Betrayals (Cainsville Book 4) (13 page)

He leaned to my ear and whispered, “Stay close,” and then gripped my upper arm as we started out. I could make out the basic shape of the bridge, enough to know I couldn’t accidentally wander off the edge. If I veered a little, my shoe knocked against the metal rail. Yet that didn’t change the fact that I was fifty feet over water on a very narrow fog-shrouded bridge.

I discovered exactly how unsafe this was when I caught a
noise ahead and stumbled against the side rail hard enough that I broke Gabriel’s light grip.

He grabbed for me; I grabbed back. I caught his hand and that made
him
jump. I started to pull away, but he gripped my hand, murmuring, “No, this is safer.”

Then a metallic clang echoed. A yelp, too high-pitched to tell if it was male or female. We picked up speed. Ahead we could hear what sounded like a fight, only the loudest sounds rising over the wind and water. Then a thud. A shout. And a man’s scream, a drawn-out scream, growing steadily softer until—

The scream ended in a splash, and Gabriel gripped my hand tight enough to hurt as we listened. No sounds came from below. None from up here, either.

Then we
felt
something, the pounding of footfalls reverberating through the bridge, running fast.

As soon as I saw Gabriel’s eyes, I knew there was no question of turning back. His target lay ahead, and he would not abandon it.

We resumed walking. Gabriel loosened his grip on my hand and I waited for him to drop it, but he only adjusted, lacing his fingers with mine. I looked over at him, that profile so achingly familiar, from the set of his jaw to those unnaturally pale eyes. The wind eddied around us, sending his dark hair tumbling over his forehead, and he pushed it back with his free hand, his lips tightening, annoyed by such a petty distraction.

I can’t quit you. I thought I’d put all that aside and made my choice, but all it takes is a walk across a railroad bridge in the dark and the fog. There’s not a single twinge of romance here. It doesn’t matter. I look at you, and all I think is
, I want this.
Whatever
this
is. I want it so bad.

I tried to loosen my grip on his hand, and he looked over in
alarm, his fingers tightening fast, as if I’d tried to leap over the edge.

“Olivia?” he whispered.

I could say my hand ached. That it was getting sweaty. That it just wasn’t comfortable.
Here, how about I hold your sleeve instead?

But if I said any of that, he’d never reach for my hand again.

I murmured, “Sorry, stumbled,” and he said, “Careful,” and we continued walking.

Three more steps. Then a noise overhead. A raw croak, and a shadow passed, and I couldn’t see more than a shape, yet I knew what it was. I opened my mouth to say, “Raven,” but Gabriel was yanking me behind him, his gaze fixed on the fog ahead as he released my hand.

Another shape took form. A human one. Gabriel charged. His fist made contact with a crack, and the figure flew back. Gabriel was on him in a second, his hand wrapped in the man’s shirt-front, yanking him up and then slamming him onto the tracks.

“Stay down,” Gabriel said. “Or the next time I lift you, it’ll be to drop you over the side with your confederate. Understood?”

The man nodded.

“My partner has a gun pointed at you.” Gabriel didn’t need to confirm that. I did indeed have my gun out and aimed. “Now I am going to back up and you are going to—”

“Gabriel!”

The man’s hand shot out, aiming for Gabriel’s knee, presumably to buckle it. Gabriel stomped on the man’s stomach. He yowled and doubled up, and Gabriel reached to grab him. The man flailed, and I said, “Gabriel! Just get back. I have this,” because all I could see was one of those flailing limbs knocking Gabriel off the bridge.

He glanced at me, his lips parting, but before he even got out a syllable, he was charging—at me.

I heard a shout from the other end of the bridge, a man’s voice booming, “No! Stop!”

I wheeled just as a figure flew from the fog. A knife flashed. I felt it sink into my side as I twisted. Pain ripped through me, and my feet tangled, and a hand knocked my shoulder, as hard as it could. Gabriel grabbed for me, his fingers brushing my jacket as I flew sideways. I tried to twist, felt cold steel skim my fingertips. Then my head hit metal, and everything went black.

T
he
moment Olivia fell past his reach, his fingers skimming her jacket, Gabriel jumped. There was no moment of indecision. No moment of decision, either. She fell and he followed, and it was only after he did that he saw her hit her head on a girder, saw her crumple, unconscious. Yet he felt no flicker of relief that he had jumped after her because the point was moot. Of course he would jump.

It did not matter whether he thought she was in mortal danger or simply falling, certain to survive. She fell and he followed, and all the times he’d told her not to rely on him, what he’d meant was that he did not want her taking a chance. Before this, he could not have said whether he’d have stayed with her at Will Evans’s house if she’d been the one who was hurt when Chandler was trying to kill them. Whether he’d have climbed into a burning car for her, as she had done for him. He knew he would not have abandoned her to her fate. But would he have made her bold and risky moves? Or found another way, less dangerous to himself? The question had haunted him. But here was the answer: she fell and he followed.

Before she’d struck her head, a thousand thoughts had been running through his. Not mad panic—orderly questions
whipping at light speed. How deep was the river? How high was the bridge? Would they strike bottom? That was the greatest danger, but almost equal was the force with which one hit the surface. It was too late to attempt a proper dive and feet down seemed safest and—

And then Olivia struck the girder, and the questions flew from his mind, because all that mattered was that she was now unconscious, plummeting toward the river. While he’d been considering those questions, he knew she’d been doing the same. She could handle this. Now, unconscious, she could not, and he had to see exactly where she hit, because once they struck the water—between the murk and the night—he’d never see her, and if she didn’t wake from the force of going under …

That
was when the panic hit.

The water would almost certainly not wake her, and the river was rushing fast, and there was no one to see her fall, and if Gabriel lost track of her even for a moment …

He would not. That was the simple answer. He was right above her, slightly to the left, and he could see the bright glow of a building at exactly the correct trajectory between him and Olivia. When he surfaced, he would see that light and know where to swim for her.

He struck the water. He hit it well, and perhaps there was then some benefit to his distraction, that he’d simply let himself fall. He hit the surface, feet together, and dropped straight down.

It was not painless. As a teen, he’d once leapt from a third-story window, escaping when he’d miscalculated the owner’s return during a break-and-enter. This was worse, a flash fire of agony.

He shoved the thought aside, which did not mean the pain stopped, only that he paid it no mind. Get to the surface, breathe, and then find Olivia.

He
managed the first with relative ease. He’d landed and could see the faint glow of the city above, and while he’d rarely swum as a child, he’d taken it up in college, when he discovered that, like running, it was a method of exercise that was not only solitary in nature but discouraged interaction in a way that gym activities did not. He was, if not an excellent swimmer, a very good one, and he propelled himself to the surface easily. Then he pushed out of his heavy, sodden jacket as he looked about for Olivia … and saw nothing.

He forced back the twinge of panic much the same way he forced back the pain, shoving it aside with annoyance. Like the pain, it was both unnecessary and unproductive. He’d seen Olivia hit the water, and she’d hit it well, her body limp from the lack of consciousness. She would bob to the surface, and with her blond hair and light skin, he’d spot her easily.

He didn’t wait for that. He knew where she’d gone under, and he could see which direction the water was flowing, and he had only to swim that way and, when she bobbed up, he’d see her, and if by some chance she did not, he’d still find her, under the water, because it was not that deep nor that murky and he’d see her hair. He would.

Except he didn’t. He performed all the logical steps. He headed in the correct direction, and he kept his gaze fixed on it, and he dove under every five feet, looking for her, and as he swam, he calculated trajectory and rate of flow and assessed the variables, and he did everything right. Goddamn it, he did everything
right
, and yet she did not bob to the surface and he did not catch a flash of her blond hair, and that was not possible.
Not
possible.

You’ve lost her. Again. You’ll never save her. You can’t.

Gabriel growled and swallowed water, his head barely above the surface. He did not need that now. It was unproductive. None of it was productive except searching for—

You
won’t find her. This is your fault. Your selfishness. You led her onto a bridge, where you knew there were men who’d harm her if they could. And why did you do it? Because you were enjoying yourself. She was wounded and in danger, and all that mattered was that she was with you and she was happy and you were off on some grand adventure together.

Gabriel threw off Gwynn’s voice. Except it wasn’t Gwynn’s. It was his own, because he
was
to blame for this. He had indeed been thinking only of himself, that as long as Olivia was happy then he’d seize the moment and to hell with the consequences.

He remembered her being pushed from the bridge. Falling. Hitting that girder. Crumpling. Now he looked out at the dark and empty water.

These are the consequences.

Not productive, goddamn it, not productive
at all
.

He thought fast. She should have bobbed up. He should have seen her if she did. Why wouldn’t she—

If she couldn’t. If she went under and got caught on something.

Gabriel dove. He swam underwater the way he’d come, working harder now against the current. Just swim. Damn it,
swim.
If she’s caught, she’s been under water.

How long has she been under? Five minutes? Ten? At ten minutes without oxygen, the human brain begins to suffer irreversible brain damage. At fifteen minutes: death.

And that is absolutely goddamn fucking
not productive
. No facts and figures and calculations. Just find her.

As he swam down, though, he kept glancing upward, feeling the urge to surface.

She isn’t down here.

He didn’t know that.

Yes, you do. She’s not down here, Gabriel.

How
would he know that? Had he seen an omen? That wasn’t his power. Exactly what powers did he have? He could lie and cheat and deceive and manipulate.

Which is how you got into this mess, isn’t it? You manipulated her up onto that bridge.

He knew she wasn’t down here, just as he knew she’d been in trouble when he called. Accept that. Get his ass back to the surface and find her.

As soon as his head broke through, his gaze swung left, as if by instinct, and he saw something pale bob up from the water, heading toward a storm drain.

He swam as fast as he could, even if he knew it wasn’t necessary. She’d catch on the drain grate and he could get her there. He still put everything he had into those strokes, drawing ever closer to the drain, only to see …

There was no grate.

No, that wasn’t possible. A storm drain by its very nature ought to be covered.

Not productive. Move your ass, because you have no fucking idea what’s in that drain.

A minute later,
he
was in that drain, and moving fast, the current so strong he had to fight to keep his head above water.

Olivia, where is—?

He saw her, caught on something, her body battering against it. He made his way there and found her jacket had snagged on metal rebar jutting from a concrete slab. He had no idea what purpose the wide concrete slab might serve, only that it formed a perfect platform.

He hauled himself onto it. There wasn’t more than a few feet between the platform and the curving tunnel roof. He had to lie on his stomach, free Olivia’s jacket, and then pull her up beside him. That’s when he discovered she wasn’t breathing.

When
Olivia began seeing visions and losing consciousness, he’d kept thinking,
What if she stops breathing?
The thought had become near obsessive, and the only way to deal with it had been to research the matter. His brain spat back the instructions for CPR now. He laid her flat on her back, knelt beside her, and began with chest compressions. That went well. The mouth-to-mouth did not, and it had nothing to do with the act of putting his lips to Olivia’s, because no matter how many times he might have imagined that—unwittingly, of course—in this reality, Olivia was not breathing and that was all that mattered. The problem came when his lips touched hers and hers were ice-cold, and it was as if every fear he’d kept so carefully contained until then escaped, like bats from a cave, overwhelming him.

She’s cold. Goddamn it, she’s cold.

Of course she was. She’d been in the river. In October.

He squeezed his eyes shut and focused, the worries shooed, annoying but not incapacitating. He performed the rescue breathing and then the chest compressions and then the breathing and—

She coughed. He had his mouth to hers, and he pulled back fast, struck by the ludicrous fear that she’d “catch” him. Yet she lay completely still, as if he’d imagined the cough, and he tilted her head, ready to check her airway to see if anything was blocking it. Then she coughed again, sputtering now, water dribbling from her mouth, and he turned her over, knocking his hand between her shoulder blades, and he wasn’t sure if that was the right thing, but it felt right. She coughed up more water. Then he turned her onto her back, and she flopped there, completely still.