Hot Pursuit

by Jo Davis

  “Other than to fight like hell? Not exactly.”

  She tightened her grip on him. “Fighting works for me.”

  His soft laugh chased the gloom. “That’s my kick-ass rock-and-roll girl.”

  “That’s me. What can I say?”

  “When we get out of here, we’re going to take a vacation. Just you and me, somewhere tropical. Lots of fruity drinks with umbrellas, and plenty of beach sex.”

  “Sounds yummy.” They were facing death, yet she’d never heard him sound so calm and sure. This was a man she’d love forever.

  If they both saw tomorrow.

  “What about Blake?” she asked.

  “Oh, I have a feeling he’ll be fine.” The smugness in his voice had her studying him.

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re up to something?”

  “Well, I may have meddled a little bit.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You found his brother, Jon, didn’t you?”

  “Even better—I called him and we had a chat. Let’s just say I opened his eyes to a few facts he didn’t know.”

  “What did he say?”

  “What I expected. Jon said he had no idea, that his parents had told him Blake stole money from them constantly and had gotten into drugs. They poisoned Jon against him, warning him that Blake would be calling Jon next and not to let him get away with conning him, too.”

  “And he believed that?” She wanted to smack the man for his stupidity.

  “Yeah, and so he hung up on Blake when he called. Blake was left thinking Jon had rejected him for being gay and didn’t contact him again. By the time Jon thought it through and realized his parents had played him, Jon couldn’t find Blake anywhere.”

  “But if we don’t get out of here, Blake might never know the truth!”

  Taylor reassured her. “I gave Jon his brother’s phone number and new address. Those two will be all right eventually. Jon has been sick with worry.”

  A rattle at the door sent her heart into her throat. They scrambled to their feet, Taylor grunting in pain as he pushed her behind him. Light from the hall flooded the tiny closet, and she blinked against the glare as her vision adjusted. Constantine held a large pistol, the barrel strangely oversized, sort of like a flare gun, pointed at the center of Taylor’s chest. His face twisted into an ugly sneer.

  “Showtime.” His dark eyes gleamed with malice. “Let’s go.”

  He stepped aside to let them pass, and Cara pressed as close to Taylor as possible. She’d always prided herself on being capable of handling just about any situation, but that didn’t include sadistic murderers. She’d better learn fast, because their window of opportunity would be unmercifully short.

  “Nice toy,” Taylor remarked coolly, gesturing to the odd gun. “Voodoo darts?”

  A dart gun! Cara’s stomach rolled.

  Constantine smiled, cold. Evil. “Nah, just good, old-fashioned poison. You’d actually have a chance at surviving a gunshot wound and it wouldn’t cause nearly enough pain. Get a load of this—you die slow, writhing in agony.”

  Taylor returned the chilling smile. “Maybe we should test it on you.”

  Web shoved him forward. “Get moving!”

  Snyder wasn’t there. She’d been so focused on Constantine, she hadn’t noticed. A minuscule flicker of hope took root and grew. Without Snyder’s bulk to contend with, the odds were looking better. Constantine appeared to be Taylor’s equal in size and strength, but Web didn’t have much going for him except attitude. Once disarmed, Taylor would crush the punk like a gnat.

  First, they had to somehow get both of their captors’ weapons out of the picture.

  Taylor took her hand, squeezing her fingers in reassurance as they stepped into the room across the hall. The sight hit her like a fist to the stomach, and she stood on shaking knees, staring.

  The setup was actually very plain and simple, functional, for its monstrous purpose. A long, dirty wooden table sat next to a cart loaded with all sorts of sharp tools. A syringe half-filled with clear liquid and a small amber bottle rested there as well. Implements of torture they planned to use.

  “Kayne, on your knees,” Constantine barked from behind them. Addressing Web, he ordered, “Keep your gun to his head. If he so much as flinches, blow his brains out.”

  Taylor’s eyes met hers steadily. Arching a brow, he gave a barely perceptible nod, telegraphing the message, Be ready. Then he knelt, clenched fists the only sign of his anger. Web pressed the muzzle of the pistol against Taylor’s temple, smirking. A typical runt eaten with Little Man Syndrome who’d be nothing without a weapon, one who sure wouldn’t smile if Taylor got that gun away from him.

  Constantine swaggered past Taylor and positioned himself beside the cart at one end of the table. Shooting Cara a wolfish smile, he waved her to stand next to him. “Over here, sweetheart. And since you won’t be needing them anymore, take your clothes off.”

  “What?” she sputtered.

  “Torture is much more satisfying if the subject is vulnerable.” He chuckled as though he’d made some great joke.

  As he kneeled on the tile floor, Taylor’s face was tight with rage, every muscle in his body a coiled spring. It was then she noticed the circular metal drain between them, close to her boots. For the blood. Her eyes widened in horror.

  “No,” she heard herself say. “I won’t do it.”

  His expression turned smug. “You don’t have a choice.”

  “Yes, I do. You can peel them off my dead body, loser.” Taylor made a strangled noise, but she didn’t dare look at him. Constantine’s eyes narrowed dangerously. As she’d suspected, she wasn’t showing nearly enough fear for his taste.

  “Big talk for such a puny little girl.”

  And that was where people who didn’t know better were forever underestimating her. This egocentric lunatic was no different. Her mind stilled, clarified. Though she had to concentrate to keep her knees from knocking, she managed to gaze at him with contempt.

  “Then it shouldn’t be too hard for a macho guy like you to force me to do what you want. Bring it, asshole.”

  “You’re forgetting that Web has a gun to your lover’s head. One word from me—”

  “And he’ll die quick and painless rather than slow, like you wanted. Gee, I wonder which he’d prefer.” Constantine’s face darkened. Before he could reply, she angled her head toward a rectangular crate resting by the door they’d entered. A coffin-sized box, she noted, squashing a wave of panic.

  “Is that for me?”

  The smile returned, a crazed light in his dark eyes, and her flesh crawled.

  “Not for you, my dear. I said I have a special place to bury your lover, but did I say he would already be dead?”

  Caught off guard, she stared at him in horror. After Constantine forced Taylor to watch her die, the sick bastard planned to bury him alive.

  Oh, God, no.

  Constantine laughed. “I think my Jennifer would be pleased with her murderer’s execution.”

  Taylor’s voice, low and cold, echoed throughout the stark space. “You’re the reason she’s dead. If you hadn’t drawn her into your sick little world, she’d still be alive.”

  Constantine whirled, leveling the dart gun at his chest. “Shut your lying mouth the fuck up.”

  “I have to wonder if she really loved you as much as you think. Maybe she was leaving you and Connor that day.” he taunted.

  “I said shut up!” The gun wavered.

  Cara’s breath caught.

  Taylor’s eyes were feral with hatred. “You were responsible for getting Damon killed, too. It was terrible how your brother cried when Connor stuck the gun to his head. Begged. And I couldn’t keep his brains from splattering all over the living room.”

  Everything exploded at once.

  With a bellow of
rage, Constantine stiffened his arm, taking aim as Taylor lurched upward and slammed the back of his head into Web’s face. The younger man’s howl of pain reverberated off the empty walls, blood spurting from his nose. Before Constantine could pull the trigger, Cara launched herself at him with all the strength she possessed.

  Her momentum knocked him sideways, propelled him into the unstable cart, which immediately shot across the slick tile. Unable to regain his balance, he stumbled and fell into it, cart and man hitting the floor with a resounding crash. Tools slid and rolled in every direction. The dart gun lay several feet from his outstretched hand. With a violent curse, he began to push to his hand and knees. She reacted quickly, out of pure instinct.

  She kicked him in the jaw with the hard toe of her boot, using enough force to send a shockwave of pain through her foot and shin. His head snapped to the side and he collapsed with a groan, unmoving.

  No time to celebrate. A shot went wild, whizzing past her to slam into the wall. Taylor and Web were rolling around on the floor, locked in deadly combat. The gun was sandwiched between them, each man struggling to turn it on the other. Web had Taylor on his back now, the position and Taylor’s earlier beating working to the younger man’s advantage in spite of his smaller size.

  Using his upper-body weight as leverage, the grinning creep began to angle the muzzle toward Taylor’s chest. Gritting his teeth, Taylor bucked to try to throw him off, but the kid stuck like a burr.

  No! Cara’s heart slammed against her ribs as she scanned the debris for a weapon. Anything.

  She spotted the syringe lying next to a pair of scissors, and dove for it. Panting in fear, she grabbed the thing and pushed up, running for the battling pair.

  Web shoved the muzzle at Taylor’s heart. “Gotcha.”

  “Noo!”

  Her earsplitting scream caused Web to start. He hesitated a split second too long.

  Screeching in fury, she drove the long needle into his back, injecting him with the vile contents. He stiffened, gasping. His eyes widened, fingers slack, releasing his hold on the gun. Taylor relieved him of the weapon and pushed him off, standing with a grimace and favoring his injured side. Odd gurgling noises escaped Web’s throat as his face contorted in agony. She’d never seen anything so horrifying in her life.

  “Sweetheart, don’t watch,” Taylor murmured, folding her into his arms.

  “My God,” she whispered, stricken. She burrowed into his body, a warm, safe haven from the madness. “I did that to him. Taylor, he’s practically a boy.”

  “A boy who was ready to kill us both. His choice.”

  “Is he dead?” She shuddered.

  “I—I don’t know.” He let her go for a moment to crouch beside Web. “I can’t find a pulse.”

  “Oh, Taylor, how horrible!”

  Taylor returned to her, gathering her into his embrace again. “Yes, it’s awful. But it’s justice.”

  A shuffling from the floor a few feet away had Taylor whirling, putting her behind him once more. Constantine sat up, moaning, cupping his jaw in one hand. Cara hoped she’d broken it.

  “Don’t move,” Taylor warned, training the gun on their nemesis.

  Constantine thought about it, she could tell. His dark gaze slid to where the dart gun rested just out of reach, then back to Taylor. If hatred alone could kill, her man would be dead. Constantine wasn’t ready to give up, and the danger wouldn’t end until help arrived. Please let Shane and Chris be all right, and be bringing reinforcements.

  “You and your little bitch are going to die for this,” he hissed.

  “Big talk for such an insignificant worm,” Taylor mocked.

  “Ah, but I have something you don’t.”

  “And that is?”

  Cara felt something round and unyielding press into the back of her skull, and her knees went weak.

  “My promise to splatter her brains all over you,” Snyder rumbled from behind her. “Drop the gun and get inside the crate. Unless you’d rather have your precious lover take your place.”

  The awful moment stretched taut, the three men frozen in anticipation of the deadly outcome. Whether Taylor gave in to the order or not, they probably weren’t going to make it out of this alive. Probably. A slim hope was all they had.

  “Don’t listen to him, Taylor. Take his pistol away from him and shove it up his fat ass,” she encouraged.

  Snyder jerked her backward, against his chest, wrapping a beefy forearm around her neck. The muzzle dug into the side of her head. “Stupid move, Kayne. You can’t take us both and keep her alive. Won’t work. Get in the crate.”

  He didn’t answer, just turned very slowly, glanc- ing between Constantine and Snyder. Assessing. Face stony, shrewd gaze calculating. Here was the cop who’d survived years on the force, learning from his mistakes, and he wasn’t going to give in. She’d never loved him more.

  He looked straight at her and whispered two words. “Fall down.”

  Instantly, she went limp in Snyder’s arms, knocking him off balance as Taylor rushed him. He couldn’t hold her and block the attack, so he dropped her.

  Took aim, and fired.

  “Nooo!” The scream ripped from the depths of her soul, mingling with the echo of the gunshot.

  Taylor grunted as the bullet punched his chest, stumbled, and launched himself at Snyder. Another gunshot and the two collided, toppling to the floor. The gun skittered away, knocked loose. Straddling the big man, Taylor hauled back his arm and slammed the heel of his hand into the other man’s nose in an upward thrust, with all the force he could muster.

  A sickening crunch, and the man went limp as a bloated whale, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Cara clapped a hand over her mouth, willing down the bile. Taylor had killed a man nearly twice his size with a single blow, by shoving the bridge of his nose into his brain.

  A movement caught their attention, sparing her from dwelling on it further. In those few seconds, Constantine had crawled for the dart gun. His fingers closed around the butt and he jerked it upward, kneeling, the triumphant gleam in his eyes mixed with madness.

  “You can’t win, Kayne,” he chuckled.

  “Neither can you.” Taylor stood, weaving on his feet, and stepped away from Snyder’s body. Blood soaked the left side of his shirt, across his chest. Breathing hard, wheezing, he placed himself between the deadly weapon and Cara.

  Shaking with fear, Cara went to his side, tried to edge in front of him. “Taylor, no!”

  “Get behind me now,” he hissed, blocking her once more.

  “Constantine!” Shane’s voice boomed from the doorway. “Police, drop your weapon!”

  Cara sagged, almost falling over. Oh, thank God.

  “We’ve got this place surrounded. You’ve got nowhere to go, so drop the gun.”

  Cara saw the men using the door for cover, arms extended, pistols trained on Constantine. They had a clear shot.

  “Face facts. It’s over,” Taylor said coolly.

  Constantine’s face contorted with hatred. “Yes, I guess it is. In that case, join Jennifer and my brother in hell.”

  He pulled the trigger just as Shane and the captain opened fire on Constantine.

  Cara cried out as Taylor’s legs folded. He sank to his knees and she went with him, gathering him into her arms as he collapsed. The lethal dart had missed and was embedded in the wall behind him. But the gunshot wound to his chest was bleeding profusely, pumping with every beat of his heart.

  Lovingly, she smoothed the silky blond hair out of his pale face. She adored everything about him. His smile, the way he cared for kids like Blake. How he tried so hard to keep others safe, as he’d tried to do for Jenny. His quirky sense of humor. The tender way he made love. If only he wouldn’t leave her, so she could spend the rest of her life showing him the joys of having someone special to love. Please stay.


  Shane crouched on the other side of his partner, and she glanced up at him. Looking at Taylor, he shook his head, eyes filled with tears. Like her own.

  “Come on, buddy. Help is on the way. Hang in there—you hear me?”

  Taylor swallowed, struggling to breathe. His green eyes were glazed and unfocused. He reached for Cara, and she took his hand, squeezing it. “Thank you for loving me. Sweetheart, I wish . . .”

  Talking was too much, and he fell silent. Battling to stay alive for her.

  “I know, baby,” she reassured him, choking on tears. Her throat burned, and her chest ached as though her heart had been ripped out. “Just don’t go, okay? Stay with me. Please, Taylor.”

  He tried to smile up at her. “Bossy.”

  His body went limp in her arms, his dusky lashes sweeping down. She shook him, terror punching her in the gut.

  “Taylor, honey?” Nothing. Placing her fingertips on his neck, she found his pulse slowing. “No.”

  Shane’s cell phone bleated. He snapped a terse greeting, and listened. “We’re on the way.” He flipped it shut, and hefted Taylor into his arms. “The medics are here. Let’s go.”

  Tonio stepped forward, gesturing toward a wide section of board lying on the floor. “You’re injured. Use that—it’ll be faster.”

  Austin nodded, face grim. “We’ll say a prayer for Taylor.”

  “Thanks,” Shane said hoarsely. Tonio took Taylor’s feet, Shane hooked his arms under his partner’s shoulders, and they carried him to the wooden board, laying him on it gently. Wasting no more precious seconds, Shane took off, making his way as fast he could through the maze of corridors. Racing against time to save Taylor.

  On the way out, Cara didn’t spare a glance or so much as a prayer for Dmitri Constantine, sprawled dead on the floor. May he rot in hell.

  No, she saved all her prayers for the man she loved. The man who’d fought so bravely and saved her life. The man who, when all seemed lost, refused to give up.

  God, I’m begging you. Don’t let me lose him.

  16

  God, he was so cold.

  Was this death?