by Kris Norris
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Seattle. Harborview Medical Center…
Russel was ready. In addition to his two knives, he had his Beretta stashed in a shoulder harness. A Walther PPK in an ankle holster, and several extra clips in his pockets. He didn’t normally go out in public armed for bear, but… Quinn’s life might be on the line. And he’d prepared accordingly.
Of course, Rigs most likely had even more weapons stashed on him. The guy elevated paranoia to an art form, not that Russel was complaining. There was comfort in knowing Rigs probably had some sort of explosive hidden on his body, and that the man wouldn’t hesitate to step in front of a bullet meant for Quinn. He’d have done it for strangers. So, for his buddy’s girl…
Russel still couldn’t get over that. Quinn was his. It sounded archaic, and he had a feeling if he ever actually voiced it that way—off-handedly let the words “you’re my woman” slip—Quinn would catch him on the jaw with a left hook. Or maybe she’d go straight for his balls. And he wouldn’t blame her. It was a dick thing to say. But it didn’t stop the thought from looping through his head.
He wasn’t the kind of guy that thought women had a place. He’d served with them. Respected them. And yet, there it was. A big ugly truth staring back at him. Quinn was his, and he wasn’t the least bit sorry for seeing it that way. Because he was just as much hers. If she still wanted him.
When she’d stood in Bridgette’s office, her gaze locked on his, and told him that she knew he’d fallen in love with her, and that he’d see she made it back so she could tell him she loved him, too… Christ, he thought his damn heart was going to jump clean out of his chest. Just burst through his ribcage and into her hand. Because that’s where it stayed. Tied around her finger and beating inside her tiny palm.
But they’d been so focused on gathering a few supplies then heading back to Seattle—to meeting with Bridgette’s colleague, Jeremey, briefly to discuss a few aspects of the case—that they hadn’t enjoyed a moment alone. Couldn’t. It wasn’t safe, and Russel wasn’t compromising her safety just so she could tell him she loved him.
Even if he was dying to hear the words. True, he hadn’t told her that he loved her, either. Not with his own voice. But she knew. And, now, he needed the same in return.
“Damn it, Ice, get your head out of the damn clouds. This is an op.”
Russel gave himself a mental shake, flipping off Rigs. “I’m in the game, asshole.”
“Are you? What color was the hat of the guy who just passed us?”
Shit. Busted.
“Black.”
“Lucky fucking guess. Okay, you take Quinn up to the room. There should be a cop outside the door. One inside, I’ll linger behind. Watch for tangos on your back. But don’t fucking leave the room before I get there. I’ll be monitoring it the whole time, but if trouble comes knocking, you’re safer in there until I can eliminate the threat.”
Quinn leaned forward between the seats. “Do you really think they’ll risk making a scene inside a hospital? There are bound to be security cameras everywhere. They’d never get away with it.”
Russel placed his hand over hers, still marveling at the difference in size. “From what we’ve learned, most of Thomas’ hired contracts are either gang members or mercenaries. Not the kind to worry about making a scene. They’d probably just shoot out the cameras if they even thought about it. Plan for the worst—”
“Hope for the best. I remember.” She drew a deep breath. “I’m ready whenever you guys are.”
Russel nodded. “Stick close. If anyone starts firing…”
“Hit the ground and let you deal with the bad guys. We’ve done this before.”
“Doesn’t mean we get complacent. Okay, let’s go.”
He stepped out of the truck, noting everything. The woman with the carriage—diaper bag and bottle. Echoes of a wailing kid, so probably not a cover. The man talking on the phone up the street. Gaze slipping to his watch. Possible, though no obvious bulges under his arms. A few more people were walking on the sidewalks, their focus turned inward—on their way home, oblivious to their surroundings.
It was late, and the wind had picked up. It wasn’t raining, but the air was cold and damp for March. They’d waited until nearly sunset—taken turns casing the area all afternoon. Judging the best route. Russel had elected to go in through the Eighth Street entrance. Decrease the possible slight lines for snipers. Though, fuck, there were still far too many for a rifle in the hands of the right man. Rigs could have taken them all out from one of the tall skyscrapers in the distance. Russel prayed Thomas didn’t have that kind of skill on his payroll.
They put Quinn between them, using their body mass to block as much of her as they could, until they reached the doors, then Rigs nodded and turned. In the space of two heartbeats, the guy was gone. Out of sight. Behind a bush, or maybe he’d scaled the damn walls. He was capable of anything. Russel was going to have to make it up to him, somehow. He knew Rigs wasn’t fond of being out in public, but he’d endured the stares and occasional gasps as if he’d never heard them. As if the scars on his face weren’t a source of pain that never went away.
Russel cupped Quinn’s elbow. “Okay, you focus on what’s ahead. We’ll head to the stairwell, go up to the fourth floor then make our way over. We won’t rush. Nothing to draw attention to ourselves. Just a happy couple visiting family.”
“At least I don’t have to fake the happy couple part.”
He glanced at her then resumed his scan. Damn, he couldn’t afford to get distracted. It was likely Thomas had people in the system. Or dressed up to play the part. No one was above suspicion. So, having his chest tighten at the thought that she considered them a couple…
Fuck. He was starting to wish they’d covered this in his training. How to function while in the vicinity of the woman you love. Because, for the first time in his life, he didn’t know how to separate the man from the soldier. How to shut that side down. He was great at compartmentalizing his brain. Locking away stuff that didn’t help with the success of the mission.
Pissed about not being assigned to an op? No problem. Gone. Worried about a friend he’d pulled out of rubble two days ago and who was still critical? Slap it in a box, close the lid, and it was gone, too. Safe to look at another time. But Quinn…
It didn’t matter how hard he tried. How many boxes he tried to put her into. Seal away his feelings for her. One sound, one smile, one fucking stray thought, and they were front and center. Taking up valuable hard disk space he needed for tactics. For seeing seven steps ahead or anticipating which way a bullet would ricochet. A wall would fall. All of it compromised because he couldn’t seem to get past what would happen if he failed.
A fucking catch-22 if ever there was one. For all he knew, the hospital was clean. Thomas had been bluffing—at least the part about having men ready to kill Henry James. The officers standing watch hadn’t been challenged. So, hopefully, this was all overkill.
The heavy fire doors clicked shut behind them as they slowly made their way up the stairs, Russel ready for things to get ugly. Now, would be a great time. Send in one from above, another from below. Hell, send in a whole damn gang. Toss some tear gas into the mix, and they’d be screwed.
But they made it up all three flights without incident. Down the hall and across to the other ward, too. Even as they zeroed in on the correct room, nothing jumped out at them. No men carrying semi-automatics. No spy-types with knives or shivs made out of plastic. In fact, the halls were fairly empty, with only the occasional nurse or orderly passing them. None of which bore the markings of a killer in hiding.
The cop at the door greeted them, checking their IDs then waving them on. The door whooshed closed behind them, the pungent aroma of antiseptic and formaldehyde thick in the air. Russel kept Quinn close, nodding at the other cop before heading for the bed. He let Quinn go ahead, taking his spot beside her.
Henry James wasn’
t what Russel had expected. Though definitely pale, with deep smudges beneath his eyes, the man looked—human. He had neatly trimmed hair and a slight graying scruff over his chin. His face was more delicate than most of the men Russel had worked with, and he didn’t see any evidence of callouses on the man’s hand. But there was no denying the resemblance. The same high cheekbones, the same nose. Based on the man’s coloring, he’d bet money they had the same green eyes.
It was like looking at a male version of Quinn. And it freaked him the hell out. Men like Henry were supposed to be monsters. They were supposed to look their part—sallow skin, riddled with evidence of over-indulgence. Have hard, if not unappealing features that made it easy to hate them. Henry James looked every bit the CEO he pretended to be. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him in Armani suits talking before a board of directors.
Except for the part where it was all a lie, and his very existence put Quinn in the line of fire.
Quinn touched his cheek. Softly. As if she was afraid she’d either hurt him or wake him. Russel wasn’t sure which. But that one tiny caress had Henry opening his eyes. He blinked, focused, then blinked some more. Then, his eyes widened, and the man’s face lit up. Much like Quinn’s did whenever she looked at Russel.
Fuck. Her father really did love her. Not that Russel was hoping for something else, but it definitely made this harder. If the man refused to testify, to help her…
Quinn gave her dad a watery smile. “Hey.”
Henry lifted one weak arm, tugging at his oxygen mask.
Quinn tsked him, holding it firmly in place. “Sorry, Dad. You need to keep that on.” She took his hand in hers. “I…I don’t have much time. Thomas…”
Henry scowled. He obviously knew exactly what Thomas had done. What the man was truly capable of.
She nodded. “I know. But… We got him. My friend and I. He’s in custody.”
Henry shook his head. “Not…safe.”
The words were muffled and nothing more than a harsh whisper, but they packed a punch.
“I know. That’s why I’m here. There’s something I have to tell you. I…I lied to you earlier. I didn’t come back to the house because of rats. I came to gather evidence. I…I saw Thomas in the café. I saw that man. I heard…”
Henry’s pale face bleached white, and the blip of his heartbeat kicked up.
“It’s okay. I know it wasn’t you. That somewhere along the way, it turned into far more than you’d bargained for. But after that, I couldn’t…”
She swallowed hard. “I didn’t give them anything about you, but…”
He smiled. “It’s…okay.”
“No. No, it’s not. Thomas. He had a stack of files. Accounts and properties in my name. But, worse than that…he tried to kill you. Kill me. He needs to pay. So, this is what you’re going to do. If you’re still the man that raised me, that kissed my skinned knees and took me for ice cream on Mom’s birthday, then you’ll take a stand. I’ve made a deal. If you’re willing to tell the feds all about the money laundering—help them bring down Thomas and that organization in LA—they’ll put you into Witness Security. You’ll get a second chance. A new start. But you have to cooperate, Dad. No more secrets. No more lying. It’s time to end this. Please.”
He stared at her, heartbeat a steady ping in the distance, before closing his eyes and nodding.
Quinn choked back a sob but gave his hand a squeeze. She turned to Russel. “Can you call Bridgette? Tell her to send some Marshals over? They might have to wait until he’s stronger, but… He’s a man of his word.”
The officer stepped forward. “The nurses prefer it if you don’t use your cell phone in here. Something about the machines. I don’t get it but…”
Russel nodded. “Sure. I’ll call them once we’re done.” Once he had Quinn out of there. No way was he leaving her alone, not even in a room with a cop where Russel was standing outside the door. Too bad if no one liked it. That was just how it was going down.
Quinn gave him a guarded nod, focusing back on her father. The man was trying to keep his eyes open—speak to her—but he didn’t seem to be able to form the words.
Russel stayed close, giving her some privacy without leaving her side. She was talking quietly to her father, when the door opened. Russel had his gun in his hand and his body covering hers before he realized it was Rigs.
His buddy nodded, sliding in beside him. “Something’s off. I’ve been all over this place, and I can’t find a single threat. That either means we were wrong, or it’s so well hidden, even I can’t see it.”
“We weren’t wrong. And Thomas doesn’t strike me as the kind of man to make idle threats.”
“Exactly. Which means there’s something brewing we’re missing.” Rigs motioned toward Henry. “Is Red’s dad on board?”
“You know she hates being called that, right?”
“Yup.”
Russel snorted. “He said he was. Quinn seems to think he’s a man of his word.”
“You gonna call it in?”
“Was just waiting for you. Didn’t want to leave her alone.”
“I’m good. This floor has shitty service. You might want to go over to that glass walkway. It’s pretty close. You’ll be able to hear Bridgette there.”
“Hold the fort. I’ll be right back.”
Rigs gave him a roll of the eyes then took up Russel’s position beside Quinn. She looked up and smiled at Russel, and damn… There was that hard thump. That burning ache right in the middle of his chest.
He quickly exited, reminding the officer not to let anyone who wasn’t authorized inside, then headed for the walkway. It only took a couple of minutes to go down one flight then over to the corridor. Waning sunlight streamed in through the large expanse of windows from a rare patch of cloudless skies before already starting to dim. The sky had turned orange near the horizon, a hint of indigo overhead. He kept made a point of scanning the area, looking for anything that might be out of place, when Agent Springer rounded the corner at the far end, quickly disappearing around the corner.
Great. Now, he’d have to play nice with the feds while waiting for the US Marshals to show up. Not that he had an inherent dislike for feds, but Springer rubbed him the wrong way. He didn’t like the way he’d talked to Quinn, as if she were part of the organization.
He contemplated how he might get a chance to pop the guy in the jaw as called Bridgette. She answered on the third ring.
“Hayward.”
“Do you seriously not have a special ringtone for me? That hurts, Bridg.”
“Hello, Russel. And, yes, I do, but you’ve all been using burner phones, so I don’t ever know who’s calling. Though, I hope you’re about to tell me some good news.”
“I am. Quinn talked to her father. He’s weak, and I doubt you’ll get much out of him for at least another week, maybe two, but he said he was in. Well, nodded it. But Quinn assures me he’s a man of his word. And, honestly, I think he’d do anything to keep Quinn from going to jail. The man really loves her.”
“That’s just what I needed to hear. I’ll get Jeremy on it, pronto. He’ll just need a few signatures, and we can get the Marshal service over there. Forty minutes, tops.”
“That’s fine. Rigs is with her, and I’m heading back up. Damn nurses don’t like you call from the rooms on a cell. And I just saw Springer head up, so… I’m sure there won’t be any lack of irritating conversation.”
“Springer? Special Agent Mark Springer? But…”
“But what? Isn’t he heading the James’ case?”
“Yes, yes, of course, and he has every right to be there. It’s just… It’s generally standard protocol for the agent in charge to stick with a suspect until after they’re done questioning him. And Thomas Carlson isn’t your ordinary perp. I can’t believe that the Bureau is finished with him in under twenty-four hours. They’ve been trying to get the man for years. By all accounts, they should have the
creep locked up in an interrogation room for the next two days, with Mark Springer masquerading as the man’s worse nightmare.”
Fuck.
Russel took off running, heading for the room. He took the corridor at a full sprint, juggling his phone to his other hand as he reached for his weapon. “I’ll call you back. Tell Sam to get his ass over here. Now.”
Russel cut off the call, taking the stairs two at a time then racing down the hallway. A couple of nurses yelled at him to slow down, but he barely heard their voices. Every neuron was focused on getting to Quinn. Making it there before it was too late.
His heart rate jumped as he rounded the corner, the door to Henry’s room unguarded. He barely paused before he was breaching the door. Going in low then diving over toward the bed. He rose gun in hand, muzzle sweeping the room. The incessant beeping of Henry’s heart pinged away in the distance, the rest of the area deadly quiet.
The cop who’d been standing by the window was down. Body splayed out across the floor, a pool of blood slowly thickening beneath his head. Russel checked for a pulse, sighing at the stillness beneath her fingers. Fuck.
He took a deep breath. Quinn and Rigs were gone, but there was no missing the large splatter of blood staining the floor off to his right, a trail of it leading out the door. He bit back the hard stab of fear. The shiver of dread that wove down his spine. Losing it would only guarantee Quinn died.
He stood, switching into PJ mode. While he’d had a hard time making the transition before, it happened seamlessly, now. One minute, fear had him by the balls, making him choke on his own saliva, the next—cold, hard focus.
He was getting her back. Simple as that.
Russel followed the drops, turning left out of the room before pausing at the corner. He counted to three then popped out, sweeping the corridor before racing down it. He did it, again, at the next corner, still following the blood until he reached the stairs. A massive bloody handprint smeared the smooth silver surface, a drop of blood half visible under the door.