Anthology - Kick Ass

by Maggie Shayne, MaryJanice Davidson, Angela Knight, Jacey Ford

  Kira turned and raced into the cover of the forest, quickly skirting around to the front of the house, knowing they'd be focused on the rear, where she'd been. She moved quickly, as quietly as possible, back to the only place she could be certain they wouldn't find her. That trapdoor in the forest floor. She found it easily and realized that was because she remembered it.

  She ducked into the darkness, lowering the door carefully over her and scooting to the bottom of the steps. Then she raced back along the tunnel, all the way back until it ended. The men would be outside by now. All of them, combing the woods for her. They wouldn't be worried about Michael being alone for a few moments. Not with a blade nailing his hand to the chair, his face cut up, his body bound so tight he couldn't even wiggle. One of them might be watching the front door, she supposed, but then, she didn't intend to go in through the front door.

  She crept up the stairs, lifted the hidden panel in the floor, and quietly climbed upward, into the dark storage room.

  * * *

  CH@%!*R 10

  Kira listened, her ear pressed to the closed door. Not a sound came through. She reached into her boot in utter darkness, unerringly closing her hand around the small, folding knife and flicking the button that flipped the blade out, then holding it in her teeth to keep her gun hands free. She pushed the door open, very slowly, and crept into the living room. No one was around. The front door stood partway open, the bedroom door was closed.

  She moved fast, across the open living room, avoiding the broken glass that littered the floor. There was no cover, nothing to duck behind, and she would be visible to anyone outside who happened to be looking in, so speed was the only option. Limit the chance of being glimpsed.

  Outside, she could hear the men shouting to each other as they searched the woods for her, though she couldn't make out their words. She paused outside the bedroom door, again listening, before slowly turning the knob and opening the door.

  She sighed in relief when she saw no one besides Michael in the room, then tensed as she realized the blade was still in his hand.

  He's been hurt a lot worse than that, she thought involuntarily, and then a rush of memories came, one after the other. Michael with a knife wound, a bullet hole, bruised and broken from a hellish beating. Hell, he'd even been hit by a car once.

  She had to shake the memories away and focus on what she needed to do. When she did, she saw that he was staring at her, his face a mixture of relief, pain, and urgency. She closed the door behind her and holstered her gun. Taking the knife in her hand, she moved toward him, knelt, and quickly sliced through the ropes at his ankles, then the ones at his wrists. She paused then, her eyes on the blade through his hand, her hand hovering near it, shaking a little.

  He gripped the hilt before she could, and gritting his teeth, jerked on the blade.

  It didn't come out. His face was red, wet with moisture. His eyes shut tight, jaw clenched. "It's too deep into the chair. I can't get it with one hand. You've got to do it, babe. Pull straight up, hard as you can. Don't hesitate."

  "Hell." She folded her own knife and pocketed it, then she closed her hands around the fat handle of the large hunting knife. She put one foot on the wooden chair, wedging it beside Michael's thigh. "On three," she told him. He nodded, braced himself. "One, two—" She yanked as hard as she could, her stomach convulsing as the blade came free so suddenly she almost fell over backward. She dropped the blade, her gaze shooting to Michael's hand as blood bubbled from the wound. He drew it to his waist and held it there with the good hand. Kira lunged to the nearby dresser, yanking open a drawer and taking the first piece of fabric she felt inside, which turned out to be a small T-shirt. She brought it to him, kneeling in front of him, beginning to tear it into strips with her teeth.

  "Baby, we gotta get out of here. You can play nurse Nancy later." He took the shirt from her, twisting it quickly around his hand as he got to his feet. He stumbled a little, and she gripped his arm, started toward the window.

  "They'll be watching that way."

  Even as he said it, she heard the men returning through the front door. "Not now, they won't. Come on." She tugged him toward the window, yanking a blanket from the bed and throwing it over the sill so they wouldn't get cut on the shattered glass.

  He shoved her through first, then followed, and then they were on the ground and running. She imagined the men were already in the bedroom before they got five yards from the window, but there was no time to look back, no way to judge whether the trees they'd put between them were dense enough to hide them. No way to know for sure whether the men were in pursuit.

  Beside her, Michael ran, his gait uneven, breathing labored. He clutched the wounded hand to his side as he ran, and she knew he was hurting.

  "This way," he said.

  "That way's the lake."

  "I know. They won't be looking there. Come on."

  She trusted him, had no idea what he had in mind, but she trusted him. She always had. He would never let her down the way her father had.

  Kira stopped running. What the hell was that supposed to mean? The way her father had?

  Michael tugged her hand. "Come on, almost there."

  "Yeah." She shook off the thought, the memory, filed it away to be mulled over later, when they were safe.

  They emerged from the trees near the glistening lake's gently sloping shore. A boat rested there, far from the cabin, and she wondered if this was yet another of Michael's ingenious escape plans.

  He grabbed the bow and shoved the boat into the water. "Get in," he told her.

  "You get in. And don't waste time arguing, I'm not the one with a hole in my hand."

  He got in. She shoved the boat farther into the water, then she climbed into the boat with him, gripping the oars, dipping them into the water, and pushing them farther, both from the shore and from the house. Michael placed a cell phone call to someone, naming a meeting spot and a time. Rescue, Kira thought, was at hand.

  "Easy," he said when he finished the call. "Don't row too fast. And try to stay low. Get us around that bend in the shoreline where we can't be seen from the cabin, and then we'll make for the far side."

  She nodded, and followed his instructions, even while delivering a few of her own. "Rip that shirt up, and bandage your hand. Your face is a mess, too. You need stitches, Michael."

  "Yeah, and probably a tetanus shot."

  She shook her head. "You had one of those summer before last, when that lowlife Farentino jabbed you in the ass with that dirty meat hook."

  She looked up slowly. He did, too. "You remember that?"

  She nodded. "I remember… more and more. Little things, but entire incidents, instead of just snippets."

  "What kinds of things?"

  She shrugged.

  "Tell me. I really want to know." He looked around them. "Besides, they haven't seen us. We got nothing but time now." He began tearing the shirt into strips and bandaging his wounded hand.

  Drawing a breath, she nodded. "Okay."

  The rowboat drifted on its own, slowly but steadily toward the far shore. She pulled the oars out of the water, let them rest in the bottom of the boat, upper ends held in the oarlocks. "Mostly, I remember things about us. Our wedding, that came back to me clearly. And then… well, just us. Together. Fighting, dodging bullets, laughing…" She averted her eyes before she went on. "Making love."

  He was staring at her. She felt his eyes on her face, and chanced a look up. His eyes were warm, caring. "It's okay," he said. "Don't be embarrassed. If you knew how hard it's been for me not to just tell you…" He reached out, cupping her cheek in his palm. "That you remember us, God, Kira, that means a lot."

  She covered his hand with hers. "To me, too. I mean, for you to keep quiet, for my sake, even though it meant watching me make plans to marry another man—" She frowned then. "But that engagement to Peter—it was never real, was it? I was playing him, it was a cover."

  He nodded. "The marriage wouldn't ha
ve been legit. The license wasn't for real to begin with, and the plan was for the troops to move in at the reception, when all Peter's contacts would have been in one place. I never would have let it go too far, Kira."

  "But how could you know? I mean… I could have slept with him, and you—"

  His jaw went tight, and his hand fell from her face. "No."

  She blinked and shook her head quickly. "I'm not saying I did. I mean I'm pretty sure I didn't, I never, but—"

  "I know you didn't." He pushed his good hand through his hair, shaking his head. "Look, that was too much to ask, even for your health's sake. I couldn't risk you letting that guy touch you. Do you know how furious you would have been later on, when you remembered that he was just a suspect? That it was all a cover? No, Kira, I wasn't willing to risk that. I've had you… under surveillance this whole time."

  A heat sizzled through her veins. An anger that made no sense to the new Kira, but fit perfectly with the old one. "You had someone watching me?"

  "Not someone. Me," he said. "Your phones are bugged, your bedroom's miked, your car is wired, there are cameras all over the freaking place. You've barely been out of my sight since you left the hospital, Kira. And yeah, I knew it would piss you off. But not as much as my letting you sleep with a criminal would have."

  She closed her eyes. "You… you were watching my most private moments."

  "Come on, Kira. I'm your husband. I was trying to protect you."

  She heard his sigh and opened her eyes.

  "I know, I know," he said, "there's nothing you hate more than being dependent on a man for anything, but Jesus, I didn't see that I had any other choice."

  He looked truly torn. She reached out a hand to cover his. "No, I don't see that you did either."

  He blinked, maybe shocked by that.

  "What made me so determined never to be dependent on anyone? Any man?"

  He looked away, shrugged.

  "Was I always that way?"

  "No. Not always."

  She gripped the oars, returning them to the water, giving a few strokes to get them moving faster again. "I keep getting… that it's something to do with my father. But the only glimpses of memory I've had of him feel as if we were—close. Really, really close."

  He nodded. "You were. You and your dad were almost inseparable."

  "There's something else," she said. "Something changed that, came between us, didn't it?"

  Facing her squarely, Michael nodded.

  "What was it, Michael?"

  He hesitated, and she dropped the oars, gripped his shoulders. "Come on, the memories are returning. This is important, and it's not going to be too much for me to take. What came between my father and me?"

  Without blinking or flinching away, he replied, "I did."

  Kira frowned. "He… didn't approve of us?"

  "He forbade you to marry me. Told me to stay away. He didn't want you working for the DEA in the first place, much less married to it." He shook his head. "It was only out of concern for you, Kira."

  "But I married you anyway."

  "In secret. We planned to tell your family after we returned from Africa."

  She nodded slowly.

  "Your father told you he'd disown you if you married me. You considered it a betrayal. After that, you just… you changed. He hurt you badly, Kira, and, I don't know, for a while there, it seemed like you expected me to do the same."

  She nodded slowly. "I put up shields. Told myself not to love you too much, not to become too dependent, not to let myself need you."

  "Is that a memory or a guess?" he asked.

  She lowered her head, pressed her fingers to her forehead. "I'm not sure. Maybe a little of both." She drew a deep breath. "He… he was in Africa with us. He was killed. In the same explosion that nearly killed me."

  "Yeah. Do you remember that?"

  "I know it happened. But the event… it's still hazy. I can see parts. I remember pain, I remember trying to walk through this smoke and dust, calling for you, calling for Dad…" She frowned, because no more would come. Then she narrowed her eyes. "Dad worked for the DEA, too, didn't he? That's why we were all in Africa together. We were gathering evidence. Peter had drug connections there."

  Michael nodded. "Your father trained me. For a long time, he and I were almost as close as you and he were. Or… I thought so." He pointed past her. "We're almost to shore."

  She picked up the oars and used them to push the boat to the shoreline, then she climbed out and dragged the craft's nose onto the beach. She reached for him, and he didn't wince when he moved. The cut on his hand had stopped bleeding, and he'd managed to wash the blood away as they'd crossed the lake, with strips of the T-shirt and lake water.

  He stepped onto the shore.

  She couldn't help but slide her arms around his waist, and his came around her as if the action were reflexive. Resting her head on his chest, she said, "God, this has been a nightmare for you. All of it."

  His good hand in her hair, he whispered, "The nightmare would have been if I'd lost you. Have I, Kira?" She lifted her head slowly and met his eyes, let them probe hers. "Even if I never remember another thing, I know that what we had was real, and it was good. And that I want it back."

  His eyes roamed her face for another moment, and then he lowered his head and kissed her. His mouth covered hers, and then his tongue nudged her lips apart, and she opened to him, eager to explore the feelings he stirred in her. She held him harder, tangling her tongue with his, as her heart pounded and her breaths stuttered. And when she arched against him, she felt him, hard, and pushing back.

  She opened her eyes, drawing her mouth away from his, and whispered, "I want to make love to you, Michael. Just as soon as your hand is patched up, I want us to—"

  "Hand, hell." He scooped her into his arms, took her mouth even as he carried her further across the shore, and into a meadow of tall grasses and wildflowers. Dropping to his knees, he laid her down in the grass, stretched out beside her, kissing her jaw, her neck. His wounded hand lay on the ground above her head, but the good one ran over her cheeks, and then her breasts, and then her belly. She wanted to touch him, too, and quickly unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it down from his shoulders. She ran her palms over his chest, and the fire inside her burned hotter.

  Michael managed to lift up the top she wore, one-handed, then he pushed it higher, exposing her breasts to the night. As he fondled them he whispered, "God, I've missed you, Kira. The feel of you. The taste of you." He kissed a path down her neck, across her chest and breasts, and then he suckled her, and she clutched his head and whimpered in pleasure. His hand moved lower, between her legs, rubbing there, until she arched her hips off the ground. He responded instantly, easily unzipping the pants. She pushed them down as far as she could reach, then wriggled them the rest of the way off, and kicked them aside. She lay there, naked, and he rose up a little, so he could look at her. He stroked her thighs until she parted them, and then he put his hand between them, rubbing, spreading and exploring her.

  She put her hand over his, and pushed him deeper, arching her hips, rubbing against his fingers, closing her eyes. She moved her own hand to the bulge of his pants, then, stroking him until he groaned. Then she unfastened the button, carefully lowered the zipper, and shoved the pants off him.

  Impatient, he backed away, only for a moment. When he came back to her, he was as naked as she, and when he began to caress her and suckle her again, she clutched his hips and pulled him to her, wrapping her thighs around him, tugging him until he slid inside her. Then she closed her eyes and whispered his name. "Oh, God, Michael. Yes."

  He drove into her then, beyond restraint, she thought. He drove the breath from her lungs and filled her so deeply she cried out, and moved to take him into her again and again. He kissed her as he plunged into her, pushing her closer and closer to heaven, and when she exploded around him, he clasped her hip in his hand, holding her to him to take even more. Her body shattered, shu
ddered, convulsed, and she moaned in pleasure, then held him hard as he spilled into her.

  He held her tight in his arms while her body stopped shaking, and her muscles uncoiled, even as the sparks of pleasure played out. Eventually, he rolled onto his side, pulling her into his arms and holding her as if she were something precious.

  His fingers framed her chin and jaw, and he tipped her head to his, kissed her. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me," he told her. "Thank you for coming back to me, baby. I couldn't have survived if you hadn't."

  She drew a breath. "Things got tense between us, before all this."

  He nodded. "I thought you blamed me for the rift with your father."

  "No. It wasn't that. I was holding back, protecting myself from being hurt again, the way he hurt me. I remember so much more now. I'm sorry, Michael. I'm so sorry I hurt you."

  "It doesn't matter."

  "It does. But I want you to know that even though I remember that feeling, that fear, I don't feel it anymore. I left it behind. I know you'll never hurt me."

  "I'd die first."

  "I know. I really do."

  He kissed her again, and she thought she tasted a tear on his lips, and she was overwhelmed with the intensity of her feelings for this man. Her husband.

  But as much as she would have liked to lie there in his arms until sunrise, she knew they had to move on. He needed treatment. And they both needed to put more space between themselves and Peter's thugs. She sat up, reluctantly. "We should get dressed, get moving."

  "I know. Our backup should be arriving to meet us about three miles from here."

  She nodded, reached for her clothes and pulled them on. By the time she finished, he'd pulled on his pants and shirt, but was still struggling to fasten them one-handed.

  "Let me get that," she said, smiling a little. She moved close to him, and he arched against her hand as she fastened the jeans. She stroked his chest, teasing him, as she buttoned up his shirt. When she finished, he covered her hands with his good one. "I never stopped loving you, Kira. I want to be sure you know that. Not for a minute."