Holy cow, Miss Tits was a ninja! Who would have thought it?
“Get on your stomach!”
“Ow!” Forced into instant defensive mode as she wrenched at his beleaguered wrist in an effort to enforce her command, he was able to yank it free, then fell under immediate, savage attack. He fought off a lightning rain of blows that he just managed to evade by the skin of his teeth. They fell hard and fast on his head and shoulders, chop -chop -chop -chop -chop, landing with solid-sounding thunk s that promised he was going to be hurting later. Straddling him, her thighs closing as tight as twin pincers on either side of his hips, she recaptured his wrist with the swift sureness of a diving hawk and twisted.
“Yeow! Goddammit, lay off,” he roared, trying to shake free.
“Give up!”
She had gravity and surprise on her side, coupled with the fact that his ski mask had slipped out of place just enough so that he could barely see. Unless he abandoned the no-hitting-women principle of a lifetime and flattened her with a punch—always assuming he could get one off, with her doing her best to twist his arm into a pretzel—subduing her was going to be a war.
“Roll onto your stomach!” she screamed again, attempting to flip him over with every bit of leverage she had. Then, clearly addressing whoever was monitoring the camera, on which, as she had no way of knowing, he had disabled the audio feed at the same time as he had covered the lens, she added, “Damn it, Snider, are you watching this? Think I might need help here?” The tiniest pause. A tone change. “What the … There’s something over the lens!” Her attention riveted on him again. “You put something over the lens!”
Duh was on the order of what he would have replied if her stiffened fingers hadn’t just then driven as painfully as four sharpened screwdriver blades into his solar plexus. Oh, shit, hello. His wrist let out a silent shriek as she gave it a violent jerk. At that point, he figured, a lesser man would have caved and rolled. He might have rolled a little—anything to ease the burning pain that shot like a fire-trailing arrow up his arm—but he damn sure didn’t cave.
“Ow! Enough! Somebody’s going to get hurt.” Squinting blurrily up through the tiny slit that was still available to his right eye, defending himself as best he could without dislocating his shoulder or actually doing her any real harm, he devoutly hoped it wasn’t going to be him. By means of strenuous effort Jason managed to dislodge her long enough to get the arm she wasn’t trying to break hooked around her waist. A yank, and she was off-balance, toppling forward onto his chest. Yes. He got a whiff of shampoo—some kind of floral smell, surprisingly feminine for a ninja assassin—and then she was on the rebound, wriggling on top of him once more, jackknifing into a sitting position. …
And answering his yank with a chop to his neck, then a twist to his wrist that practically broke it.
“Enough!” he yelled again, meaning it. “Ow! Damn it to hell anyway!”
“I said on your stomach. Snider, Petrino, anybody! Get your asses in here.”
Working on freeing his wrist, he blocked her would-be disabling blows as best he could while still keeping the arm that wasn’t in the process of being dislocated clamped around her waist so she stayed off-balance. At the same time he tried with a notable lack of success to once again yank her close enough so that her blows lost force. Silky-skinned, sweet-smelling, unmistakably all female, she was also wiry and strong and a hell of a formidable opponent. Managing to break her hold on his wrist before she could totally disable his arm, aiming to roll with her so that his weight held her trapped and helpless beneath him, he was instantly outmaneuvered one more time. Instead of pinioning her beneath him, he instead found himself engaged in a pitched hand-to-hand battle with a martial-arts-trained opponent who was terrifyingly effective despite being little more than half his size.
“Stop it!” Real annoyance colored his voice now as one deflected blow whacked him hard across the mouth. His ingrained aversion to hurting women gave her a distinct advantage, but it only went so far, especially when this particular woman was clearly trying to knock him senseless and might actually succeed at any moment. The damn mask was nearly blinding him. It was also starting to hamper his breathing. His arm, which she was twisting again, felt like it was on fire. He didn’t want to hurt her, he would cause her as little harm as he could, but he also wasn’t about to lose this fight. The stakes were too high: one and a half million dollars, in fact. Plus if the unthinkable happened and she actually bested him and then captured him, probably ten to twenty behind bars. To say nothing of the injury to his pride.
Just because he was currently practically getting his ass kicked didn’t mean the situation was out of control.
“Give up! You’re under arrest! Get over on your stomach! Now.”
A metallic sound coupled with the feel of something cold snapping tight around his wrist widened his eyes. Somehow, in the midst of the grunting, grappling, no-holds-barred wrestling match they were engaged in, she’d managed to clamp a handcuff around his left wrist.
“Damn it to hell!” He yanked his wrist free of her hold even as she once again did her best to flip him onto his stomach. Luckily, he was big and she was slight, and their relative positions meant she lacked leverage. He wasn’t going anywhere, and she seemed to realize it at the same time he did. Thwarted, growling, she snatched the ski mask from his head and aimed a punch at his temple. Surprise instantly coupled with relief at being able to easily see—and breathe—again. Both were immediately superseded by the urgent need for a reaction. In the nick of time he managed to catch her fist before it could connect. For a split second the battle paused as they glared at each other. Then she yanked her hand free and aimed another one of those killer chops straight at the base of his nose.
“Stop!”
“You’re dead!” Her face flushed, her pigtails flew, her breasts heaved: Jason would have found the sight riveting if he hadn’t been so busy dodging. A split second slower, and he would have been out like a light, or worse.
“That’s it,” he roared as the side of her hand slammed into his cheekbone and the whole side of his face went instantly numb. He meant it, too. No more Mr. Nice Guy. The thought that he’d barely escaped having his nasal bones driven into his brain was motivating. His arm around her waist tightened like a vise, and he finally succeeded in jerking her flat against his chest. Unfortunately, she managed to keep her grip on his wrist as she folded, with the net result that he practically broke his own damn arm.
“Ow! Holy Mother of—” Curses spewed from his lips.
She struggled to free herself and sit up. “You’re under a—”
“Yo, pigtails. Give it up or somebody’s going to be cleaning your brains off the wall over there.” Jelly loomed into view at this critical juncture, gun thrust toward the cop’s head, voice faintly muffled by the ski mask that still covered his face.
Chapter
3
The cop froze, and suddenly the fight was over. The tumbled mass of her hair spilled across his mouth and throat as she turned her head to look up at Jelly, and Jason had to shake his own head to free his lips of encroaching, feminine-smelling strands. Despite their pitched battle, and the fact that he had her pinned tight to his chest, she was still grimly hanging on to his twisted, handcuffed wrist.
“You want to shoot me? Go ahead,” she said to Jelly, who was aiming his .38 with precision. “Then you’ll have every cop in Detroit after your ass.”
“No,” Jason warned him. Then, remembering his opponent’s ferocity, he added, for effect only and knowing Jelly knew him well enough to recognize mendacity when he heard it, “Unless she leaves you no choice.”
“Just make a wrong move,” Jelly told her.
As Jason moved his captured arm experimentally, needles of pain shot toward his shoulder, making him grimace.
“Uh, you want to let go of the wrist?” he asked her.
She looked at him. He’d seen caged pit bulls with kinder eyes.
“How abo
ut you let go of me first?” she countered.
He did, and she did.
“Sit up,” Jelly ordered.
Lying flat on his back now with her straddling his hips, both of them breathing hard in the aftermath of the battle, Jason had a groundhog’s eye view as her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed. She was, he felt, weighing the possibility of going for Jelly’s gun.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warned her, and she flashed him a look that should have pulverized his eyeballs even as Jelly, never slow on the uptake, backed off a pace.
“Get off him,” Jelly said, his gun trained on her threateningly. “Stand up.”
Unlike Jason, who had nothing against cops when they weren’t trying to chop him to death or arrest him or otherwise interfere with him personally, Jelly actively disliked cops on principle. Also, Jelly was a confirmed misogynist. As a consequence, Jason saw no trace of consideration for his opponent’s profession or gender in Jelly’s demeanor. Given enough provocation, and without Jason to serve as a deterrent, Jelly couldn’t be trusted not to shoot her. Later, Jelly might tease him about being wrestled to a draw by a woman, but for now, Jelly’s sense of humor, like his sense of proportion and any leanings toward compassion he might possess, were on hold. All he wanted to do was get out of there with the money.
Amen to that. It was all about the money. But Jason wasn’t about to let Jelly shoot somebody just because she happened to be a woman and a cop and in their way.
“Easy. No harm done,” Jason said as a reminder to Jelly, who grunted derisively. In response to Jelly’s reinforcing gesture with the gun, the cop eased herself off Jason, moving with obvious reluctance. As she rose slowly and carefully to her full height, Jason rolled to his feet himself, feeling a little the worse for wear but not caring to have either of the others know it. His arm tingled like it was asleep, his face was still half numb from that killer chop to his cheekbone, and he could feel at least half a dozen bruises forming elsewhere. His adversary was looking slightly the worse for wear, too. Her hair—reddish-brown, thick, wavy hair that reached the middle of her back—had come loose from those schoolgirl braids to straggle wildly over half her face, which seemed to be naturally pale but was at the moment flushed pink from their tussle. Her eyes were big and brown and flashed angrily beneath black slashes of brows as she pushed the hair back out of her way with one hand. She had a high-cheekboned, triangle-shaped face with a pointed chin. Slim, delicate nose. A wide mouth, currently tight-lipped. She wasn’t beautiful, but with her lithe build and small, firm breasts jutting out at him through the barely there layer of her tank top, she was wicked sexy. A hot cop with the chops to almost take him out: it would have been a near-irresistible combination if he’d had time to pursue it.
Unfortunately, he didn’t. They were on the clock. The operation had been timed for five minutes, in and out. A quick glance at his watch confirmed it: they were already a minute over. Outside in the van, Tina would be getting antsy.
“Here.” Jelly passed him the cop’s gun. As Jason took it, she gave him a black look. Then her eyes flickered past him, fixed on something, and widened.
“You got trouble, tough guy. Your insurance policy just expired,” she said. Then she smiled.
That smile was gloating enough to make Jason look where she was looking. It was only as he saw the aluminum foil lying amidst the scattered bundles of rubber-band-wrapped bills and other detritus on the floor that he realized that his do-it-yourself lens cap had come off.
And experienced one of those oh, shit moments that he really, really hated.
Unless whoever was working the security system was blind or absent or drunk off his ass in honor of the holiday, they did, indeed, have trouble: the house eyes had just lost their blindfold. Unable to help himself, Jason shot an instinctive glance at the camera, which unfortunately wasn’t the kind with the tape in the unit but instead sent images directly to the monitoring station to be viewed in real time. His worst fear confirmed, he quickly averted his gaze as he realized that giving anyone who might be looking a guaranteed-to-be-recorded, full-face view of himself was just about the stupidest thing he could do. Jelly still wore his mask, but Jason’s was long gone. Not that it mattered anyway was the corollary thought that hit him a split second later: the cop had seen his face. She was looking at him right now, as a matter of fact. Venomously. Triumphantly. Having probably already memorized every feature. No doubt in the world that she would be ready, willing and able to describe him, pick his photo out of a lineup, identify him if he was ever picked up, the whole nine yards.
Not good. In fact, real bad.
And that was before you factored in the odds that the goon squad, having gotten an eyeful of what was actually going down in Marino’s office, was already hotfooting it their way.
“Camera,” he said to Jelly by way of a warning. He could feel adrenaline surging like some kind of turbo-fuel through his veins. This, the first cock-up in as pretty a series of robberies as anyone could ever have planned, might well also be the last.
“Busted,” the cop gloated. Balanced on the balls of her unmistakably feminine feet, her slender hands flexing, her tits as delectable as ever in that thin white top and the rest of her plenty sexy, too, she gave off Mike Tyson vibes, if Iron Mike was pissed and spoiling for a fight. “If you’re smart you’ll surrender to me now, ’cause you’re going down. The security guys aren’t cops like me. They don’t give a crap about your rights or the law.”
“Shut up.” Jelly scowled at the camera, then looked at Jason. “What do we do?”
“Keep her covered.”
Jelly’s gun snapped up to point at the cop again while Jason replaced the foil in a quick move on the hope that the security team had somehow missed what was happening within range of this particular camera. He then snatched up his ski mask from the floor and stuffed it in his pocket. DNA and all that, although he didn’t suppose it mattered now. Who needed DNA when you had video and an eyewitness?
“Get the money,” he said to Jelly, who nodded.
“You really think that’s going to help?” the cop taunted Jason as, careful to keep her gun aimed squarely at her because he’d seen what she was capable of in the way of surprise moves, he rejoined her. Actually, he was hoping that replacing the foil would help. It was New Year’s Eve, after all, and Marino’s security force tended more toward street punks than trained professionals. It was entirely possible that no one had been watching the monitor for the few minutes the veil had been lifted. Still, counting on it would be stupid. Time to clean up the mess to the extent possible and get out while the getting was good.
“Turn around and walk toward the safe,” Jason ordered her. “Hurry up.”
“You’re just digging yourself in deeper with every stupid thing you do,” she said.
Jelly looked up from where he was scooping up the scattered cash. “Only thing to do is shoot her, you realize. You can’t bring yourself, I will.”
“No.” Jason’s voice was firm. Of course, forbidding Jelly to kill her had its drawbacks. The cop could hear him, too. “We only shoot her if we have to.”
Jelly grunted, clearly unimpressed. The cop seemed unimpressed, too. When she didn’t move despite the fact that he was now looming over her threateningly, Jason, wary of any countermoves, started to grab her arm to spin her around and facilitate the process of getting her underway. The rattling of the handcuff still dangling from his left wrist distracted him before he touched her. Reminded of its presence, glancing down at it in disgust, he discovered that his glove—both gloves—were missing, probably ripped to shreds and lost in the fight. Not that fingerprints were much of a concern any longer: both the camera and the cop had gotten real good looks at his face. The whole anonymous robbery thing was out the window, at least as far as he was concerned.
Shit.
Their eyes met.
“Unlock the cuff,” he ordered her. This was taking too long, and her intransigence wasn’t helping. Of course
, it was probably deliberate: anything to slow them down. Cutting their losses and running with the remaining two suitcases was an option, but the cop had to be dealt with or she’d be screaming for backup and chasing after them before they got ten feet. Anyway, for both him and Jelly, a cool five hundred grand was a lot to just leave lying on the floor. In fact, he wasn’t prepared to do it.
“Now,” he added, meaning it.
Pursing her lips, the cop complied.
“She can ID you,” Jelly pointed out.
“Yeah, well. I’ll take my chances.” Jason pocketed the handcuffs and made a gesture that ordered the cop to start walking. “Head for the safe.”
His voice brooked no opposition. She did as he told her, moving as slowly as she dared.
He’d been meaning to tie her up with whatever restraints he could come up with and leave her there, but the handcuffs were actually going to work in his favor, he realized now that he thought about it: he would cuff her to one of the metal shelf supports inside the safe and stick his cap in her mouth by way of a gag. She wouldn’t be going anywhere, or yelling out for help, anytime soon.
“Make things easy on yourself. Surrender to me now, and I’ll protect you from the security guards,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder at him.
“Keep your mouth shut and I’ll protect you from my partner. Maybe.” Put her in the safe, grab the money, go. As a Plan B it sucked, but it was pretty much all they had. The property was eleven acres, the guardhouse was clear out by the road, and the goons manning it—who might very well be asleep or inattentive or drunk off their asses, because it was New Year’s Eve, after all—would be on foot if they were coming. And there was a hell of a lot of snow to plow through, plus gates and locked doors and a whole slew of other obstacles to navigate. Even if somebody had been watching the monitor during the brief time they’d been visible, all that would slow them down. Still, either way, time wasn’t on his and Jelly’s side.
Sleepwalker Page 3