Against the Dark (24 page)

The two tumbled onto the ground. She winced at the smack of Borgola’s fist connecting with Cole’s face again and again.

She aimed. Took a breath. Contrary to what Cole seemed to think, she knew how to shoot. She just didn’t like it.

“Angel, run,” Cole grated suddenly.

Borgola straightened up, pulled a gun from his shirt, and aimed it at Cole’s head. “You have three seconds to come out or I blow his head off. One. Two…”

Cole rolled away from Borgola. This was her chance—she squeezed the trigger and hit Borgola in the chest. He staggered back and shot wild in her direction. Cole grabbed his leg and he went down.

They struggled some more. She ran down the steps. Another shot rang out.

Blood seeped out of Borgola’s neck and chest. Dead.

Cole lay beside him, panting. She ran to him.

“Get us out of here,” he said. “Now.”

She looked around. More would come. She checked the guards’ pockets and found car keys. She pressed the unlock and the lock. Clicks sounded from a black Volvo across the lot.

“Come on.”

Cole didn’t stir. “Can’t move.”

She ran to the car and started it up, then drove it to where he lay. She opened the back door and pulled him up to it by his good shoulder. His wound would be totally open again, but getting him out was the priority. She tried to haul him up, but he was a big man and she just wasn’t strong enough. She noticed with horror that his other arm was bleeding. Another gunshot. She whipped off one of her socks and tied it around his forearm.

“Wake up!” She slapped his face.

“Ow.”

Good.

“Try to get in the car.” He tried. It was what she needed. She wrapped her arms around his chest and heaved and heaved him the rest of the way into the back seat.

She got into the driver’s seat and sped off. They were leaving all kinds of evidence behind. “You were shot again.”

“No hospitals,” he grated out.

“You’re losing blood.”

“Minor,” he whispered.

She dialed the number Cole had made her memorize.

Voicemail. She hung up. “No answer.”

He didn’t reply.

She turned down another street. Did Borgola’s network extend even to hospitals? Was this something with the mole?

“It’s cool,” she said. “It’s under control.” They needed to go somewhere safe. Somewhere neither of them had any connection to. Macy and White Jenny were under surveillance, but not her replacement in the gang. She pulled up the number Macy had given her for Rhonda. It was time to meet her replacement.

Rhonda, the gang’s new safecracker, turned out to be a short redhead who reminded Angel vaguely of Harriet the spy, and she lived in a flashy high-rise condo near downtown.

Rhonda met them at the service entrance in back of the building with a wheeled office chair and a colorful scarf. Together they sat Cole into the chair and Rhonda draped on the scarf, hiding Cole’s bloody everything.

He mumbled incoherently as they wheeled him into the service elevator. Rhonda hit the ten. “His color’s bad,” she said.

“I know.”

Cole groaned as Angel tried to shift him to make him less akimbo and twisted up. She didn’t want him more injured than he was.

“Nice to meet you, by the way,” Rhonda said.

“Same here.” It wasn’t so painful after all, meeting her replacement. “And I really appreciate this.”

“I live for danger,” Rhonda said.

This turned out to be largely true. Rhonda, as far as Angel could see, was a smart and wild rich girl. And, her uncle was a doctor, which seemed to make her feel qualified to field treat Cole. That’s the term she used: field treat.

“I don’t have butterfly bandages,” she announced, “but I fashioned some out of duct tape while I waited for you. Sounded like we might need some.”

“Oh, good,” Angel said. The elevator doors squeaked open. They wheeled him down the hall to her condo and into the bedroom.

“I put a tarp on my bed. I hope you guys don’t mind, but it’s a new mattress.”

Angel smiled. “No, that’s smart.”

Cole was just conscious enough to mumble now and then and protest feebly as they worked together to strip off his shirt. They took off the sock and inspected his new wound—a shot in the forearm.

“So bloody,” Rhonda said.

“Do you think it went through?” Angel asked. “Is this an exit wound?”

“Hell, let’s just stop the bleeding,” Rhonda said.

Angel put her hand on Cole’s forehead. “You’re okay, baby,” she said. “We’ve got you.”

But really, she was scared as hell. His face looked horribly swollen. He’d been severely beaten. And drugged, of course. Could there be injuries they didn’t see? How much could a man go through?

Rhonda’s bandages were pretty good, carefully folded in the part that went over the wound, so no stickiness was there.

They worked on assessing his injuries.

“He needs proper medical attention,” Rhonda said.

“No,” Cole said. “No.”

“What if you’re bleeding internally?” Rhonda said.

“I’m not. Call Mac…”

Angel tried Macmillan. “Voicemail.”

“S’fine,” Cole mumbled.

Rhonda got an ice pack and Angel held it to Cole’s eye, and then his lip. She held his hand, too, whispering encouragement. Rhonda wanted to at least call her uncle, but Angel refused. She was Cole’s voice now. Cole knew what he needed. And anyway, the bleeding had stopped.

But he’d almost died—saving her yet again. He’d dropped right down onto his foes, using himself like cannon fodder, then getting a few shots off. He was amazing. He was everything.

Every now and then, the look of Borgola as she shot him flashed into her mind. And the way the bullet had pulsed him back. Cole had been the one to kill him; he’d shot Borgola in the neck. But deep down, Angel wondered if that had been for her. If Borgola had been dead before Cole shot him.

A half hour later Cole’s color seemed to be coming back, but he was still groggy and not making sense. Probably the drugs.

A figure appeared at the bedroom door.

Macmillan.

Rhonda whipped a pistol from the bedside drawer. “Hands where I can see them.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” he said, strolling in. Macmillan had longish blond hair, and the kind of glasses that have no rim.

“We know him. You could’ve knocked,” Angel said.

Rhonda frowned. “He’s okay?”

“If you don’t count manners,” Angel said.

“You slay me.” Macmillan took Cole’s pulse, checked his wound. Angel pointed out his arm wound. “The bullet’s still in there. But he seems fit to go.”

“You a doctor?” Rhonda asked.

Angel snorted.

Macmillan sent Rhonda out for a pitcher of cold water, which he promptly threw in Cole’s face.

“Hey!” Angel said.

Cole mumbled.

Macmillan ordered Rhonda out of the room.

“Next time you knock, asshole,” Rhonda said.

“And spoil the surprise?”

Rhonda left with her pistol.

Macmillan placed a hand on Cole’s forehead. “You want to tell me what happened?”

Angel told him about what happened at the motel. Cole mumbled at one point.

Macmillan told Cole that they found the mole. Cole nodded feebly. A name she didn’t know, and probably not a real one at that, but it meant a lot to Cole, out of it as he was.

“How’d you find us?” Angel asked.

“Cole’s phone. Hey old man, wake up.” He patted Cole’s cheeks. “He really is out.”

“It’s a side effect of being drugged, beaten, and shot,” Angel said.

“Which demonstrates how little you know about Cole.”

Angel stiffened with anger. “I know he deserves better than water in the face.”

Macmillan turned to her then, with an icy-blue look that made her blood go cold. He stood and pulled her away from the bed and over to the window. “You don’t know anything. About
anything
. Am I clear?”

Angel glared back. “I won’t
say
anything,” she said.

“You don’t
know
anything,” Macmillan said.

She leaned in. “I won’t
say
anything. Anyway, you’ve got more on me than I have on you.”

“And we’ll use it if need be. We will reabsorb into the margins,” Macmillan whispered, “but don’t let that fool you. We are all-powerful, and not the enemy you want.”

Angel didn’t know what to say about that. “You don’t have to be an ass about it.”

Macmillan straightened. “Actually, I do.”

With that he returned to Cole. He pulled back the covers and inspected Cole’s torso and stomach. “I’m taking him. Help me get him into the chair.”

“Can’t we let him rest?”

“No love, we can’t. That bullet has to be extracted, and Martha Stewart medical supplies won’t cut it. You’ll help or not?”

She helped him for Cole’s sake. Not ten minutes later, they were back outside. Angel held doors and chairs while Macmillan settled him into the passenger seat of his SUV. Angel strapped him in. He was passed out again. “Baby? Cole?”

No response.

Macmillan started around the front of the car.

“Wait.” Angel followed him, pulse pounding. She grabbed his arm in front of the headlights. “I can’t just…”

“What?” Macmillan jerked his arm from her grip. “Let me take him? Let him leave without a tearful goodbye? I’ll give him a message when he wakes, how about that?”

She saw how he saw her. Leaving the condoms like she was this nursemaid whore, there for Cole to have fun with while he was recovering.

“This man doesn’t exist,” Macmillan bit out. “And the wrath of hell will come down on you if you try to find him. He’ll be on another continent within the week. Say your goodbyes.”

Alarm shot through her. “You’re just deciding all this?”

“No, he decided. Long ago.” He took off his glasses, all the better to give her the evil eye. “Would you really have Cole choose between you and his career? Would you have him leave the life he loves to become a bureaucrat or some PI using his skills to track extramarital affairs? Bitter, useless, and stationary? Is that what you prefer? He does important work saving lives. Don’t take it from him.”

Angel felt hollow inside.

His voice softened. “There is no middle ground. I’m sorry.” He walked around to his side of the car.

As if in a dream, she went back to where Cole sat. His head had lolled sideways and she put it back right with a lump in her throat. She took his hand. There was so much she wanted to say. Cole would barely hear it anyway. She pressed his palm to her cheek.

Don’t take it from him.

Cole had a chance to help people. Make something of his life. She could only imagine what it meant to him. “Keep him safe,” she said.

“We do our damndest.” Macmillan started up the car.

She turned her head to kiss Cole’s palm.

He stirred. “Angel.”

“Bye, baby.” She kissed his cheek.

“Where am I?”

“You have to go to work.”

He squinted at her, seeming to try to make sense of the words. “…so tired.”

“I know.” She touched his hair. She raised her voice over the engine: “He lost his glasses.”

“We have some for him,” Macmillan said.

“Good.”

“Thanks.” Cole closed his eyes.

He was saying thanks for the glasses, but she decided to take it as thanks for letting him go. For letting him live a life full of meaning. She pressed her lips to his, stepped away, and shut the door.

She squeezed the top of Rhonda’s office chair as Macmillan sped off with Cole. She watched them until they were out of the parking lot and out of sight down the street.

“I love you,” she whispered. Then she wheeled the empty chair back into the building.

Angel stepped onto the elevator and hit the button for her floor.

Those few days with Cole seemed a lifetime away. Everything was normal now—too normal. Lisa’s curtains were almost done. Her lighting had arrived the day before, and Angel had spent the afternoon supervising the installation. She’d gotten sheetrock dust all over her hair and clothes for her trouble. She felt like she was covered with chalk.

At least Lisa was happy. The spaces they’d created together were taking shape, and she was helping affirm something beautiful and important inside the woman. Lisa would live in those rooms, and they would inspire her.
It could be enough
, Angel thought.

It wasn’t important like saving people’s lives, but if she did it as best she could, well, it was something.

And maybe it would soften losing Cole in time.

Yeah, right. They’d only been together three days, but it had been beyond powerful. Beyond everything she’d ever dreamed. Standing there in the parking lot watching him get whisked away, she’d said she’d loved him. The utterance had taken her by surprise, but she knew it was true now. And being without him made her heart heavy—it felt literally heavy, as though it had become a useless, lifeless, leaden organ, barely worth carrying around. And everything remotely happy had an echo of pain that hurt like hell.

The bell dinged and the doors opened. She strode down her hallway, rooting through her bag for her keys.

Some days she’d wake up resolving to find him, to fight for him, but she could never quite get Macmillan’s words out of her head. She didn’t want to take Cole’s life’s work away.

And he knew where to find her, didn’t he?

Well, she’d had a lot of practice giving up the things she loved. At least there was that.

She had a meeting in an hour down the street at the coffee shop—an email off her website from a new client wanting to talk about a beach house. She shoved the key in and opened her door.

Somebody was there.

Even if it wasn’t for the savory cooking smells, the lighting was wrong. She fumbled for her mace, torn between backing away and going in. Because there was that feeble hope. Could it be?

She went in.

“Hello?”

“Come on in, darling.”

Her heart leapt. Him.

She closed the door and walked in. He lounged at her dinner table with a beer, still looking roughed up seven days later. His arm was in a cast. “Oh, Cole.”

“You should see the other guy.” He rose and closed the distance between them, pulled her to him fiercely. “I missed you so much, baby.”