So Wrong It's Right

by Julie Johnson

  “I need you to do something for me,” he says, adjusting his grip on his gun as he sidles along the side of the house, peering around the corner with shrewd eyes.

  “Okay,” I whisper, steeling myself for whatever task he’s about to give me.

  I’ll run to the back door.

  Get inside.

  Find the phone.

  Call the police.

  “You see that bench? On your left?” Conor’s chin jerks toward the oak seating nook built out from the side of the house. There’s a narrow gap underneath it — barely big enough for a child to squeeze into. “I need you to crawl under there and stay put until I come back.”

  I don’t budge. “You want me to hide?”

  “Hunt, this is not up for discussion,” Conor snaps without looking at me. “For once in your fucking life, just do as you’re told without comment.”

  I’m frozen in place, watching as he steps out from the shelter of the house and takes up a new position behind a column. The hail of gunfire never seems to cease — the Evanoffs must have some serious artillery at their disposal.

  And Conor only has one gun.

  I find myself unable to move, unable to tear my eyes away from him as he braces his Glock against the railing and begins to return fire with a calm proficiency that tells me it’s not the first time he’s used his service weapon.

  Bang!

  Bang!

  Bang!

  Bang!

  Bang!

  I jolt with each discharge, the rapport ringing in my ears as the acidic smell of gunpowder hits me in a cloud. When Conor pauses to reload, he spares a brief glance in my direction. He scowls darkly when he sees I’ve yet to worm my way into hiding.

  “Hunt! Get under the damn bench!”

  I hesitate.

  “Shelby,” he says pleadingly, snapping the clip into place. His eyes pin me to the spot. “Please.”

  Watching his lips form those words, my resistance evaporates. I nod tremulously. “Okay! Okay, I’m going.”

  He returns my nod and, without another beat of hesitation, turns and runs out from behind the column.

  Headlong into danger.

  Straight into the firefight.

  Out of my line of vision.

  I hear the sound of his gun letting off rounds and try my best not to count how many he has left in the chamber, not to consider how many more ammo clips he has at his disposal before he’s rendered defenseless. Closing my eyes to keep from imagining the scene unfolding on my front lawn, I wedge myself beneath the bench. It’s a tight squeeze. I feel several splinters pierce my bare legs. A rusty nail snags on my nightgown, tearing a hole through the thin fabric by my ribcage. I yank myself loose and keep going, until my whole body is concealed beneath the wood frame.

  As I lay there in the dark, hiding like a damn coward, listening to the sound of bullets and wondering whether Conor Asshole Gallagher — who, it must be said, might not actually be such an asshole after all — is going to make it out of this alive… I replay the look in his eyes just before he left me. And I hear his voice in my head, saying my name for the first time ever.

  Shelby.

  Please.

  A tear trickles down my cheek as I pray the first time isn’t also the last.

  I thought the sound of gunfire was the scariest thing I’d hear tonight. Turns out I was wrong. The silence that falls in its wake is far more terrifying.

  Beneath the bench, I’m a statue — waiting for Conor to come back for me, to tell me it’s all clear.

  Unless… it’s not…

  An eternity passes before I finally hear the sound of footsteps ringing out across the wood porch, closer and closer. They stop just beside the bench and I swallow a bleat of terror. I’m half-convinced it’s one of the Evanoff brothers, come to kill me… until a familiar head of messy black hair ducks down to my level.

  “Hey.”

  His voice is gruff, stripped of anything resembling warmth, but he extends a hand out to me. I slide my palm into his and suck in a breath when he twines our fingers together before pulling me slowly from beneath the bench. I emerge covered in dust, short of breath, and full of more splinters than a pincushion…

  But I’m alive.

  I’m breathing.

  “Is it over?” I ask when I’m finally back on my feet. I tell myself to drop Conor’s hand, to pull away from his touch, but I can’t seem to make my fingers comply.

  Then again, he hasn’t pulled away yet either…

  He blows out a terse breath. “They’re gone, if that’s what you mean. But it won’t be over until the fuckers are in custody.”

  “They got away?!”

  He nods, but he’s not looking at me. His eyes are fixed on my legs with concern. I glance down and see I’m covered in small cuts and bruises. There’s a long laceration running up my right shin, the pretty pink polish is missing from several of my toes, and the skin of both knees appears to have lost a battle with a cheese grater.

  It looks far worse than it feels. Not that I can feel much of anything, with this much adrenaline pumping through my veins.

  His brow is furrowed. “Are you okay?”

  “Fit as a fiddle.” I try out a smile but it soon turns to a yelp of pain when Conor pokes me in the side with his free hand. “Ow! What was that for?”

  “You’ve got a cut here,” he murmurs, his fingers exploring the sensitive skin of my ribs through the ripped fabric of my nightgown.

  “Right. That.” I shrug. “I got snagged on a nail when I was wedging my body under the bench. It doesn’t even hurt.”

  “It will later,” he assures me, still prodding the wound.

  “Oh, goodie. Something to look forward to.”

  “The paramedics will treat it when they arrive.”

  “That seems like overkill,” I protest.

  “Know what’s overkill? Winding up with lockjaw because you’re too stubborn to get a tetanus shot and some antibiotics.”

  I roll my eyes, but decide it’s best not to fight with him.

  Much.

  “You know, you’re unnecessarily bossy. One of these da— Oh my god!”

  His brows lift calmly. “Yes?”

  “You’re bleeding!” I exclaim, eyes locked on the bloom of red near his bicep. “Christ, Gallagher, you have the nerve to lecture me about a tiny scrape when you’ve been freaking shot?!”

  “Relax. It’s just a graze.”

  My eyes are still bugging out. “Just a… Are you… Ugh! You are the most infuriating, stubborn, hypocritical man!”

  His lips twitch. “Noted.”

  “Are the other agents okay?”

  “One took a bullet to the leg, but it was a through and through — he’ll be fine.”

  My stomach clenches. “Is there anything I can do for him? There’s a first aid kit inside…”

  “We put a field dressing on it. His partner is waiting by the van with him now. The ambulance should be here shortly.”

  I nod, my ears picking up the faint sound of sirens in the distance. “And… and Paul?”

  Conor’s grip tightens reflexively on mine. His eyes are suddenly unreadable. “I lost track of him when they started shooting. I think he was trying to run for cover, but…”

  “But what?” I breathe, heart pounding.

  “The Evanoffs grabbed him.” He shakes his head. “We tried to chase them down, but they must’ve had a car stashed a few blocks over. By the time we got there, they were gone. And so was your husband.”

  The blood drains out of my face. “Oh my god.”

  “I’m sorry, Hunt.” He’s watching me carefully. “We’ll do everything we can to get him back.”

  “I… I…” My mouth snaps shut.

  I’m not sure what I’m trying to say. There are no words to describe what I’m feeling right now, seconds after learning that my no-good, dirty-rotten, lying, cheating bastard of a husband has been taken by a duo of men who want his existence wiped from the face of the e
arth… and that, in all likelihood, they will get their wish.

  Fear.

  Guilt.

  Sorrow.

  And, inexplicably, undeniably, unforgivably…

  Relief.

  That’s the one that kills me. The one that damn near brings me to my knees, that breaks my heart into a thousand awful fragments inside my chest. Because as horrible as it is, as unconscionable as it sounds… if the Evanoffs have Paul…

  They won’t come after me, anymore.

  He can’t come after me anymore.

  Which means… I’m finally free.

  Of them.

  Of him.

  Of this clusterfuck.

  Of this whole life.

  I stumble backward into the side of the house, needing something solid to prop me up as my mind spins in circles. I’m horrified by my own thoughts — by the deliverance I’m experiencing in my husband’s most desperate hour.

  No doubt about it: you are going to Hell, Shelby Hunt.

  My eyes lift to Conor and I see he’s watching me, something like resignation etched all over his features. His hand tightens on mine, just once more.

  “I will get him back for you,” he says in an oddly thick voice.

  And if this were any other time, I’d probably notice the strain in his shoulders when he makes that strange vow. The tension in his face when he forces out the words. The flash of unguarded emotion that moves through his eyes when he takes a deep breath and finally releases my hand.

  Any other time, I’d notice the moment he lets me go.

  But right now, I’m far too caught up inside my own head to wonder what’s going on in Conor’s.

  Paul is gone.

  I am free.

  My hand falls limply to my side. My eyes stare unseeing at the street as two ambulances slam to a stop by my front curb, followed closely by a fleet of police cars, lights strobing a medley of blue and red that draws all my curious neighbors from their beds to their front windows.

  Jaw ticking with tension, Conor turns on a heel and walks away to greet the arriving officers, not once pausing to look back at the woman leaning against the side of her house, her stricken face flashing blue-red, blue-red, blue-red as the whole world shifts beneath her feet.

  Free.

  Chapter Nine

  HOTEL MOTEL HOLIDAY INN

  I scowl at the locked door for an hour or so, willing it to open.

  It doesn’t.

  Desperate for a change of scenery, I shove to my feet and stride to the front window. Flicking back the corner of the curtain, I peer out at the parking lot.

  Steam is rising off the pavement in the midday sunshine. It’s one of those muggy July afternoons, when the air is so thick you practically need gills to breathe properly.

  The air-conditioning unit gives an ominous rattle, struggling to beat the heat. It’s on its last legs. I can only hope it doesn’t stop working while I’m still a guest here at the lovely Budget Inn.

  Oh. Did I say guest?

  I meant prisoner.

  The black SUV is still parked directly across from my door. Even from here, I can make out the two federal agents watching me through the windshield, their faces show clear disapproval as soon as they spot me. With a sigh, I let the curtain fall back into place and step away from the dust-streaked window.

  Stay out of sight, they barked when they shoved me in here ten — or was it twelve? — hours ago. Gallagher’s orders.

  I begin to pace angrily back and forth across the small motel room, a ping pong ball of rage scoring treads into the carpet. I glower at my surroundings as if that might somehow make them more appealing.

  The rusty red sofa. The orange and purple bedspread. The tacky watercolor wall paintings of Dutch windmills and winding rivers. The stained puce carpet, clashing horribly with the striped yellow wallpaper.

  I’m not sure which ring of hell this is, but it seems to have been specifically designed to assault the senses with as many contrary patterns and color schemes as possible. I eye the bed, wondering what it would look like under a blacklight.

  Probably best you never find out.

  Honestly, after today, I’m considering writing to the Vatican to apply for sainthood, because I have given new meaning to the phrase patience of a saint after spending twelve long hours sitting in this tiny ass room, going out of my mind with worry. So bored I considered gouging out my own eyeballs just so I’d have something to do besides stress and panic and pace.

  Wait.

  Actually…

  I take it all back.

  I don’t have the patience of a saint. Oh, no. I have the patience of a fangirl waiting for the next installment in her favorite book series. Because, seriously, no one does the whole suffer-in-silence-for-years-on-end-without-any-hope-of-a-sequel quite like bookworms. (Also, there’s the small fact that I don’t think I’d make a particularly good saint… what with my short temper and propensity for colorful curse words and, oh yeah, the one way ticket to Hell I’ve probably earned myself after practically celebrating my husband’s impending doom last night.)

  With a groan, I collapse on top of the grody bedspread and close my eyes. They spring open again almost instantly when I hear the beep of a keycard followed by the sound of the door swinging inward. I sit up just in time to see Agent Lucy Sykes step inside the crappy motel room.

  “Finally! An intelligent life form on this desolate planet!”

  “Hello to you too, Shelby.” Her lips tug up in a smile. It wavers a little as she eyes the questionably clean armchair across from my bed. Nonetheless, she sinks into it with a sigh and crosses her long legs. “Sorry it took me so long to get here. Turns out, shootouts involving the Russian mob require an exceptional amount of paperwork.”

  “Ah.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  I heave a mighty shrug. The FBI sweatshirt — courtesy of one of the agents who locked me in here wearing nothing but my freaking peach nightie — hikes higher on my thighs. I tug it down with annoyance.

  Sykes eyes my scraped-up legs. “Gallagher told me you got pretty banged up, last night. If you’re in pain I can get you some Advil.”

  At the mention of his name, I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking the question that’s been nagging at me since I was loaded into a black SUV last night and carted from my house to this crappy motel just off Route 1 without so much as an explanation.

  Where the hell is Conor?

  Why isn’t he here?

  “I realize this isn’t exactly the Ritz,” Sykes says, pulling my attention back to her. “But it’s close to the Bureau, which means we can keep a revolving shift of guards staked out. Plus it’s nondescript enough to keep you safe until we’re sure the Evanoffs are no longer a threat.”

  “And how long do you expect that’ll take?”

  “Unclear. We searched your attic and found some of your husbands belongings stashed there… but nothing of any value. Certainly nothing worthy of Alexei Petrov’s wrath.”

  “So you still have no idea what Paul took from him?”

  “Unfortunately not.” She blows out a breath. “Nor do we know why Petrov’s men seem to believe you’re the one in possession of it.”

  “They aren’t the only ones. Paul seems to think I have it, as well. Which makes no freaking sense considering he’s the one who stole it in the first place.”

  “Shelby, I need you to think. Is there anything you can remember — anything at all — that your husband said last night that might help us sort this mess out?”

  “He kept saying I had to run away. That I wasn’t safe so long as I had ‘it’ and that they’d never stop looking.” My eyes narrow in concentration. “But I don’t know what ‘it’ is. It makes no sense. How could I have something that’s supposedly this valuable and not even realize it?”

  “It’s my personal belief that ‘it’ isn’t an object at all. It’s money. A lot of money, siphoned from Petrov’s private accounts into Paul’s pockets. On
ly… he probably put it in your name to cover his tracks, hoping his uncle wouldn’t connect the dots until it was too late.”

  “Oh.” I blink as I digest this news. “But wouldn’t I know if there was a Cayman Island out there with a designated Shelby Hunt vault of cash?”

  “Not necessarily. As your husband, Paul could’ve made deposits on your behalf without your knowledge. But… by putting your name on the account, he needs your authorization to access the stolen funds. Which is likely why he’s been so fixated on recapturing your affections, these past few months.” She pauses. “It also explains why Alexei Petrov sent his thugs after you in the first place.”

  I have to admit, her theory does sound plausible. Far more plausible than the idea that I have in my unwitting possession some mythical object that Petrov is desperate to recover.

  “I guess that makes sense,” I murmur. “I should’ve known Paul wasn’t actually interested in winning me back out of some twisted sense of love or husbandly duty.”

  Sykes pauses tactfully. “Right. Well. As of now, this remains a theory. We haven’t found any sort of paper trail yet.”

  “But you will?”

  “If it exists, our analysts will find it. They’re the best in the world.”

  My head tilts as something occurs to me. “I thought, when they took Paul, my part in all of this would be over. But if you’re right about this — if they can’t access the funds without my authorization… they’re going to keep coming after me, aren’t they?”

  “It’s unlikely they’ll pursue you now that they know the FBI is involved. As soon as we locate the accounts, we’ll freeze whatever funds they contain. Their only shot would be to grab you before we have a chance.” Her eyes narrow. “And we don’t plan to let that happen.”

  I pull in a shaky breath, suddenly feeling a bit lightheaded. “What does that mean for me, exactly?”

  “For the time being, it means you’re stuck here where we can keep an eye on you.”

  “Great.” I grimace.

  “It shouldn’t be too much longer. We’ve got every available agent trying to track down the stolen money, running your name through every database known to man. If that account exists, we’ll know about it soon. That’s the beauty of a paper trail — follow it to the end, you always find your treasure.”