Dark of Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Very much,” she admitted.

  He sighed. “I'm just going to say this, okay? I like you, Tracy, you know I do. And I love Deck like a brother, but… He's been hung up on Sophia a long time and seeing her with Dave has got to be hard for him. I just want you to be careful that you don't get too attached.”

  “Are you telling me that I'm a rebound?” she asked, turning to watch as Dave emerged from the house on a hospital stretcher. He was already hooked up to an IV, courtesy of Lopez—and Jules, who'd made arrangements for them to carry the supplies and antibiotics with them.

  “Rebound,” Nash said. “Yes. I know you don't want to hear this, but—”

  “Do you even know him?” Tracy interrupted as the wheels of Dave's stretcher magically vanished as Lopez and the paramedic loaded him into the back of the ambulance.

  “Do I even—Yeah, I know the man pretty damn well.”

  “He loves me,” she told Nash.

  That silenced him.

  “If you talk to Deck, tell him to call me,” she said, and then she froze, because Michael Peterson was standing directly in front of her. He was carrying a gun, but it was concealed under his jacket—and aimed right at her.

  “Hey, Tracy,” he said with a smile on his handsome face—that smile she used to find so appealing. “It's been a while.”

  She slipped her phone into her pocket. “Michael,” she said as she remembered Tess's description. Unstable, erratic. Psychotic. “Or is it Gavin?” She couldn't keep her voice from shaking, but she raised it so that Jimmy could hear her. “Is that a gun you're holding or are you just happy to see me?”

  Dave knew he was in bad shape, because even Alyssa teared up when she saw him.

  “Hey,” she said. “You kicked some ass in there, huh?”

  “I don't remember much,” he said as he felt the painkiller slipping through his veins and making him even woozier than he was from the fever. “Was Sophia there?”

  “No,” she said, “but you're going to see her soon.”

  “Ken Karmody?” he asked, fearing the worst.

  But Alyssa smiled. “He's hanging in. Still in ICU, but Savannah's with him. He's pretty tough.”

  “Did I get 'em all?” Dave asked. It was so foggy, what had happened. “I don't remember getting 'em all. There was Anise Turiano and I took her gun and shot the older man—”

  “Her?” Alyssa asked, straightening up, morphing into the former naval lieutenant and team leader. “There was a woman holding you?”

  “A woman?” Dave repeated. “Did I say … ? No. No woman. Men. Four men.”

  “Four?” she asked. “Are you sure? Because Sam said you told him there were only three. The two you killed and the man with the glasses that you chased away.”

  “Did I?” he asked. The world was so fuzzy. He counted them on his fingers. “The old guy, the handsome guy, the ugly guy, and the guy with glasses.” That definitely made four.

  “Excuse me,” Alyssa said, “I have to get this information to Jules.”

  “No worries,” Dave said as he felt his eyes go even further out of focus. “I'm not going anywhere.”

  Gavin Michaelson was holding a gun on Tracy. “Don't scream. I will shoot you.”

  She hadn't hung up the phone—she'd left the line open—and Jimmy heard everything. “Robin,” he shouted. “I need you to call Jules—right now!”

  “This is your fault, isn't it?” Gavin asked Tracy. “I saw the picture that was circulating. You took that with your phone, didn't you? Always taking pictures of me, driving me fucking nuts.”

  Jimmy couldn't hang up. If this crazy motherfucker took Tracy somewhere, this could be their only link.

  “What'd you do, get a shot with the plate number of my car?” Gavin continued. “Dumb luck. Dumb luck. And wasn't that the last thing I expected—a bimbo like you hooking up with Lawrence Decker? How the mighty have fallen.”

  “I'm a bimbo?” Tracy was not only pissed, but her unsteady voice sounded as if Gavin was pushing her forward.

  “Scream,” Nash told her, even though she couldn't hear him. “Scream and let him shoot you, but do not get into a car with him. Robin!”

  “I'm not the one who was stupid enough to use my own car when I was conning someone—”

  “So it was my plates, and it was your fault—”

  “My fault?” Tracy said. “It's my fault that you're a liar and a traitor and a thief?”

  “Killer,” he said. “Don't forget killer.”

  “I got bounced to Jules's voice mail,” Robin called. “What's going on?”

  “Call Tess,” Jimmy said. “Now!”

  Tracy stumbled as Michael pushed her into the ambulance, where Dave was lying on a stretcher. Lopez was with him, and he reached out to catch Tracy, which was when Michael hit the SEAL, hard, with the butt of his gun.

  And then it was Tracy who was holding Lopez, who'd gone suddenly, frighteningly slack. Her ankle twisted and she went down into a pile with him, as Michael closed the ambulance door behind him.

  “We're in, you can go,” he called to the paramedic—a woman—in the front seat, who turned around to look at him.

  “Where's Lenny?” she asked, but then she saw the gun, and she put the truck in gear.

  Tracy scrambled to regain her footing, wincing at the pain in her ankle, searching for something, anything to use to defend herself.

  Which was when Dave rose up behind Michael, like some kind of apparition—battered and bruised and bloody, but unstoppable. He looped his plastic IV tube around the man's throat and pulled it tight.

  Michael dropped the gun as he clawed for air, and it bounced on the floor before Tracy grabbed it. “Stop the truck, stop the truck!” she shouted, and the driver hit the brakes.

  The sudden lurch knocked Dave off balance—or maybe Michael had managed to pull the IV tube free from his arm.

  “I'm going to kill you,” he snarled, and as Tracy looked into Michael's eyes, she knew that he meant it. His words were more than a threat—they were a promise.

  So she squeezed the trigger, and the gun went off, throwing her back and down, on top of Lopez again. But Michael didn't fall. And before she could aim the gun again, he opened the back door and jumped from the ambulance.

  Dave managed to get the doors shut and locked. “Drive,” he shouted. “Back up the hill!”

  The driver did a hard U-turn, tires squealing, which sent both Dave and Tracy onto the floor again with Lopez, who, thank God, was starting to stir.

  “Are you all right?” Dave asked Tracy as he took the gun from her and set the safety.

  She nodded through tears that she couldn't hold back. “I tried to shoot him. Did I shoot him?” she asked.

  “God, I hope so,” Dave said.

  The driver braked to a less dramatic stop as they were met, halfway up the hill, by half a dozen police cars and the entire Troubleshooters team.

  “I can't believe you did that,” Tracy said, laughing through her tears. “With your IV … ? You were like, totally, James Bond.”

  Dave nodded. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Don't tell Sophia …”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  The paramedics moved Dave quickly from the ambulance and into the ER.

  Decker grabbed Tracy as she, too, emerged, ready to hustle her away from the hospital entrance. But she had a splint on her ankle, and he must've had a terrible look on his face when he saw it because she said, “I think I just sprained it when he pushed me.”

  He pushed her.

  Gavin Michaelson had grabbed her, held her at gunpoint, and pushed her—and if he'd had the chance, Decker had absolutely no doubt, he would have killed her.

  And even though a nurse's aide was bringing out a wheelchair, Decker swept Tracy into his arms and carried her into the hospital.

  “Are you all right?” she asked him. “Jimmy said he saw you get shot.”

  “I'm fine,” he said curtly. “Body armor. I'm just a little bruised.
”

  Another nurse tried to stop him. “The triage station is up front—”

  “You'll have to do it in the back,” he told her. “I'm getting her away from these windows.”

  Jules Cassidy was right behind him. “FBI,” he told the nurses, giving them his trademark adorable smile. “Sorry for the disruption. And just to make things even more exciting, there's going to be some guards coming in. We'll try our best to comply with as many rules as we can.”

  Tracy was not happy as Decker carried her into an empty room. “We didn't catch him—Gavin?”

  Jules shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “But we will,” Decker promised her.

  And as she gazed at him, into his eyes, she nodded. “Good,” she said. She glanced at Jules, who was standing in the open door, and said to Decker, “You can put me down now. People are already starting to talk. I know how much that bothers you.”

  Decker put her down. And then he kissed her, because she looked as if she had another fourteen paragraphs to say about the fact that people were talking about them, and how he should be worried about that, when in fact, he didn't give a flying shit.

  “I'll, uh, just…” Jules cleared his throat. “Let me know when you have a minute—I need to, um … Good.” Decker heard the click as the FBI agent closed the door.

  But then he tasted salt, and he realized that Tracy was crying.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “I wanted this to be over,” she told him. “I'm sorry to be such a baby, but I wanted—”

  “I know.”

  “I should have shot him,” Tracy said. “He was three feet away—how could I have missed?”

  “Because you're a receptionist?” he said.

  She smiled, but it was far too fleeting.

  “The truck was moving,” Deck reminded her. “You've never fired a handgun before, so you pulled your shot way left. You also probably closed your eyes, which doesn't help with aiming. The good news is that you scared Michaelson away—and you didn't hit Dave.”

  “Yay, me,” she said, but again, she got serious really fast. “Deck, he said he was going to kill me. And Tess says he's crazy enough to—”

  “I'm not going to let him get near you,” Decker promised her. He took a box of tissues from the counter and handed it to her. “Look, I'm going to go talk to Jules. See what he has in mind, okay?”

  She nodded as she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  “If this is too much for you,” he started, but he wasn't exactly sure what he'd do if it was.

  “It's not,” Tracy said, but he knew she was lying, which twisted his stomach into a knot.

  He cleared his throat, trying to push aside all of his doubt. “I'll be right outside.”

  Tracy nodded and forced a smile.

  Tess couldn't believe what she and Lindsey and Dr. Heissman were hearing.

  Tracy and Decker were having a fight, right in the middle of the ER.

  Tracy's ankle had only been sprained, but she was adorned with an Ace bandage and crutches—this after hours of being X-rayed and schlepped from one end of the hospital to the other.

  Always with a small contingent of guards.

  The plan—as Tess understood it—was for Tracy and Decker to return with Tess, Jules, Sam, and Alyssa to the safe house. The plan was for Dave and Sophia to be moved there, too, as soon as Dave was able to travel.

  The plan was for them all to take a deep breath, during which time Gavin Michaelson would—hopefully—be apprehended and would cease to be a threat.

  Tracy, apparently, didn't want to wait.

  And then, it seemed, there was the not-so-little matter of a phone conversation she'd had with Jimmy. In which Jimmy—amazingly—had told Tracy that Decker was using her as a rebound.

  And of course, since this was Decker who was fighting with Tracy, it was all being done very quietly, but still loudly enough for them all to overhear.

  “It's not a rebound,” Decker said. “But Nash was right about… He doesn't want you to get hurt.”

  “So don't hurt me,” Tracy said, her voice shaking. “I've been honest, haven't I, about what I expect—or don't expect? And believe me, I don't expect much.”

  “But you should,” Decker said. “You should be with someone who can give you what you deserve—”

  “And you can't,” she said. “Or you won't?”

  Deck was grim. “I'm so fucking bad at this, I've got so much to deal with and you deserve better.”

  “That's such crap.” Tracy got in his face. “It's testosterone-speak for thanks for the sex, but anything more than that requires too much emotional effort. If you don't love me, Deck, just say so. Don't make up this … bullshit!”

  Decker was silent.

  “Yeah,” Tracy said. “That's what I thought. Tell Tom I quit. I'm going home. To pack. I'm done with California.”

  And with that, she hobbled away, surrounded by Deb and Yashi and two other FBI agents Tess didn't recognize.

  And Deck didn't do a thing. He just stood there, and watched her go.

  Tess couldn't stop herself. Jo and Lindsey tried to hold her back, but she shook them off. “Deck, was this really the right time to have a conversation about—”

  “Stay out of it,” he said. “Please.” And with one last look in Tracy's direction, he turned and went back into Dave's room to sit and wait with Sophia.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  SIX DAYS LATER

  Dave awoke to find Sophia sitting by his bed, holding his hand.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey.” His voice was rusty, his throat dry, and she leaned forward to let him take a sip from a straw sticking out of a cup of water. It felt cool going down his throat. “I heard you tried to run over some guy with your car.”

  She laughed her surprise. “Yeah,” she said. “I was looking for you. I thought he knew where you were being held.”

  “And that a tire mark across his chest would jog his memory. I assume I'm in a hospital and you're real, not some hallucination? A lovely one, to be sure—”

  “I'm real,” she said.

  He experimented, taking a deep breath. Ow. “What day is it?”

  “A good one,” she said.

  “Hmm,” he said. “It's been that long, huh?”

  “You've been coming and going,” Sophia said. “But you're finally out of ICU.” She smiled at him through tear-filled eyes. “I celebrated by throwing up. It's kind of my new hobby.”

  He laughed and winced. “Ow. I'm both sorry about that and … not.”

  “I'm not,” she said. “But the secret's out. I had to tell, because they didn't want me and my ‘flu’ anywhere near you. And then the nurse kind of told Tom and Kelly, and Lindsey was here when I had to. … you know.”

  “It's okay.” He reached up to touch her face—that bruise where he'd hit her in the elevator. It had already faded, and he was glad he'd been unconscious and unable to see it when it was fresh. “I'm so sorry about this.”

  “You saved my life.” She put his hand on her still-flat stomach. “And Mary Anne's life, too.”

  He laughed his surprise. “What? How did you … ?”

  Sophia smiled. “You were pretty out of it when they brought you in. You kept asking me if Mary Anne was all right and I … did the math.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I don't know why, but it helped me to, you know, give her a name.”

  “I like it,” she said. “Is it a Malkoff family name?”

  “No,” Dave said. “It's your favorite character from that Jane Austen book.”

  She looked surprised, but then laughed. “Marianne— one word,” she said. “From Sense and Sensibility.”

  Dave nodded.

  “But you said you hadn't read it.” Sophia was bemused.

  “I said that weeks ago,” he told her. “I read it on the plane to, um, you know … On the plane.”

  She was looking at him so oddly.

  “You to
ld me it was one of your favorite books,” he said. “You really thought I wouldn't read it?”

  “No,” she said. “I don't know. I just thought… Yeah, I guess I thought you wouldn't want to read it.”

  “I want to read all your favorite books,” Dave told her. “I want to listen to your favorite songs. I want to know what you're thinking. I want to live in your world, Soph. I'm happy—I am—to leave mine behind. Completely, if that's what you want.”

  “No,” she said, bringing his uninjured hand to her lips to kiss. “Dave, no, I was wrong about that. I was scared. But I shouldn't have been, because, dear God, you certainly proved that you can take care of yourself.”

  “I did?”

  She looked at him. “You really don't remember what you did?”

  He tried to focus, closing his eyes because her beautiful face was just too distracting. “I remember really wanting to live,” he told her. “I remember … They must've thought I was beaten, because they didn't bother to cuff my hands behind my back. They cuffed them in the front when they were…”—he opened his eyes and cleared his throat—“talking to me.”

  Sophia pushed his hair back from his face with fingers that were gentle. Her expression, however, was classic cut the crap. “Jules told me you were waterboarded repeatedly, which pretty much explains the pneumonia that you're also being treated for.” She pointed to his bandaged hand. “So don't bother trying to pass this off as a lousy manicure, okay?”

  “I was trying so hard to be normal,” he confessed. “But I really don't remember much.”

  She laughed despite the tears that were suddenly brimming in her eyes. “According to the FBI forensics team, you were tied by a rope to the bench where they tortured you. You untied the rope, and—with a 104-degree fever, in excruciating pain, you found a pile of wood—remnants of two-by-fours—and you dragged two of them back with you to the middle of the room.

  “One was a decoy,” she continued. “The other you managed to put up the leg of your pants. Your right leg, which explains your broken knee.”

  “I remember that,” he said. “I remember thanking God and St. Levi for my wide-leg jeans.”

  “You somehow engineered it, or you got lucky,” Sophia continued, “because one of the four men who were holding you fled. We picked him up, by the way—Matthew Rexton. He was trying to board a flight to Thailand.”