stay the hell away from it!”
“But my car...!”
“I’ll take care of the car.” He let me go. “Gimme your coat.”
“What?”
“Coat.” He plucked it from my shoulders. Hector had removed it earlier, before tying me to the chair, and Rafe had recovered it and put it around me before we went outside, but I hadn’t bothered to put my arms through the sleeves. He was able to just slide it right off.
I wrapped my arms around myself as the ice cold drizzle hit my bare skin. “What are you—?”
The answer to that question became evident when he turned toward the car. I almost lost my breath when he threw the coat—and himself—onto the engine.
Chapter 19
I’m pretty sure I sounded like a banshee. I had no words, but I was shrieking at the top of my lungs. I may have been cursing him. And I grabbed him anywhere I could—shirt, pants, shoulders, around the waist—and tried to pull him backwards, away from the car and the fire.
I didn’t stand a chance, of course, and I’m sure I made his job doubly difficult. But watching him disappear under the hood, into the smoke, all I could think of was that he’d catch fire and die. While I stood here and did nothing.
It didn’t last long. Less than a minute before he turned on his heel. I thought he’d be angry, that he’d push me away and yell at me to stop making things harder, but he didn’t. He just moved me back, at a safe distance from the car, before he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close to his body and held me there, his nose buried in my hair. I’m ashamed to admit that I clung to him, my hands fisted in his shirt, pressing my face into his shoulder.
I was shivering and sobbing, soaking his T-shirt with tears.
Eventually he raised his head. I raised mine too, and looked up into his face. I’m sure I looked like hell, even if my makeup was waterproof, but if I did, he didn’t let on.
“You all right, darlin’?”
“Of course I’m all right,” I sniffed, moving back reluctantly and wiping my cheeks with the backs of my hands. “I wasn’t the one who threw myself on top of a burning car.”
“I had to put the fire out.”
He said it with the same sort of inflection as if he’d said he had to take the trash out. Like there was nothing to it, just one of those necessary chores he had to deal with once in a while.
“I thought you were going to die!” For the second time today.
“Takes more than that to kill me,” Rafe said. “Although if we stay here much longer, I think I’ll probably freeze to death.”
He fished for the phone in his pocket. Once he got it out, he hit a button—speed-dial, I guess—and a few seconds later he was speaking. “It’s me.”
“What’s wrong?” Tamara Grimaldi’s voice said, faint and tinny.
“Had a little problem. We’re gonna need that ride sooner than later.”
Grimaldi’s voice came back. I couldn’t hear her words, but the question was obvious from Rafe’s answer. “The car caught fire.”
I couldn’t hear Grimaldi’s exclamation, but Rafe winced, so it must have been strong. “No. But I want it towed and looked at.”
Grimaldi quacked, and he glanced down at me. “Yeah, she’s fine. Same as she was five minutes ago.”
Grimaldi said something else, and he added, with another grimace. “I know. I know! Just get over here. It’s cold.”
Grimaldi said something in goodbye, something Rafe didn’t answer, and he pocketed the phone and looked at me. “She’s on her way.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It ain’t your fault, darlin’.”
A Done Deal Page 22