Dark Secrets (Dark #2)

by Jessica Gadziala

  "The chance with his life? You're a lot of things, Daniel, but you're not stupid. You know that is what he would be paying with."

  "Wasn't my call, Faith. That's why I'm here."

  Yup.

  That hurt a lot more than she thought it would, especially given that he was just telling her things she already knew.

  "Hey," he said, as if seeing the pain cross her face. His hand rose and he shrank back at seeing her physically flinch away from his touch.

  "He needs to get out of here. If you can't get him out of here, then you need to make sure he never comes back."

  "Understood," he agreed, nodding a little. "Can we talk about this?"

  "There's nothing to talk about," she said, trying to convince not only him, but herself.

  And it was right about then that the gunshots rang out inside Lam.

  FOURTEEN

  Danny

  He had a feeling she knew about Max.

  That was why he was at Lam.

  Or, more accurately, that was why he was telling himself he was at Lam.

  It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that when he pulled the door open and stepped inside, his eyes immediately went to and stayed on Faith. It was clear she didn't want him there and he didn't blame her. Especially when she was wearing her feelings so clearly on her, something she never usually did. Her movements were tense, her actions borderline compulsive. She did and redid then overdid. At some point in the night, she actually put her hair up. She never did that at work. And it didn't escape him either that she didn't have makeup on, another thing that was not normal.

  She was hurting.

  He had figured as much. He had worried as much.

  But seeing it was a whole other animal. Seeing it made a stab of pain shoot through him as well.

  But he had to deal. He was being there for a buddy and, if he was honest, he was there because he wanted to know if she was anywhere near as affected by the whole situation as he was.

  Because, quite frankly, he had not been in a great place since he got made and fired. He threw himself into working out, into trying to decide what the fuck he was going to do with his life. With very little success.

  "Wasn't my call. That's why I'm here," he said and he watched as a flash of acute pain shot through her eyes.

  "Hey," he said, raising his hand, unable to just watch her hurt and not do something about it. But before his hand even got anywhere near her face, she jerked away from it.

  "He needs to get out of here. If you can't get him out of here, then you need to make sure he never comes back."

  She was just trying to deflect. He knew that. And he couldn't seem to muster the kindness to let that slide.

  "Understood," he agreed, nodding a little. His head ducked to the side. His voice got a softer. "Can we talk about this?"

  "There's nothing to talk about," she insisted but they both knew it was bullshit.

  But before he could even open his mouth to contradict her, there was the loud, all-too-familiar bang bang bang of gunshots inside Lam. It was met almost instantaneously with screaming from some women, crashing of glass, and raised male voices.

  His body turned instinctively toward the door, reaching into his waistband for his gun. Technically, he was still an agent. He hadn't officially resigned. So he still had his service weapon.

  "What the fuck, no," he yelled, snagging Faith around the waist as she moved to rush past him, to rush into an unknown situation.

  "Get your fucking hands off of me," she shrieked as he pinned her to his body.

  The thing was, he only had one hand, the other was holding the gun.

  So when she tipped forward, making him curl his back toward her, then she jumped high and fast, she broke free of his arm and he wasn't able to catch her before she flew inside the door.

  With no other option, he grabbed the door before it slammed and followed her in.

  There was glass all across the floor, tables overturned, people huddling behind them, shaking, crying, with their phones to their ears.

  Where he had been half-expecting to find Faith skidded to a stop inside the door, frozen with the image of what was in front of her- two men down on the ground near the table in the back, bleeding, cursing. Another standing there with a gun- she hadn't.

  Of course she hadn't done something as pedestrian as freeze.

  She had crouched across the line of tables, stood, then thrown herself over the bar. He heard the crash as she hit the floor behind it. So did the man with the gun, turning suddenly in that direction, waving the gun around wildly.

  There was one thing that was clear- the guy was in way over his head.

  Daniel took that second reprieve from the fear of her safety to assess the situation.

  Vin and Salvatore were gone, likely safely behind the door of their panic room, watching the whole situation unfold in the TV feed inside. Anthony, though, hadn't made it inside. Daniel took a moment to wonder if the family was genuinely that cold, that into the idea of 'survival of the fittest' or if maybe Anthony had gotten shot first, before any of them could even move. The other one bleeding out on the bar floor, yeah, that'd be Max.

  Daniel felt his heart seize in his chest.

  Max was the only goddamn person he had in the world, likely the only sonofabitch who even cared if he lived or died. And his blood was soaking through the expensive material of his suit in the chest area.

  As if sensing his gaze, Max's eyes slid to Daniel. His eyes were pained, but even so, he was thinking clearly. Because he gave him a small head shake. And that small motion told him two things at once- he wasn't made and he didn't want Daniel to expose himself either.

  But then Faith popped up, a big, nasty looking Desert Eagle .50 caliber in between her hands.

  Of course.

  Of fucking course if she had a gun, that's the gun she would have.

  Damn.

  Amidst the chaos, he still felt a completely overwhelming surge of desire at seeing her handling such a powerful weapon with such confident ease, like she was born with the fucking thing in her hands.

  But then the gunman cocked his gun in her direction.

  And he couldn't honor his best friend's wishes, not even if they turned out being his last.

  Because he couldn't let anything happen to her.

  His hand moved immediately into his pocket, grabbed his ID and flipped it open, "FBI," he yelled, drawing the man's attention, his eyes going bug and his hand shaking. "Put down the gun and kick it in this direction. Don't look at her," he said, voice calm when the man tried to watch Faith who had taken a step in his direction. "Look at me. Put the gun down and kick it to me or one of the, by my count, four people with guns on them are going to put a parade of them into your body. Save yourself and come with me instead."

  The man fumbled, looking around wildly, then slowly starting to bend toward the floor, putting the gun down, and kicking it. It slid across the floor loudly in the deathly silent room, clipping the edge of a table and making a woman let out a shriek.

  "Hands up," Daniel said, slowly advancing him even as Faith was coming in from the side. He should have told her to stand down. It was wrong of him not to. The gun probably wasn't even legal and he doubted she had a license to carry it either. But in lieu of backup and in a bar full of mafia members and possible enemies, quite frankly, he was a little thankful for the help. "Put the gun down and put these," he said, reaching into another pocket for a pair of bracelets. "Damn it, Faith," he said on a sigh/snort hybrid as Faith flipped the gun in her hand full-on western movie style, then grabbed the muzzle and slammed the handle into the side of the man's head, knocking him out cold so that his body hit the floor with a sickening thud.

  "I'll take those now," she said easily. Her voice was even when she spoke as she reached for the cuffs he held toward her, dropping down and yanking the man's hands back and cuffing them. "Check on your friend," she added, looking around, checking for more threats.

  Really,
he didn't need to be told twice.

  He kept his gun in his hand but dropped down beside Max, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling hard enough for the buttons to pop, pulling the material to the side so he could get a look at the gunshot wound.

  "Got one to match yours now," Max said, his voice a little weak, likely from the sheer amount of blood pooled around him. And the wound wasn't stopping either, blood just kept pouring out.

  "Mi amigo, here," Rodrigo's voice said, at his side suddenly, dropping down a bottle of whiskey near his hand.

  Max and Daniel shared a look, both acknowledging it was the best bet. Granted, in normal circumstances, cleaning a wound with rubbing alcohol was a slightly better choice, but if the liquor was high enough concentration, it did the job well enough. Daniel uncapped the bottle, gave his friend a nod, then poured. He was met with a chorus of threats and curses, each more foul than the next as Max slammed his left arm down on the ground over and over to try to dull the sting.

  "The cops should be here any second," he told Max as Rodrigo produced a clean white kitchen rag and pressed it into Max's chest.

  "Hurts like a bitch, but your skin is looking fucking gringo right now, hombre," he explained. And he wasn't wrong, Max was getting whiter by the second.

  "Shit. Okay stop, stop talking!" Faith hissed, her voice frantic.

  Frantic.

  It was so unsettling coming from someone as calm and in-control as her that he willingly turned away from his only friend in the world, a man who was slipping away by the moment, to see what caused her to sound that way.

  He found her on her knees beside Anthony, her hand pressed hard into his stomach as two of her fingers pressed into his throat, feeling for a pulse.

  "His pulse is thready," she explained, her voice shaking.

  "Funny..." Anthony said, his voice a harsh, God-awful whisper.

  Daniel moved in beside her, realizing in all her concern about his stomach, she had missed that he was shot in the leg as well, and applying pressure there too, his hands getting covered in the blood of a man he couldn't stand.

  "Shut up shut up shut up," she demanded and when Daniel caught sight of her, there were tears in her eyes.

  Tears?

  He thought she despised the man.

  Things were obviously more complicated than he realized between Faith and the D'Onofrio family.

  "Failed you that night," Anthony went on, ignoring her demands, obviously thinking it would be his last chance. "Here you are ten years later, trying to save me."

  "Please shut up," she demanded, one of the tears slipping free and sliding down her face just as the doors flew open and NYPD flew inside, guns drawn, demanding everyone put their hands up.

  "FBI," Daniel said, nodding his head toward a badge on the ground as the men moved in. "So is he," he added, gesturing toward Max as the cop took the badge.

  "Ambulance is right behind us," the cop explained.

  "He gets the first one," Faith demanded, looking up at the cop.

  "This man is a..." the cop started to say, jerking his head toward Max, "an FBI agent. That there is a two-bit criminal."

  "You mother fuck..." Faith shrieked, shooting up to her feet.

  Daniel shot up too, snagging her around the waist before she did or said something to get herself arrested as the people in the bar were ushered up and into a corner as the cops made way for the gurney as it rolled through the doors.

  "Take him," Max insisted, voice weak too. But Anthony was passed out. And judging by the slow rise and fall of his chest, he was failing fast.

  The medics moved toward Anthony and Daniel had to drag Faith away so they could load him up and take him away.

  To his complete surprise, the second Anthony was out the door and a second gurney rolled in for Max, she turned into Daniel's chest and let out a loud sob.

  "Okay, it's okay, baby," he murmured as his arms went around her, one low at her hips, the other across her shoulders, smearing blood all over her and neither of them seemed to notice or care.

  "He was bleeding out," she insisted, hands going up and digging into the front of his shirt as he felt some of her tears wet through the material.

  "He was still breathing," Daniel said, voice calm as his eyes caught Max's as he was wheeled out. His friend gave him a small smile as he rested back against the propped-up back, knowing he was in good hands.

  "Shots to the stomach are bad."

  She wasn't wrong. There were rules about getting shot. Best places if you wanted to survive- arms, under the clavicle, in the meat of the upper thigh. Worst places to get shot if you want to survive- head, lungs, and stomach. You'd think heart, but many lived through a GSW to the heart if caught fast enough. Head, for obvious reasons. Lungs as well. The stomach meant if you didn't get to a trauma center in under fifteen minutes, you were dead. Dead. And it was an excruciating death as the stomach enzymes exploded into the body.

  "Faith, it's been five minutes tops since he got shot. We're two minutes from the trauma center. They are going to take him right into surgery." He had a feeling she needed the cold, hard facts, not comfort. He wasn't going to say that they were going to fix him. There was no guarantee of that. But, when it came to a bullet to the gut, the City was one of the best places to have it happen, given how close you were to a hospital at any given moment. It wasn't like in the country where, even by ambulance, it took ten or fifteen minutes and you died in agony on the ride with no loved ones with you.

  "Special Agent Harrison," an authoritative voice said behind Faith's shoulder, making her stiffen.

  But his arms tightened around her, prevented her from pulling away. "Not now," he growled at the detective standing there, looking downright giddy at the idea of having a bust like a mafia family to his name.

  "I understand your partner was just..."

  "I said not fucking now. You got a problem with that, bring it up with my supervisor. We were out front when the shooting happened. We didn't see shit. Talk to someone who saw something," he demanded, jerking his chin toward the people crowded toward the front of the bar.

  The detective, though, was on a mission. "Your weapon is accounted for. As was the perps. Whose Desert Eagle is that on the floor then?" he was smirking a little, like he was pleased at the idea of pinning the gun on Faith and maybe, if he directed his investigation carefully enough, take down a dirty FBI agent.

  The fact that Daniel wasn't dirty didn't matter to a power hungry sonofabitch like the good detective.

  "That would be mine," Faith snapped, yanking against his hold and turning to face the delighted detective. "I didn't shoot it. Which I'm sure you'll find when you have the lab guys look at it," she said as a cop bagged the gun in question. "If you thought you were maybe going to be able to arrest me for it, you're just shit out of luck, detective. I have a concealed carry permit and the gun is registered."

  Well, he'd be goddamned.

  He totally had her underestimated.

  Really, it actually made more sense that she was licensed and the gun was registered. Especially if it was one she kept at the bar. A bar that was routinely the focus of many an investigation.

  "I'll need to see that license and the registration, Miss..."

  "Costa," she supplied, shrugging casually, slipping her mask back on. Everything about her was cool, calm, collected. Like she routinely saw people nearly bleed out from gunshot wounds and then got questioned by the cops. "It's behind the bar," she supplied, lifting her chin as she moved behind the bar to get it for him.

  While she was gone, the detective turned to him. "Maybe now is a better time for you since your mafia girlfriend is otherwise..."

  "Danny," a female voice said suddenly- strong, authoritative. That was Shayna Smith, his supervisor. And leaps and bounds in possession of more power than the puny detective could ever aspire to. "I heard about Max. They say he's stable," she told me as she walked up in her nondescript black suit. There was a hint of a red shirt underneath, a small bit
of defiance Shayna was known for.

  Shayna Smith was in her early forties with a fit, but feminine body. Her blonde hair was pulled back neatly and she kept her makeup to a minimum. She was lucky enough to have fine enough bone structure, good skin, and stunning blue eyes- all things that made the lack of makeup all but unnoticeable.

  He had worked with Shayna on and off since he came out of Quantico. He liked her better than most of the other men he knew in the same position. She had developed a laid-back sort of attitude toward the job, likely from all the years that she had been called a host of names for daring to be a woman in a typically male field- shrill, unpleasant, ball-busting.

  Daniel would swear on all that was holy that he would take a thousand screaming fits from his male supervisors over one of Shayna's trademark quiet, disappointed-mother sit downs in her office.

  "I have a couple questions for Danny," the detective said with a chin lift.

  "I'm sorry. Detective..." Shayna said, waving a hand.

  "Block."

  "Detective Block," she said, sending him an icy smile. "You can continue your questioning of Special Agent Daniel Harrison after I have spoken to him. Is that in some way a problem?" she asked, brow raised, her tone insinuating she wasn't above going after his badge if he didn't back down.

  "Yes, ma'am," Block said, condescension clear in his tone.

  "And by ma'am," she called to his back, never one to let that shit slide, making him turn back, "I am sure you meant Special Agent Shayna Smith."

  "Right," he agreed, not willing to bow down as he turned to go talk to Faith.

  He was in for a long, hard, frustrating night if he thought he could get the better of women as formidable as Faith and Shayna.

  He'd say 'the poor fuck', but he was a prick so he deserved all the roadblocks they could throw at him.