The Southern Comfort Series Box Set

by Clark O'Neill, Lisa

  And he’d been in a hurry to get out, so…

  He lifted the binoculars again, trying to gage what the Feebs were going to do. Lo and behold, if it wasn’t Agent Copeland, little Tate’s screw buddy, getting all fired up and causing a scene. Maybe he should call that damn number the negotiator kept repeating, and tell them that he was going to kill the kid. Once Copeland got word of that, he’d go racing into the place, gun blasting.

  Then, boom.

  Just as he was trying to work out the angles for making that a viable plan, he caught sight of a commotion near the driveway. Somebody was causing a ruckus, yelling at some cops, and a couple of reporters were scrambling.

  Then the crowd parted and he saw…

  Tate.

  JR smiled with something approaching giddiness. She’d made it to see the show after all.

  He swung the binoculars around, and saw Copeland getting ready to… walk up to the door?

  Damn, the asshole had balls.

  And just as he was getting ready to slip his phone from his pocket, he heard a noise in one of the trees several yards away.

  “What the hell is that idiot doing?”

  Startled, JR quietly lifted his binoculars, and saw that the question had been uttered by sniper number four, who was perched in a tree not thirty feet in front of him.

  Damn, that had been close. If the sniper hadn’t been keeping his full attention on the house through the scope of his rifle, he probably would have spotted JR.

  Sweating from the heat, and from his own frayed nerves, JR started to slink away.

  But then another thought occurred, and had him reaching for his weapon.

  CLAY focused on the farmhouse door, absolutely ignoring the fact that he could be shot down at any second. He’d removed his sidearm and kept his hands raised high to show Walker he wasn’t carrying.

  Behind him, Beall was indeed going through the motions of outrage, and he heard both Kim and Kathleen’s anxious voices.

  He blocked it all out.

  All he saw right now was the door to that house, and a vision of the child who was behind it. Holding his hand, laying his head on his shoulder in that sleepy, trusting way kids had… asking if he was going to be his daddy.

  Yes, he wanted to tell Max right now, wished in fact that he’d said so yesterday morning. If Max and Tate would have him, he was utterly prepared to step into that role.

  “Clay!”

  He heard the voice, frantic and filled with pain.

  “Clay!”

  He turned, halfway to the front porch, and met Tate’s eyes across the dirt and scrabble of the front yard. She stood next to Kathleen, who’d wrapped an arm around Tate’s shoulders, helping to keep her on her feet.

  “I love you.”

  Willing away the tears that stung the back of his eyes, Clay briefly put his hand over his heart before turning back toward the house. If he tried to speak now, he’d probably lose it.

  Then Kim called to him again, urgently, Beall’s voice ringing along with hers.

  Clay ignored them both.

  He’d just taken another step toward that front door when it blew off its hinges and splintered toward him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  NO.

  Every cell in Clay’s body screamed the protest, reacting to the shock. The house had freakin’… blown up.

  “No.” This time he managed to mutter it aloud, despite the fact that something sat like an anvil atop his chest. Blocked the sun from his face. Prevented air from reaching his lungs.

  He lifted one arm in a feeble bid for freedom, but pain propelled through it like a rocket. “Shit.”

  “Clay!”

  The voice rang familiar, frantic and female. What sounded like boards clattered, followed by the peal of sirens and the whoosh of water. Around him, fire cackled and roared. He wondered how close he was to the flames.

  “I think he’s over here!”

  Kim. That was definitely Kim.

  “I need a hand with this!”

  More clattering, then light speared his eyes. Until a cloud of black smoke roiled to obscure the sun, its acrid scent falling like dirty rain.

  “Oh, thank God.” Kim’s worried frown hovered. She touched his cheek, brought her fingers away bloody. He wondered if she knew that her face was smudged. “Just hang on a minute, Clay, and we’ll get this off of you.”

  With the admission of daylight, Clay could see that he’d been pinned by a chunk of door. The door that had been connected to the house. The house that had just blown up.

  With Max in it.

  “On three…”

  Clay cried out as the heavy piece of wood was lifted, oxygen filling his lungs in a painful rush. Two men he didn’t recognize carried the door off to the side, and tears flooded his eyes as he attempted to lever himself onto his good arm. “Max.”

  “Shh,” Kim cajoled, closing in, easing him down. Concerned blue eyes darted over him, visibly widening at the sight of his arm. “Don’t try to move yet. Max is fine.”

  Yeah, right. Like he was going to believe that. Kim was just trying to pacify him to keep him from moving – as if he cared if he’d broken a few bones. “Don’t lie to me, dammit.” And heaving his weight, pushed her off. “Where’s Tate?” Jesus God, he had to see her. “Tate!”

  “Is he okay?” he heard her voice, wrecked from grief, but he couldn’t see her. Then Kim moved back, calling for an EMT, and there she was, dropping to her knees. “Oh Clay. Your arm.” She visibly paled, touched his cheek. “I thought you were dead.” And her sob was pitiful. “You just… flew into the air…”

  Unable to speak, she leaned over, tears dripping onto his cheeks to mingle with his own. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, lips a hair’s breadth from her ear. “I’m so, so sorry. God, Tate. I… I loved him, too.”

  Leaning back, Tate blinked at him, and unbelievably, started to smile. It dawned slow at first, hesitant, but burst forth into a blinding grin. “Max is fine,” she echoed Kim’s earlier declaration. “Well, maybe not fine, but he will be. In all the panic and chaos, I forgot that you couldn’t have…” She shook her head, and pointed toward a nearby ambulance. “He’s drugged, still, and we’re getting ready to head to the hospital. But his vital signs are all good. He’ll be sick, some, they said, but he’s alive, Clay. He’s…” she lifted her shoulders and then relaxed them in a heartfelt sigh. “Alive.”

  The rush of emotion was like nothing he’d ever known. Relief. Awe. Love…

  Confusion.

  “How –” he started, but then Kim appeared, medical technician in tow, two others following with a stretcher. The EMT knelt next to him, asking Tate if she could please move back.

  “Casey Rodriguez,” she explained, reluctantly leaving his side. “She was in the house. She went through the bathroom window and climbed out onto the porch roof, carrying Max. One of the snipers saw her, and radioed that they were out. That’s what your friend Kim was trying to tell you. Casey jumped, holding onto Max, and, I think, twisted her ankle, but she managed to get clear of the house.” She pushed her fingers to lips that trembled. “They’re going to be okay.”

  “Sir,” the EMT interrupted as Clay tried to sort through what Tate was saying. Casey Rodriguez had saved Max? What about Walker? “We’re going to need to get you into an ambulance,” the man continued his professional buzzing in Clay’s ear. “Your arm’s busted up pretty good.”

  Yeah, Clay was beginning to get that picture.

  “Can he ride in the ambulance with Max?” Tate wanted to know, watching the proceedings with anxious eyes.

  “That’s not standard procedure.” The man braced Clay’s neck, stabilized his arm so that they could lift him onto the stretcher. Clay felt little right now, but knew the shock would wear off and it was going to hurt like a bitch.

  “Please,” he said, grabbing the man’s arm with his good hand. “He’s… mine.”

  The EMT blew out a breath, glanced at the nods from his colleagues.
“Okay. But anybody asks, we went by the book.”

  THE IV Clay was hooked to contained some pretty awesome drugs.

  He was feeling no pain, that was for sure, as Tate ran her fingers through his hair while they waited for the EMTs to wrap things up. He groggily looked over at Max, noticed Tate’s other hand clutching her son’s. Other than a few scrapes, bruises and a good bit of dirt, the boy didn’t look too worse for wear. There was the drug to worry about, of course, but if his respiration was good…

  It could have been so much worse.

  Frowning, he glanced toward the open ambulance doors.

  “Do you see Kim anywhere out there?” He wanted to know if they’d found any sign of Walker.

  “Um…” Tate shifted beside him, straining her neck so that she could see around the doors. “She’s over by that van. Do you want me to go get her?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind. Once they get me into surgery, it will be a while before I can talk to her.”

  After dropping a kiss onto both his and Max’s cheeks, Tate reluctantly climbed out from beside them. “Be right back.”

  Clay closed his eyes, feeling his body float, as if the laws of gravity could hold him no longer. And though the sensation wasn’t entirely unpleasant, he wanted to stay alert until he spoke with Kim.

  The click of the doors closing startled Clay’s eyes open, and then one of the EMTs climbed into the driver’s seat. He engaged the ignition, threw the gearshift into drive, and started to pull away.

  “Hey,” Clay called, thankful that the man hadn’t turned on the siren, because otherwise he probably couldn’t have heard him. “Could you hold off there, just a minute? We need to wait for our other passenger.”

  “Sorry pal,” the EMT called back, “I’ve waited too long already.” He laughed softly, and Clay craned his neck in the brace, trying to get a look at the man. He couldn’t see more from his position than a glimpse of dark uniform and hat.

  “Seriously.” He tried to keep his words from slurring, because those awesome drugs worked pretty damn fast. “You need to wait for the child’s mother. She’s had a pretty rough day, and she really needs to be with her son.”

  The EMT ignored him as the crunch of dirt and gravel gave way to the smooth hum of the pavement. “Buddy,” Clay said again, more forcefully. “Stop the ambulance. Now.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so, Agent Copeland.”

  Fear rushed, icy cold, and just like that, he knew.

  Jonathan Walker was driving the ambulance.

  The relentless son of a bitch. The explosion must have been a distraction…

  Clay fumbled around as unobtrusively as possible, slipping the IV needle from the back of his hand with a decided lack of finesse. He had to stop the steady flow of narcotic into his veins or he’d be out cold in a matter of minutes. Fighting to keep his breathing even, his fogged brain from slipping into panic, Clay scanned the interior of the ambulance for a readily available weapon. It probably should have galled him that he wasn’t even considering reasoning with the man, but he wanted Walker dead as quickly as possible, and to hell with any repercussions.

  His eyes lit on the various medical paraphernalia: stethoscopes, IV tubing and bags, blood pressure cuffs. Maybe he could get something around the guy’s neck, strangle him, except that his dominant arm was totally useless.

  “Whatever you’re thinking about attempting,” Walker went on, his voice decidedly friendly. It was easy to be happy-go-lucky, after all, when the situation was utterly in your control. And it was definitely in Walker’s control, alright, because discombobulated as Clay was, there was no mistaking the man’s gun. “I’d advise you against it. I don’t want to hurt the boy, Agent, but I can’t seem to feel the same compunction about you.”

  Fury erupted, hot and bright, but Clay fought it under control. If he miscalculated and got himself killed, then Max would be alone with this monster. He figured he had maybe five minutes before Kim and the others figured out what had happened. But five minutes was more than enough time for Walker to shoot them both.

  Except that he didn’t want to hurt Max.

  Clay seized that comment with both hands, trying to remember to think like a professional. His initial instinct to say Walker sure as hell had a funny way of showing it wasn’t likely to win him any points. Nor could he point out the fact that taking Max away from his mother was definitely hurting him, because a stable family life wasn’t something Walker could relate to. He needed to open the man’s emotional and psychological baggage, unfold the subconscious reasons he wanted to take Max. If he could throw him off his game, shake his confidence, just a little, he might be able to distract him enough to gain control of the gun.

  “You want to use him to recreate what you had with Donald Logan.”

  The hand holding the gun wavered slightly, but Walker laughed, a short burst of irritation.

  Clay pressed the advantage. “He was the only one who ever offered you caring of any sort, and you were bereft when he was sent to prison. However unhealthy your relationship, you miss that feeling of intimacy, of belonging to someone or something. That’s why you went to all the trouble to get Max. You want to experience that feeling again. Only this time you’d be in control.”

  “Well congratulations, Doctor Copeland.” The hostility underlying the amusement in his voice suggested Clay was right on target. “You’ve clearly been doing your homework. But you can spare us both the head-shrinking bullshit because you obviously don’t know shit.”

  Okay. Direct hit. Clay looked around again, weighing each object’s value as a weapon. If he just landed one solid blow on the wrist he could loosen Walker’s grip on the gun. But one blow was all that he was going to get, so he had to make sure it counted.

  “I know that Logan molested you. You were physically and emotionally vulnerable, and he convinced you that what he was doing to you was love. But it wasn’t love, Jonathan. He violated you, plain and simple.”

  The gun crashing down on his broken arm ripped a scream of pain from Clay’s throat. Even the drug coursing through him couldn’t dull the full impact of the blow. Ambulance swerving wildly, Walker’s breathing ragged intakes of fury, he hissed at Clay before using both hands to regain control of the vehicle. “You stupid sonofabitch. I was going to shoot you before I sent the ambulance in, but now I think I’ll let you drown. It’ll be slower and a lot more painful.”

  The meaning behind Walker’s words sank in just as the vehicle pulled off the pavement. He stopped the ambulance, threw the gearshift into park, and Clay knew that he had to act fast. Struggling to release the straps holding him as Walker opened the driver’s side door, he figured the man was probably looking for a stick he could lodge between the seat and the gas pedal. And sure enough, Clay heard him thrashing around outside just as he managed to get out of the restraints. He swung his unsteady legs to the side, finally managed to locate a weapon. Reaching over Max, pulling it out of its compartment, Clay fumbled to do what he needed to with his left hand before lying back down on his stretcher. Walker would shoot him in a heartbeat if he had any idea that Clay was mobile.

  So when Walker came back to the vehicle, messed around with the gas pedal until Clay heard it revving, he lay perfectly still and pretended to be the next thing to catatonic.

  Walker crawled into the back, and Clay could sense him looking at him, no doubt assessing to make certain he was out.

  But the bastard hit his arm again, just for good measure.

  It took everything Clay had not to react.

  Grunting in apparent satisfaction, the man turned away and began to remove the restraints holding Max. He obviously planned on taking him with him.

  Clay didn’t waste any time. He reached beside him, pulled the portable defibrillator from where he’d stashed it, ignored the screaming agony in his arm and delivered what he hoped were a billion volts.

  Walker yelled hoarsely, his body jumping with the shock, and fell backwards almost on top of Clay. The gun
he’d been holding clattered to the metal floor beneath Max’s stretcher.

  Pushing the stunned man aside, Clay scrambled toward the weapon, pitching forward when Walker landed heavily against his back. They went down hard, knocking into Max’s stretcher, which tilted but held onto Max. Luckily Walker hadn’t managed to undo the straps before Clay hit him.

  Clay’s left hand snaked toward the weapon as his kidney seemed to explode from a short-armed punch. Gasping, he threw his left elbow back until it connected with Walker’s ribcage. Shifting his weight to his right forearm, he felt the snapped bone poke through his skin, and gritted his teeth against the liquid rush of pain that threatened to pull him under. Gray dots swimming at the edges of his vision, he groped blindly along the floor for the gun, stretching his abused fingers until he felt the familiar shape. He’d just managed to wrap his hand around it when Walker’s right arm formed a noose around his neck.

  Max, Clay could only think as his vision blurred, his head pounded. And feeling that rush of primal fear, slammed his head into Walker’s nose. Blood spurted, thick and warm, but the chokehold didn’t lessen. And when Walker fell backward toward the ambulance’s front, he managed to drag Clay with him.

  Twisting, striving to get the gun aimed, Clay’s knee hit the gearshift and the ambulance started to roll. Somewhere in his adrenaline-fueled brain, he realized that was definitely not good. Using every bit of the strength he had left, Clay heaved his body until they were face to face. The gun went off in his hand just as the ambulance hit the pond.

  Through the rush of dirty water came the still-distant wailing of sirens.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE touch of soft lips on his cheek stirred Clay, and he was conscious of the purple bear being tucked into the crook of his good arm.

  Again.

  “Max.” Tate’s voice softly scolded, although it was still too soon after their hellish ordeal for her to work up any real irritation with her son. Still, she’d told him several times to stay out of her room when Clay was sleeping, but the child usually weaseled his way up here whenever she turned her back. With the absence of guests at the usually busy inn, Clay guessed Max was a little bit bored.