Hook (Neverland Novels Book 2)

by Gina L. Maxwell

  “What the fuck are you laughing at?”

  “You, James,” he says, his black eyes taunting me the same as they always have. “I told you, you don’t have the balls to kill me.”

  “You’re right, I didn’t. But that was before you had my brother beaten, raped, and killed.” My left hand, bloody from the cuts in my wrist, strikes like a viper’s jaw clamping onto his throat. As I press the barrel of the gun harder against his head, my fingers dig into the fleshy meat of his neck. Slowly, I squeeze, more and more, until I feel his life pulsing beneath my fingertips and hear the thready wheeze of his emaciated breaths.

  Getting right up in his face so I can enjoy every second of his reaction, I say, “For years you’ve tried to break me, and after all this time, you finally did it. So, congratulations, motherfucker, because the broken me not only has the balls to kill you…he’s going to revel in it.”

  Croc’s eyes flare wide. There it is. At last. True fear swirls in my demon’s eyes for the first time, and I feel that teenage boy inside of me sigh as we merge into one and drink in this long-awaited justice. I’m so high on the power I’m shaking. Every minute of my existence has been leading up to this, the moment I take back my life and end his.

  “James…”

  My entire body flinches, and my mind tries to reconcile the vile word with the pleasant tone. Croc’s lips never moved—

  “James, baby, come back to me…”

  That voice…I hear it say other things that don’t really sink in—something about backup and medical attention—but I like the way it sounds, so deep and soothing. I want to burrow into its warm notes, wrap myself up in its comforting tenor…

  But I can’t. Not yet. Croc is in front of me with my gun to his head and his life in my hands. My tormentor is finally at my mercy…and I have none left to give.

  I tuck my pointer finger through the guard and touch it to the trigger.

  Movement on my left makes me freeze. Johnathan. He’s here. Still in danger. “Get out of here, John.”

  “No fucking way,” he says, “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

  “Goddamn it, just go,” I plead through a clenched jaw.

  “No. Give me the gun, James; you don’t want to do this.”

  The shaking in my hand is getting worse. I have to fight to hold it steady, but my body rebels. As though the cost of a steady hand is that I break apart somewhere else, my eyes flood with more fucking tears before they spill over and follow the same path as the others. I resent them and the weakness they represent, branding me as the coward I’ve always been to him, and I’m so fucking sick of being afraid of him, of what he’s done and what he won’t ever let me forget.

  “Yes,” I whisper, staring into the soulless windows of my nightmare. “I do.”

  “No, you don’t,” John insists. “I know you; I love you. He’s not worth—”

  “He killed my fucking brother!”

  “No, he didn’t!” John takes a step closer to me. “We got Starkey out earlier today; he’s not dead.”

  My head snaps to the side, searching his golden eyes for the truth to match his words. “You got him out? H-he’s…alive?”

  He nods. “Yeah, babe, he’s fine. I promise you.”

  Oh, thank Christ. Powerful relief nearly sweeps my legs out from under me, but I manage to remain standing.

  “I’ll take you to him as soon as we get out of here. But you have to let me do my job and arrest Croc, okay?”

  I look back to where I still have a death grip on the asshole’s throat. He’s past red and on his way to dark purple. I’m suddenly disgusted that I’m touching him. Like realizing the garter snake is actually a king cobra, I snatch my hand back and begin reversing my steps, grabbing John’s arm to take him with me. I keep my eyes and the gun trained on Croc as I put as much space as I can between him and us. I don’t want to be anywhere near him, I don’t even want us sharing the same air.

  “James,” John says calmly. “It’s time to give me the gun.”

  Croc is still standing, but he’s slumped against the wall with one hand rubbing his throat as he works to drag in enough air to satisfy his oxygen-starved lungs. His hair is messy, his shirt is halfway pulled out of his pants, and although his face is returning to its usual sallow color, his skin is dotted with newly broken blood vessels beneath his eyes. He no longer looks like the monster from my childhood. He’s just a pathetic old man who’s nothing without his criminal empire to back him up. Karma will be his constant companion in prison, and that will have to be enough.

  Turning to John, I offer him the gun. He accepts it gingerly with a nod, letting me know I’m doing the right thing and everything’s going to be okay. And maybe for the first time, I truly believe him.

  “Thank you,” I say, my voice gruff with overwhelming emotions, “for…” Fuck, there are so many things, I don’t even know how to finish that. But he doesn’t need me to.

  “Always, Captain.” John gives me a quick, reassuring tilt of his mouth, then slips right back into cop mode. “Hear that?” he says, indicating the sounds of men shouting to each other somewhere in the building. He looks over to make sure Croc hasn’t moved—he hasn’t—then glances down at the confiscated 9-millimeter as he drops the clip into his palm. “That’s our backup and the medics. And don’t give them any shit about looking you over, either. We’re not leaving…”

  I don’t hear anything else. Not John’s lecture, not the echoing sound of the backup in the halls, not their shouts to each other, not even my own thoughts. Because Croc is whipping out another gun from behind his back. And taking aim at John.

  There’s no time to think. No time to warn John. No time to disarm Croc. No time to wish for things to be different. There’s only one thing I do have time for.

  I take a lunging step to my left.

  Chapter Forty-One

  John

  You can fit a hundred regrets into the span of a single heartbeat.

  I wish I would have…

  …cuffed him.

  …kept my eyes on him.

  …tried to stop the bust.

  …stayed with James yesterday.

  …told someone about Croc when we were kids.

  All those regrets and more raced through my mind in a mere fraction of a second. If I’d done any of those things, maybe I could’ve prevented this moment from happening.

  But I didn’t. So I didn’t.

  I should have assumed Croc’s gun was loaded and left it at that, but checking the clip of a weapon—especially one that’s not mine—is second nature. I pressed the button and the clip slid into my left hand, something I’ve done thousands of times before.

  But never in the presence of an unrestrained prisoner.

  The second I pull out the clip to satisfy myself that it still has bullets, I see Croc in my periph making a move. Then everything happens at once.

  He pulls out another gun and straightens his arm to take aim at my chest.

  I slap the clip into place.

  James jumps in front of me.

  I fist his shirt with my left hand, ready to jerk him to the side.

  I raise the 9 mil.

  Gunfire cracks like a whip in the air just before I see the muzzle flash.

  James’s body jerks and slams against me as I feel a concentrated punch in my chest.

  I squeeze the trigger.

  Blood wells up and spills from a hole from the empty space where Croc’s heart should be, then he collapses in a heap.

  “James.”

  He starts to slump against me, losing his battle with gravity. I drop the gun off to the side, wrap my arms around him, and ease him down to the floor. I try not to jostle him as I dip my head to look for an exit wound. I know he has one because the bullet hit me, too, but I need to see where so I can try to staunch the bleeding. I hope to God the fact that he’s not coughing up blood means it missed his major organs. But bleeding out is a very real threat, and after that, infection.
r />   Shit, this is bad. Really fucking bad.

  Once I locate both wounds, I whip off my vest and yank off my polo and undershirt. Then I carefully lift his head into my lap and press the balled-up shirts to each of his bullet wounds.

  His beautiful face, caked with blood and streaked with dried tears, is contorting with pain. My throat constricts and I have to swallow around the fist-sized lump of gravel just to speak. “Goddamn it, babe, what the fuck were you thinking?”

  “Croc gets perverse satisfaction from…taking things away from me.” James grunts with a wince when he tries to breathe faster than his injury allows. Whatever expression is on my face, he tries to erase it with the hint of his crooked smile. “Wasn’t about…to let him…take you away, too.”

  Jesus Christ. The man who thinks he’s incapable of love jumped in front of a bullet for me. I don’t know whether to kiss him or strangle him. When I finally decide that strangling my fatally wounded boyfriend is counterproductive to my end goal of keeping him alive, I shake my head. “You crazy, reckless man. I was the one wearing the bulletproof vest.”

  His gaze falls to my chest like he’s remembering seeing my body armor with the bright yellow FBI letters emblazoned on it for the first time. “Well, shit…” Looking back up at me, he licks his dry lips, then adds, “I’m having some regrets…about the last few minutes.”

  I can’t help but laugh even as tears blur my vision before falling through the air to land on his shoulder. The blood is starting to seep through my fingers. Before shit went sideways, Sanchez told me over the comms that they got held up with some wounded on the way, but they’d be here ASAP. Except I need them in here now. I hear the voices of my team, so I shout over my shoulder for a medic and turn back just in time to see James’s eyes start to roll up into his head.

  Shaking him, I don’t even bother to hide the panic. “No no no! Don’t you fucking pass out on me, Hook, do you hear me? Wake the fuck up!”

  He opens his eyes again and gives a decent glare for how weak he is. “That’s Captain…to you…”

  “Yes,” I say, clearing my throat. “You’re my Captain, and you always will be. I just need you to hold on a little longer, okay? Just a little longer.”

  Finally, Sanchez and another guy from our team rush into the room with a stretcher and immediately go into triage mode. Sanchez heads for Smee and the other to Croc who is immediately declared deceased. I don’t even have time to offer a quick explanation before Sanchez mutters a shocked “holy shit,” then announces that Smee is still alive—but barely—with a gunshot wound to the abdomen.

  Thank you, God. “Get him out of here and med flighted, do whatever you can to save him,” I say, then look down at the man in my lap. “Make that two med flights.”

  Sanchez radios for a couple of medics to bring another stretcher and all their gear, then explains, “Between the girls and a few of our guys getting shot, they’re swamped,” Sanchez says. “Fucking AK-47s, man. But they’re on their way, so just sit tight, and I’ll get the birds in the air.”

  I nod. “We’ll be here.”

  As soon as they’re gone, I turn my attention back to James. They need to hurry. There’s so much blood, I don’t know how much can possibly be left in his body.

  He stares up at me, and I swear I can see everything in his heart shining in those limpid blue pools. “Johnathan…”

  “Captain,” I whisper back.

  “I l-love you…”

  My eyes blow wide. Holy shit, he said it. He said he loves me. I’m full to bursting with everything I feel for this man, and I can’t wait to spend every day showing him just how much he means to me.

  “I love you, too, James. So damn much.”

  “Sorry…” he says, his voice gravelly and his eyelids sliding closed. “Gone…”

  “No, baby, you just closed your eyes. Open them back up for me.” He’s so weak. When he raises his arm, it’s like he’s fighting against an invisible weight pulling it down. Grabbing his hand, I bring it to my face, kiss the center of his palm, then hold it against my cheek. When he finally does look at me again, I release a sigh of relief and smile. “See? I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I know…” A set of tears escape from the corners of his eyes and slip into his hairline. “I…am…”

  His arm goes slack in my hand and his lids slide close.

  “Jaaaaaaames!”

  That’s when the paramedics run in along with Sanchez, who pulls me back so the other two can work on James.

  I’ve never felt so helpless in my life. After everything he’s been through, everything he’s fought for, everyone he’s saved with his sacrifices. Goddamn it, this is not the end he deserves.

  Villains die at the end, not the heroes. It’s exactly why Fred Croc has a bullet in his fucking chest, and if I could kill him all over again, I gladly would.

  James might never have considered himself the hero, but I know better. He is the hero. He’s my hero, and that means he has to live.

  Except this isn’t a fairytale. It’s real life. And I know all too well that in the real world, heroes die all the time.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Hook

  Christ, no one said death would be so fucking painful.

  If this is what the afterlife feels like, send me back to my hell on earth, please and thanks. Or maybe I’m in the actual hell—definitely more likely to be the eternal destination for someone like me—in which case, the Prince of Sin needs to step up his torture game.

  I open my senses a little at a time, trying to assess my surroundings. I can hear muffled sounds of people talking somewhere in the distance, but I can’t make out anything they’re—

  There’s a soft snick, and then I hear everything clearly along with a woman’s voice softly saying, “I’m checking on 322… Okay, yeah, I’m coming…” The rest of what she says is closed off with another snick, which must be a door closing.

  Not dead, then. Just extremely fucking broken. I rack my brain, trying to remember what happened, how I got here, but my memory is fuzzy. It’s like I’m squinting at a whiteboard with the details laid out for me, but a gauzy curtain hangs in front of it, blurring all the words.

  Abandoning thinking for now, I focus on my body. It feels weighed down, like it’s encased in concrete, and my heavy eyelids are reluctant to open, so I don’t bother forcing them. I don’t have any desire to fully wake up when half-consciousness feels this shitty. But now I’m suddenly worried on just how broken I am. Am I paralyzed? Fuck, that would suck.

  Needing to end the suspense, I start small and try to wiggle my toes. When they obey and rub against each other, I heave an imaginary sigh. Okay, not paralyzed, so things are looking up. Bolstered with that small victory, I attempt to curl the fingers of my left hand. The motion is a bit jerky, and I don’t get far before I feel a tug on the top of my hand that makes me stop, but it’s more progress. I switch to my right hand, except this time my fingers don’t budge. They’re met with some kind of resistance. Silky, soft resistance.

  My brain’s still not supplying me with any puzzle pieces, so I’m going to have to figure it out myself. Avoiding reality isn’t going to work.

  With some effort, I crack my eyes open and blink a few times as I adjust to the muted light shining from somewhere on the wall behind me. Bracing myself for a possible unpleasant visual or an increase of pain from the movement—or both—I carefully lower my chin to peer down my body, covered by a thin blanket. I’m aware of the air blowing into my nose by the cumbersome oxygen line that stretches across my cheeks and hooks behind my ears. Snaking out from the loose neck of my paper-thin hospital gown are several gray wires, which I assume are connected to electrodes stuck on my chest. An IV is dripping fluids into my left hand, which explains the earlier tugging sensation.

  But my other arm…my other arm is exactly where I need it to be.

  Johnathan.

  I sink farther into the pillow and mattress on a relieved sigh
, releasing all the tension and unease I didn’t realize I was holding. Just the sight of him makes everything right in my world, regardless of how wrong something must have gone for me to end up here. The memory is finally tickling my brain, and I think I’ll be able to remember it if I try, but I’m not ready to face any of that yet. All I want to do is enjoy the calm before the storm with the beautiful man at my side.

  Sitting in a plastic chair and hunched over the edge of the bed has to be giving him kinks in his back, but he’s fast asleep with his head resting next to my leg. He looks so young like this, wearing a navy-blue hoodie, facial scruff, and his hair mussed like he just crashed after a long night of studying for finals. But it’s the way his thick eyebrows are pinched together with his mouth turned down in a frown that gets to me. I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time studying John while he sleeps, and this is far from his usual carefree-in-dreamland expression.

  I lick my chapped lips and try to swallow past the lump of guilt clogging my throat. I hate that I’ve put him through any kind of distress. I want to take care of him, not cause him pain, and the blatant evidence of my failings is grating. I wish I had the strength to gather him in my arms, but it looks like John found a way to draw comfort from me even when I couldn’t consciously offer it.

  Keeping my upper arm on the mattress, John lifted my forearm and rested it against his left cheek. Then he held it there with one big paw while he slept so that my hand is gently cupping the crown of his head. I flex my fingers again, this time lightly combing through his soft hair and drawing my own comfort from the familiar act.

  When John’s lashes flutter, I stop moving, but it’s too late. His eyes open to half-mast, and he stares at me, blinking slowly. “James…”

  Damn. My name whispered in his sleep-roughened voice is the fucking best. I’ll have to come up with creative ways to make it the first thing he says every morning. “Hey, baby. Miss me?”