by Sandra Brown
She smiled. “You looked like you needed sustenance.”
“I did. Thanks. Where’s Jordie?”
“We got a vest for her. She’s putting it on.” She indicated the closed door on the other side of the suite, then headed toward her own bedroom.
Hickam summoned Wiley over to a table where he was conferring with the marshals over the layout of the hotel and the routes they would take for their exit. Shaw pretended to be choosing an apple from a basket of fruit on the minibar. When no one was looking, he slipped into Jordie’s bedroom and closed the door.
Without looking around, she said, “I’m coming.”
She had changed out of the pants suit into a pair of black jeans, a button-up white shirt, and sneakers. She was bent over the bed, zipping up a duffel. When done, she turned around and, seeing Shaw, drew up tall, her eyes narrowing with animosity. She pulled the duffel off the bed and walked to where he stood against the door.
“Get out of my way.”
“I had to make you believe it, Jordie.”
“I said, get out of my way.”
“There were times I hated myself for—”
“Then that makes two of us.”
“Other times I hated you for making objectivity impossible.”
“Oh, that’s pretty. Be sure to write it down so you don’t forget it. You can use it to manipulate your next hostage. That is, after you run out of cute innuendos, half truths, flat-out lies, and assorted other scare tactics.” She made to go around him, but he sidestepped and blocked her.
“Not all of it was manipulation and lies.”
She huffed a laugh. “Nothing you say will ever make me believe that.”
“Good. I’m tired of talking.”
He cupped her face between his hands, pushed his fingers up into her hair, and held her head in place as he turned them so that her back was to the door.
She went rigid. “If you don’t get your hands off me, I’ll yell this bloody place down.”
He lowered his face close to hers. “When I was lying there with that propeller sticking out of my gut, you didn’t run. You didn’t escape. Why not?”
“If I had it to do over—”
“You do. Here. Right now. You can yell this bloody place down. But I think that if you wanted to, you would have already.” His whisked his mouth across hers.
“Don’t.”
She tried to turn her head aside, but he held it fast between his hands and kissed the corner of her mouth.
“Stop it. I mean it, Shaw. I don’t want this.”
“No, you don’t want to want it. Big difference.”
Then he angled her head and kissed her the way he’d imagined, the way his drugged mind had fantasized it, the way he’d craved to from the first time he got a good look at her face.
He didn’t care how many ethics codes he was violating, or how many federal agents were in the next room, or—God forgive him—if Billy Panella himself was on the other side of this door, unless she put words into action and stopped him, he was going to get carnal with her mouth. He was going to mate with it for as long as she and time allowed.
She didn’t stop him. When he pressed his tongue into her mouth, it met with no resistence. After a slow dance with hers, he withdrew it just far enough to touch the tip of it to the center of her upper lip, just inside, just barely a flick. It was so blatantly erotic that her breaths started coming as hard and fast as his. Wanting more, he sent his tongue deep again.
She let go of the duffel bag. It dropped softly onto the toe of his boot. He pushed it aside, inched closer to Jordie and leaned into her, making adjustments in alignment that fit them together like puzzle pieces and caused her breath to catch. He hated the damn bulletproof vest that shielded her breasts from the pressure of his chest.
Her hand came up between them. She ran her thumb across the scar on his chin, then scraped it lightly with her teeth. He took a love bite of her wet, plump lower lip. Then they were kissing again, frantically. Maybe it was the mad recklessness of this whole thing that made it so goddamn good.
But he thought it was more the woman than the circumstances that had him about to combust.
He slid one hand down her front, pausing to grind the heel of it against where he approximated her nipple would be, before moving it lower, pushing it between her thighs and caressing her there. She gasped and arched into his gently massaging hand.
Lifting his face away from hers, he whispered roughly, “I’m going to have you, Jordie.”
Her eyes were still angry, but now also lambent with arousal as she stared into his.
“You know it as well as I do, don’t you?”
Slowly, she nodded.
A knock sounded on the door. “Ms. Bennett?” Hickam said.
Shaw squeezed her lightly before withdrawing his hand. He backed away from her then nudged her aside and opened the door. “She’s ready.”
Before Hick left the suite, Joe reviewed some last-minute details with him. “Got your earpiece in?”
Hick tapped his ear.
“Keep it open. I’ll advise when we get on the elevator.”
“The spare car is parked across the street and about half a block down from the entrance to the garage.” Hick held up the key fob that another agent had delivered to the hotel earlier. “Soon as the SUVs clear the garage, I’ll wheel in there.” He looked over at Shaw Kinnard, who was munching an apple. “When you sent me to fetch Ms. Bennett, he was in the bedroom with her. He opened the door. Steam escaped.”
Before Joe could remark on that, Kinnard approached them. “Sure you don’t want my help?”
“We got it.” Hick lifted the maroon hoodie from off a chair and passed it to him. “Don’t forget this. You don’t want to be recognized and apprehended as you roam the streets tonight.”
Kinnard made his opinion of the blankety-blank fleece furnace clear, but, anchoring the apple between his teeth, he pulled it on.
Hick left, taking the ladies’ bags to stow in the trunk. The marshals went with him to take up their positions in the parking garage.
Kinnard finished his apple and tossed the core into a trash can. “Guess I should shove off.”
“Transportation?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
Joe had no doubt of that.
Kinnard didn’t say good-bye to Jordie but paused at the door of the suite and shot her a telling look before going out. Joe pretended not to notice and walked over to her. “All set, Ms. Bennett?”
“Did you tell him about Costa Rica?”
“Who, Kinnard?”
“Did you?”
“He needed to know, especially now that it appears Panella isn’t in a distant land after all.” He paused, then asked, “Are you afraid he’ll retaliate?”
“He can’t. He’s a federal agent.”
Joe waited a second then said drily, “I was referring to Panella.”
“Oh.”
While the egg was still congealing on Jordie’s face, Gwen, who’d been on her cell phone, quickly clicked off. “They’re ready downstairs.”
The three of them left the suite and walked along the corridor to the elevator that provided hotel guests direct access to the parking garage. Joe, speaking into the mike on his lapel, communicated to all officers involved that they were on their way.
No one said anything as they rode the elevator down, but Joe covertly studied Jordie’s reflection in the brass door. Her expression was thoughtful, her brow slightly furrowed. He wondered what, exactly, had made her so contemplative.
Maybe it was concern over Kinnard knowing about her romantic getaway with Panella, whom he had sworn to either put away or blow away. Meanwhile, she and Kinnard were steaming up bedrooms. Strange dynamics for a budding romance.
He’d called Marsha earlier to tell her that he would be late—again. He recapped everything that had happened in Tobias and shocked her with their discovery about Shaw Kinnard.
“He’s good. Fool
ed Jordie Bennett. The rest of us, too. Hick almost shot him.”
“What’s he like?”
“Like?”
“As a person.”
Joe hem-hawed a description, circled the wagons, backtracked, tried again. Marsha interrupted and asked, “Is he Maverick, Iceman, or Goose?”
“Is this a trick question?”
“Which is he?”
“I don’t know, Marsha. He’s—”
“Of the three.”
“Then Iceman.”
“Okay.”
Before hanging up, he’d asked, “Which am I?”
“Goose. Definitely.”
A slightly disappointing answer.
When the elevator stopped and the doors slid open, the two young marshals were there to greet them. One held up a hand. “Hold tight. SUVs are rolling.”
Through the open elevator door, Joe watched the three vehicles whiz past. They looked intimidating and official with darkly tinted windows and flashing lights in their tricked-out grilles. After a few moments, one of the marshals said, “SUVs are clear of the garage. Motorcycle cops are opening up the street.”
“Okay, Hick, we’re good to go,” Joe said into his mike.
Then, one of the marshals said, “Hold it. We’ve got a clown at three o’clock.”
Gwen backed Jordie into the corner of the elevator. Joe whispered for Hick to wait, drew his weapon, and peered around the open door toward the street entrance where the “clown” was strolling in on foot. Undeterred by the automated red-and-white-striped arm at the ticket dispenser, he went around it without breaking stride.
He had on a maroon hoodie, sunglasses with blue lenses, several strands of Mardi Gras beads, and was laughing into the cell phone held against his ear.
“Shit.” One of the marshals relaxed his obvious tension. “It’s Kinnard.”
No sooner had he recognized Kinnard than an undercover policeman and a man in uniform rushed into the garage. “He’s ours,” the marshal called out to them. “We got it covered in here.” They waved and retreated.
“Good to go, Hick,” Joe said into the mike.
Kinnard dropped the pretense and pocketed his cell phone. He pushed back the hood and pulled off the sunglasses as he approached the elevator.
Joe said, “You’re screwing the plan.”
“Bad plan. Where’s Jordie?”
Joe motioned into the elevator. Coming abreast of it, Kinnard looked inside and acknowledged her with a nod, then asked Joe, “Where’s Hickam?”
“On his way. You have an alternate plan?”
“You ride shotgun. Gwen and I will flank Jordie in the backseat.” He looked toward the entrance. “If I waltzed in here, Panella can.”
“The officers were hot on your heels.”
“Yeah, but…” He gave the garage a visual sweep. “It’s dicey.”
“Panella’s too slick to walk into—”
“But he might send another Mickey Bolden, who’s desperate for money and has nothing to lose by trying. Where the fuck is Hickam?”
“He should be here any sec.”
“I agree. He should. How far away did he park?”
“Half a block.”
“Half a block?” Kinnard’s head came around and locked eyes with Joe.
They held each other’s stare for no more than a heartbeat before they moved at the same time and ran toward the entrance through which Kinnard had just come. As Kinnard pulled his nine-millimeter, he called back to the marshals, “Don’t let Jordie out of your sight.”
When they got outside, Joe yelled toward the two officers who’d followed Kinnard into the garage. They turned and fell in behind them.
Kinnard kept pace with Joe. “What does the new car look like?”
“Like Hick’s,” Joe panted.
“Dammit, it’s dark down here.”
“That was the idea.”
They spotted the sedan simultaneously and sprinted toward it. From several yards away, Joe saw that Hick was in the driver’s seat, unmoving. He came to an abrupt stop, crying out, “Oh no no no no!”
Kinnard covered the remaining distance at full tilt. He actually skidded to a halt and banged into the side of the car as he yanked open the driver’s door. Hick didn’t stir. He was slumped sideways toward the passenger seat. There was blood on his face, his neck, shoulder. The left sleeve of his suit jacket was saturated. His dangling hand was dripping red.
Shaw reached in. “He’s got a pulse,” he shouted back.
Joe didn’t remember until later when he saw the bruises on his kneecaps that he had literally dropped to them in relief. At the time, he’d been fumbling with the mike on his shoulder, shouting into it “Officer down!” and ordering the two policemen coming abreast of him to put in emergency calls.
Within seconds officers came running from every direction. Joe pushed himself up and stumbled over to the car, where Kinnard had his fingers dug in deep against Hick’s neck. Blood was seeping through them.
Joe blinked a combination of sweat and tears out of his eyes. “Is he conscious?”
“No.”
“The carotid, you think?”
“Fuckin’ Panella.”
“Is he going to make it?”
Kinnard was about to say something, but then turned his head, and looked into Joe’s face, and made a quick edit. “Better have his suit cleaned before he comes around. He’s gonna be pissed that it got messed up.”
Joe wanted to thank him for that. But his throat was too tight to say anything.
It seemed like forever, but was actually only a few minutes later that an ambulance roared up and squealed to a stop. Joe and Kinnard were pushed aside as paramedics pulled Hick from the car and went to work on him. Before Joe could quite reconcile that this was actually happening, they’d strapped his partner onto a gurney and placed it in the ambulance.
His instinct was to climb in behind them and ride along. Hick might not make it. If he weren’t already dead, he might die en route. Joe needed to be there with him. He had to go!
But he was a law enforcement officer, and the best thing he could do for Hick, whether he survived or not, was to catch the son of a bitch who’d done this.
By now NOPD patrol cars had the street blocked. Others were running hot up and down intersecting streets searching for the assailant. Patrol officers on foot were doing the same. Two homicide detectives in plainclothes isolated Joe and began asking questions.
He produced his ID and described the situation.
“You ran from the garage to look for Agent Hickam?” one asked.
“He was late, which signaled me that something was wrong.”
“And you found him inside the car?”
“Yes,” Joe replied. “We—”
Joe broke off suddenly and looked around. First responders were doing their specific tasks. Uniformed policemen were holding back the crowd of curiosity seekers who had already gathered behind a temporary barricade. Gwen and the other two marshals were being questioned collectively by plainclothes detectives.
Shaw Kinnard and Jordie Bennett were nowhere to be seen.
Chapter 32
Where are we going?”
“Just keep walking.”
Shaw propelled Jordie across Canal Street. He was walking fast and with purpose, but they were swimming upstream of the pedestrians who’d been lured toward the apparent emergency behind the hotel, the destination of speeding vehicles with flashing lights and sirens.
She and Shaw crossed the streetcar tracks in the median and then had to wait for the traffic light to change before they could cross the lanes of oncoming traffic. Had he not been pushing her along, she couldn’t have kept up with his brisk clip.
Without slowing his pace, he pulled off the hoodie and dropped it wrong side out into the lap of a homeless man who was semireclined in the recessed doorway of an abandoned building. The man didn’t even look up.
Once on the other side of the busy boulevard, they entered the
French Quarter. Even on a Monday night, it was thronged. The busy vendor of a souvenir kiosk didn’t notice when Shaw yanked a t-shirt off a rack. It was a flashy purple-gold-and-green-striped thing with a sequin fleur de lis on the chest.
He thrust it at her. “Put this on over your shirt.”
He also lifted an LSU baseball cap from off the head of a stuffed alligator and snatched several strands of Mardi Gras beads hanging from a peg. He put on the cap and draped the beads around her neck.
Beneath her shirt, the bulletproof vest was heavy and hot. Another layer would make it worse, but when Shaw ordered her again to put on the t-shirt, she pulled the gaudy thing over her head without missing a beat.
“How bad was Hickam?”
“Bad.”
“Do you think he’ll die?”
“Probably.”
Her breath caught. “We should go back.”
“And let Panella get you, too?”
“You can’t be sure it was Panella.”
“Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better.”
“We left a crime scene. Joe Wiley will be beside himself.”
“I’m doing him a favor.”
“How’s that?”
“You’re one less thing he’ll have to deal with tonight.”
“I don’t think he’ll see it that way.”
“Me either.”
“You could always tell him that you placed me under arrest.”
He threw his arm across her shoulders like an affectionate lover, pulled her close to his side, and nuzzled her hair away from her ear. “I have.”
Astonished, she tilted her head back and looked at him. The upper half of his face was shadowed by the bill of the baseball cap, but there was no mistaking the set of his jaw. He wasn’t kidding. She tried to shake him off, but he held firm, even though he grunted with pain as they struggled.
“You can’t arrest me.”
“Hell I can’t, and if you don’t stop that I’ll cuff you for resisting.”
“What are you arresting me for?”
“Lying to federal agents. The others didn’t know you were, but I did.”
“When did I lie? About what?”
“Your phone conversation with Josh.”