Okay, apparently he had strong opinions about it after all.
“Did Chief Moyer know you killed her?” This time when Rio glanced in the rearview mirror, he was watching Adam.
“Hell, I don’t know. Dad never said. We never talked about what happened or how he fixed it.” Adam shoved the pistol harder into Becca’s side and leaned forward.
Fixed it.
Translation—covered up her mom’s murder. Rage warmed her arms and legs, lit a fire in her chest. Her father had covered up her mother’s murder—and this piece of shit beside her had gotten off scot-free.
The gun suddenly dug into Becca’s side again. Adam straightened and leaned forward, scanning the neighborhood through the windshield. His gaze narrowed, brow furrowed.
He’s getting ready to do something…
Becca went cold, her heart beating so hard she could hear it in her ears. They were running out of time.
She scanned the car for something to use as a weapon. But the Jeep was spotless. Her gaze fell to her chest and her mom’s diary. The only thing available to her that might pack enough of a punch to distract Adam long enough for her and Rio to escape was the journal. She wouldn’t be able to knock the gun aside, not with it shoved up her vest like that, but she could go for his face—his eyes—try to blind him.
The diary was hardbound and rigid. If she swung hard enough, it could do some damage.
Butterflies churned through her belly as she eased up her grip on the book. Adam would probably get off a shot. She’d probably take a bullet. Hopefully it would be survivable. At the very least, maybe Rio would survive.
Forcing aside the fear, she slid her hands down the diary until she grasped it from the bottom. She’d only get one chance at this. She had to make sure the swing counted.
Chapter Fifteen
“Pull over.”
Rio looked in the rearview mirror, watching Adam’s face flatten and his muscles tense. The bastard was ramping up to attack. If he pulled over, Becca was dead.
His fingers tightening around the steering wheel, Rio forced his gaze away from the mirror. They were out of time. He needed to do something, and he needed to do it now.
The line of oak trees between the sidewalk and curb caught his attention. The trunks were massive. Adam wasn’t wearing a seat belt. If the Jeep hit the tree hard enough to rattle the bastard’s brain, maybe it would buy Rio sufficient time to get back there and take the asshole down.
Of course, Rio wasn’t wearing a seat belt either… Neither was Becca.
He brushed that concern aside. The tree was his only option. It would have to do. Stomping down on the accelerator, he jerked the wheel to the left and aimed the Jeep for the giant trunk twenty feet ahead.
Tram’s gonna kill me.
The irony produced a tight grimace.
The SUV surged forward, the force of the acceleration driving Rio into the seat’s backrest.
“What the—” Adam’s voice rose, only to splinter into silence.
He checked the rearview mirror. A flutter of black hair swam across the glass. A scuffle broke out in the back. Muted thuds… thick, heavy breathing… choked screams… and… a gunshot.
His heart clawed its way up his throat. “Becca!”
A scream ripped through the Jeep. Then another. Only the shrieks didn’t sound like Becca.
What the fuck?
He jerked his gaze back to the windshield as the Jeep jumped the curb. And then they were airborne… flying. The Renegade hit the tree trunk with enough force to throw Rio forward, embedding his rib cage into the steering wheel.
The screams snapped off in mid-shriek.
Glass shattered. Metal screeched. The horn blared.
He couldn’t hear anything from the back seat.
Becca… Becca… Becca…
His heart hammered to the beat of her name in his head.
Ignoring his numb chest and dizzy head, Rio drew the Smith & Wesson 9mm holstered against his side and twisted in the seat, aiming his weapon into the back. A slim, feminine back encased in black body armor greeted him.
Becca…
The relief was dizzying.
She’s alive.
She was also in his line of fire. Hell, he couldn’t even see Adam. Becca appeared to be straddling him. How the fuck was she even upright after the impact with the tree?
“Becca. Down. Down!” But the ear-numbing blast of the horn blared the command away.
He needed another angle. A side shot instead of a front one. He twisted toward the front, pulled the door handle, and shoved. The door barely edged open. The impact must have buckled the hinges. Ignoring the pain radiating across his chest, he leaned his shoulder into the metal, forcing the door open one agonizing inch at a time.
When he’d cleared enough space, he wiggled his shoulders through the opening, locking down the agony that seized his rib cage with each twist of his body. Once clear of the SUV, he tumbled to the ground, his arm outstretched with the gun aimed away.
The agony hit so hard it caught his breath and froze his mind. He waited it out, before rolling to his belly. Plush, wet grass cushioned his palms and knees as he crawled toward the back passenger door. He closed on his target and listened hard, straining to hear… anything. But only the urgent blare of the horn filled his ears.
The pain in his chest settled into a deep raging burn, spiked with bursts of breath-stealing ferocity every time he drew a deep breath or twisted his torso.
…broken ribs…
Must not have punctured a lung though, considering he could still breathe.
He paused below the passenger window, got his feet beneath him, and settled into a crouch. With his weapon steady in his right hand, he eased the door open with his left, using the metal as a shield.
A peek around the edge of the doorjamb showed Becca crouched over Adam’s slumped body, using the sharp edge of her mother’s diary to beat the holy hell out of his face.
Rio’s mouth fell open.
What the fuck…?
He stared at the wildness that lit her face. She’d ditched the sling and was using the sharp edge of the diary like an anvil, swinging it with such force Adam cowered beneath the blows. From the bastard’s open mouth, Rio suspected the horn was suppressing the fucker’s screaming.
Rio’s chest expanded. Thickened. Becca was fine. Relief swelled. She was better than fine. She was glorious.
Rising to his feet, Rio gingerly reached into the back seat and grabbed Adam by his waistband, yanking him out of the Jeep. Another onslaught of burning agony slashed through his chest.
Adam hit the grass with his palms cupped around his eyes and his mouth wide open. Blood spilled between his fingers, streaming down his cheeks and dripping off his chin.
Rio scanned the writhing figure on the ground and then the grass around it.
No gun.
The bastard must have lost it somewhere between the crash and Becca’s pummeling.
The gunshot he’d heard flashed through his mind. And his pulse spiked again. Had she been hit? Was she bleeding out beneath her vest? He turned back to the interior of the Jeep.
Still crouched on the back seat, Becca stared at him. Her eyes were wild… her hair tousled… blood speckled her face and body armor. The red of rage and exertion flushed her cheeks.
She looked magnificent.
Which didn’t mean shit when it came to gunshot wounds. Her adrenaline could be masking the pain. He scanned her thoroughly. The only visible blood was small flecks or streaks, more likely transfer from Adam than her own blood.
Which reminded him…
Another quick check on Adam. The bastard was still out flat on the ground, the grass a brilliant green against his pale denim jeans and the dark red drip of blood from his chin and cheeks.
Shifting so he could keep an eye on Adam, Rio leaned into the back seat and wrapped his free arm around Becca’s waist, steadying her as she climbed out of the SUV. The torso pain seemed lighter this tim
e, easier to ignore, like touching her was a powerful narcotic.
“I heard a gunshot,” he shouted once she was standing beside him. “Were you hit?”
“What?” She leaned in closer.
It was impossible to talk with that damn horn blasting away. Time to take direct action. He checked out Adam, who was still clutching his eyes and rolling his head back and forth on the grass.
After holstering his weapon, Rio went to work pulling apart the Velcro straps and divesting Becca of the body armor. She seemed fine. But every cell in his body needed to be sure. His hands shook as he carefully eased the vest down her arms.
He scanned her crumpled blouse. No sign of blood. Just to be sure, he ran his hands down the damp, slick fabric, verifying that she was unharmed by touch.
She was fine. Whole. In one precious piece.
The breath he released was slow and shaky. He’d almost lost her, for good this time.
The need to hold her was overwhelming—to feel the soft, warm weight of her resting against his chest. But before he gave in to the temptation and drew her into his arms, movement swam across the corner of his eye.
Frowning, he reached for his weapon and turned toward movement. Adam was still sprawled on the grass, palms cupping his eyes, although he’d turned on his side and assumed the fetal position. But maybe the bastard had been working with someone. Maybe Lena had tracked them here.
But the man who greeted his eyes was a stranger. The dude skirted the front of the Jeep and wrestled up the hood, a few seconds later the horn died.
Thank Christ.
His ears still ringing, Rio took a careful breath.
“I called 911,” the Good Samaritan offered as he joined them. His gaze lingered on Becca’s discarded vest before shifting to Adam’s prone body and bloody face. A frown touched his face. “The dispatcher said she’d send an ambulance.”
“Appreciate it. I’m Detective Dante Addario, with the San Diego Police Department.” He scowled at the ajar driver’s door. He needed to call his captain, but getting ahold of his cell phone was going to prove problematic.
“I can’t see. She blinded me,” Adam moaned, rolling his head from side to side on the grass.
At the stranger’s raised eyebrows, Becca shrugged. “He was going to kill us. I took a self-defense class a couple of years ago, and the instructor said to go for the eyes. So, when Dante accelerated and distracted him, I went for his eyes.”
And saved her life… his too.
“What happened to his gun?” Dante stepped forward to peer through the open door but couldn’t locate Adam’s weapon.
“I knocked it out of his hand and kicked it under the seat.” Becca’s gaze suddenly locked on his face, and she frowned, concern touching her eyes as though she’d just noticed he was moving slowly and breathing carefully. “Are you okay?”
Rio shrugged. “I tweaked a couple of ribs.”
He’d gotten off light. That earlier gunshot report echoed through his mind. They’d been damn lucky.
She frowned slightly, and the concern remained in her eyes, but her focus shifted to the Jeep. She surveyed it from hood to back bumper, before sighing. “I guess we owe Tram a new Renegade.”
Rio’s lips twitched. That they did.
And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he took her in his arms. The feel of her damp heat against him was worth every second of the burn radiating across his chest. She felt like she belonged there—resting against him—the flowery scent from her hair tickling his nose.
His chest tightened. Thickened. But the sensation was emotional, rather than physical.
He’d come so close to losing her. Way… way… too close.
He sighed, took a deep, careful breath, drawing her scent inside, where it sank deep and lightened his soul.
She wouldn’t be headed back to Olympia anytime soon. Not if he had any say in it.
Five weeks later, with the San Diego sun toasting the top of her head and Rio’s warm, strong hand locked—finger through finger—around her own, Becca slipped between headstones on the way to her mother’s grave.
Someone had chosen a lovely little cemetery for her mother’s final resting place. Acres of lush, gently rolling grass embraced the white headstones. A faintly salted sea breeze caressed the air and rustled the tree branches overhead. A gorgeous blue skyline stretched out in the distance, with the shadowy hint of water spread out below.
She stopped beneath a trio of palm trees and surveyed the peaceful, undulating vista spread out below, before forcing herself to look down at the headstone at her feet.
Here rests Rebecca Blaine
Loving Mother
Beautiful Heart
Gentle Soul
5/18/1966–4/21/2002
A tight, aching lump lodged in Becca’s throat. Who had paid for the gravesite and commissioned the headstone and inscription? Harold? Her father? She’d never thought to ask.
Kneeling, she laid a bouquet of sunflowers on the simple white marker.
Sunflowers had been her mother’s favorite flower. All these years later, Becca wished she knew why. What was it about the sunflower that had appealed more to her mom than a tulip or carnation or even a rose? There were so many questions she wished she’d thought to ask back then. Mundane questions. Serious questions. Silly questions.
She’d spent years locking all thoughts and memories of her mother away in her mind, but now the gate was open and she craved the opportunity to learn more about her heritage. Like most children, she’d been self-absorbed. Her mother had been an entrenched fixture in her life, one that wasn’t going anywhere… or so she’d thought.
She traced the birth and death dates on the marker with her index finger. Sorrow mixed with the breath she drew, adding weight and heft to her lungs. Her mother hadn’t even turned thirty-six. Her unborn brother hadn’t had a chance to take his first breath. Both lives cut tragically short because of a spoiled rich boy’s toxic, entitled rage.
She drew a deep breath and rose to her feet. She couldn’t let Adam’s venom infect her life. She couldn’t let what had happened in her past affect her future. She needed to look forward, not backward.
“I’m going to have a second headstone made. One for the baby.” She looked up at the palm trees towering above them. “Mom would have liked this, I think. Being surrounded by trees.”
Rio squeezed her hand before sliding his arm around her waist and cradling her against his side. Sometimes words were inadequate, and the smallest action carried its weight in comfort.
“Is this the first time you’ve been back?” There was no judgment in Rio’s voice or the warm gray eyes watching her.
She nodded and looked back down at the grave. The rich yellow of the sunflowers glowed against the ivory marker.
“I couldn’t before. It just—” She broke off with a deep, shuddery breath. She’d been so angry at her mother for such a long time. She hadn’t even realized the toll that anger had taken until the weight was lifted. “I don’t remember much of her funeral. Most of that week is a giant black hole.”
What she did remember were flashes of what might be memories or dreams or nightmares—she still couldn’t differentiate between the three. She remembered being wrapped in a numb cloak of disbelief. She remembered the raw echo of silence clashing with the fresh agony of loss and the red-hot rush of betrayal. She remembered feeling like she was trapped in a nightmare, unable to break free no matter how hard she twisted or ran… or screamed.
She remembered Harold’s silent figure by her side at the grave, Hilde’s hands on her numb shoulders, Mathias’s awkward mumbles of condolences, and the rise and fall of Father Garcia’s Spanish-tinted voice as he recited the funeral prayer.
This hole in her memory… the trauma of her mother’s supposed suicide… her immersion in that cold, abusive household—had all come about because of an entitled sociopath.
And then there was her father…
“I don’t think I’ll ever for
give him. My father, I mean. He might not have been complicit in her death, but he was in on the cover-up. He let me think she’d committed suicide, that she cared so little for me she killed herself. I was just a kid… How could he do that to me?”
Her throat tightened and burned. Adam had said their father had covered the murder up to prevent Becca from being thrown into foster care. But that was a crock of shit. If Lena had refused to accept her, he could have divorced her and taken charge of Becca himself. Nothing had prevented him from doing that.
With a light tug, Rio pulled her in his arms. His embrace was comforting. The palms skimming her back, soothing. “At least Adam and Lena will pay for their part in your mother’s death now.”
He was right about that. From the sound of it, Adam would spend the rest of his life behind bars, without the possibility of bail or parole. The San Diego Department of Justice didn’t appreciate a murder attempt against one of their own.
Lena had been slightly luckier. While she’d been charged with accessory to murder and a host of other federal crimes thanks to her attempts to cover the murder up, she’d been released on bond.
Currently her stepmother was camped out at Villa Fontaine, hiding from the reporters stalking the grounds.
The only member of the Hart family who’d escaped unscathed from the fallout of Adam’s ill-advised double-murder attempt was Adele. Heck, her half sister seemed to be thriving since Preston Brentworth had called off the wedding. Having her brother behind bars and her mother in hiding had set Adele free.
Becca had never seen anyone so happy to be jilted.
Soaking in Rio’s body heat and the warm stroke of his hands against the length of her spine—Becca concentrated on the here and now. The moment. The future.
The tight ball of anger burning in her chest slowly dissolved.
With a deep breath, followed by an even deeper sigh, she hugged him back, casting aside the painful memories.
After one last, lingering look at her mother’s grave, she caught Rio’s broad hand and stepped out of his arms. A chill crept over her as his arms fell away, but she shook it off. Nothing but rosy skies from here on out.
Loyalty Under Fire (Operation: Hot Spot Book 3) Page 17