Hawk (Sex and Bullets Book 2) (27 page)

Sandivar curses as I swipe the small blade over his hand, forcing him to let go of the gun. I try to take him hostage with the blade to his neck—I bet Rook could’ve done it, dammit—but he slips out of my hands like an eel and slams a punch to my kidney that makes me cry out. Then he hits my wrist, and the blade drops from my numb fingers.

Fucker.

Turning, I bowl into him, before he has a chance to pull out the damn gun—but obviously someone else has had the time because a shot booms, and a bullet slams into the wall by my head.

Barely feeling the sharp shards of drywall striking my skin, I pummel Sandivar in the stomach, then the face, and he punches back, hitting my still bruised jaw.

Ow.
I felt this one.

Where’s Layla? A quick glance to the right shows her to be in the hold of one of the men, struggling, blood running from a cut on her cheek. She kicks the man in the shin and manages to push away from him. Then she has nowhere else to go and curls up in the corner.

Jesus.

I need Sandivar to get the others to stop. Rook was insistent on this, and he was right. They are pawns. He’s the knight, if not the king.

So I draw back and go for my other blade, but before I can slide it out, I see another guy lifting his gun, pointing at Layla—and this time a howl bursts out of me.

No.

Ducking under Sandivar’s arm, I grab his legs and throw him down, then catapult myself at Layla. At the very last second, I have the presence of mind to not crush her completely, bowing over her—and several shots go off at once.

My body jerks before the pain hits. One. Two. Three times.

Three bullets.

Fire burns into my back, my chest, filling me up until I can’t breathe. I can’t draw air, my body bowing, coming apart, shattering.

“Layla,” I choke out her name, but it’s barely audible.

Then I’m falling on her, into her, and she’s sobbing my name as I sink into her scent and warmth, darkness sweeping over me in a great calm wave.

Layla

I thought I knew fear and desperation before, but I didn’t. There’s nothing like watching the man you love getting shot in the back and collapsing to the floor to put things into perspective.

I love him. Like I’ve never loved anyone else.

And he’s dead. Dead trying to save me.

Whispering my name.

I can’t breathe. A sob is caught in my throat. He came back for me. Was going to give himself up for my freedom. And died saving my life.

He does care about me. All this wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t run away instead of staying to talk, and now…

I’m holding on to his slack body that’s slumped over me, my heart hammering in my chest. I think I’ve run out of tears, because although I feel them burning the back of my throat, they never come.

We’re all going to die, I think, and try to see Dorothy. A guy has her pinned to the wall, and she’s still, so still I can’t tell if she’s alive or dead in his hold.

Dorothy…

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I’ll never talk to my mom again, never see my friends at college. Never kiss Hawk again.

Oh God, I’m sorry. I’m—

The apartment door bursts open and men in dark uniforms step in, holding big automatic guns. Their sleek helmets gleam.

The fight with Sandivar and his men is very brief. I think the shock of seeing them come in was their downfall. They stared for a moment, like I did, and in those precious seconds, the uniformed men disarmed everyone.

To my huge relief, Dorothy slides down to the floor and hugs her knees, gulping air. She’s alive. Thank God, she’s alive.

Another guy walks in, then, tall and dark-haired, his gaze sweeping the apartment. I know him well, and the tears slide into my voice, roughening it when I speak his name.

“Rook!”

“Layla. Oh fuck, Hawk…” He drops to his knees beside us and pulls Hawk off me. I try to resist—I don’t want to let go—but I am no match for Rook’s strength. He rolls Hawk over and starts unbuttoning his thick shirt.

“It’s too late,” I try to tell him. “He got shot, in the back.”

Rook says nothing, throwing the shirt open, and I blink, at first not understanding what I’m seeing.

A light gray vest that seems packed with rigid plates.

A bulletproof vest?

Rook undoes the straps and pushes it off Hawk’s shoulders, then rolls him on his stomach. Where I expected to see bloody holes, there are dark bruises.

“Devil is in the details,” Rook mutters grimly and sits back. He taps something in his ear. “Send up the paramedics.”

Oh God.
I put both hands over my mouth as I watch Hawk’s back rise and fall, rise and fall, a subtle, graceful movement.

He’s alive.

***

A chopper flies us to a private hospital. Dorothy is clutching my hand as we fly over the city in silence, uniformed SWAT cops sitting on either side of us, their guns held loosely in their laps.

Rook is sitting beside Hawk who’s lying on his stomach, a blanket thrown over his bruised back, his face slack and white. His lids look bruised in contrast, and there’s blood on his pale lashes.

Swallowing hard, I look away.

When I asked Rook earlier if Hawk was going to be okay, he gave me a vague reply, and what I gathered was that, yes, he will be—if the bullets haven’t hit his spine. Even through the plates of the bulletproof vest, the impact is serious, and if the spine is badly hit, then…

Paralysis. Even death.

And I should stop thinking the worst. We made it this far. I’m not giving up hope now. On him. On us.

No way.

“You okay?” Dorothy asks, and I realize my hand has drifted down to my belly, an unconscious gesture I find myself doing more and more.

I nod, unable to lie out loud. I’m not okay. Not until I know Hawk is fine. This hellish week, and my whacked hormones, have stripped me bare.

I can’t hide anymore—from my feelings, from others. From myself and the truth.

If I lose him…

No. Not now, Layla.
Have to have hope.

That’s my new mantra, and I repeat it in my head as we land on the roof of the hospital and the paramedics come running with a stretcher to get Hawk. As I watch them handle him, as he lolls in their hold like a rag doll, hair falling in his face, his lips bloodless.

Like he’s already gone.

He’s not. He’s not gone. I swallow a sob as Rook reaches for me and pulls me to my feet. I sway, then, my knees too weak to hold me, and he swings me up in his arms to lower me to the ground and another team of paramedics waiting there.

“She’s pregnant,” he tells them, and his arms feel all wrong, his scent unfamiliar. Not Hawk’s. “Here you go.”

Everyone is gentle and careful, and Dorothy is walking by my side, refusing to be carried. I’m grateful for her presence, but it’s not enough.

Nothing will be enough until I see for myself that Hawk is fine.

***

I’m supposed to rest. My blood was taken for analyses, the doctor examined me and asked me questions, and I was settled on a hard bed with an equally hard pillow and was told to sleep.

Ha.
As if I could. I tell them that, and they smile indulgently and tell me to try.

Whatever. I can’t.

Of course I’m asleep so fast after I can’t remember anything after that—until I blink crusty eyes open sometime later and find Storm and Raylin sitting by the side of the bed.

It takes me a few moments to process this, and then I’m sitting up, alarmed. “Hawk? What happened?”

“He’s fine,” Storm says and gestures for me to lie back down.

My head is spinning, so that’s a good idea. I sag back against the hard pillow. “How is he?”

“He hasn’t woken up yet. But the doctors say the bullets didn’t hit too close to the spine. He’ll be fine.”

“So why hasn’t he woken up yet?”

Storm and Raylin exchange a quick glance. “His body is probably dealing with the trauma. He has several broken ribs and some organ bruising.”

God.
“But that’s not all, is it?”

“He might have hit his head. It might be something else they haven’t yet figured out. But, Layla—”

I’m already swinging my legs off the bed, shivering in the thin hospital gown. “I want to see him.”

“He’s been seen by the best doctors. He has the best care.” Storm is hovering by my elbow as if afraid I’ll faceplant. I might. “Don’t worry.”

“Don’t tell me not to worry, when all this is my fault. I should never have left and put him in such danger. And then when I…” I glare at him. “Why are you snickering?”

I look down at myself, then twist my head to look behind me, in case this is one of those hospital gowns that leaves your butt hanging out.

Nope. Everything is covered.

“It’s just that… you’re so similar, you and him.” Storm rubs a hand over his face, his laughter dying.

“Similar?” Last I checked I wasn’t a six-foot-four hulking Viking with a beard.

“Yeah, similar. He also thinks all this is his fault—for getting you involved, for being an ass to you, for… everything. All this guilt and worry.”

I sit back down, trying to process this. He thinks it’s his fault. It makes sense, knowing Hawk, knowing how he thinks all his parents did, all the Organization did is on him. That he has to always put his life on the line to fix other people’s mess.

It’s part of who he is, and I love his selflessness. But it’s time someone told him he has a right to be selfish, too. That he deserves to live and let those who screwed up pay for their mistakes.

“How can you be laughing,” I ask Storm, “when your friend is lying unconscious in the other room?”

“He will wake up,” Storm says, and his eyes flash. “He’s too stubborn not to.”

He sounds so sure of it, but then Raylin puts her arms around him, and I realize it’s all a front. Storm is scared, like I am, but he’s hiding it. He’s lost people he loved, I remember from what I read in the newspapers a few months back. His parents, and his uncle, killed by the Organization.

“Take me to him,” I tell Storm and push to my feet again. “Please.”

I need to make Hawk listen, and although he’s out of it, I really hope he can hear and come back to me.

***

“Miss, the doctor wants to examine Mr. Fleming,” the nurse tells me, and I ignore her.

I’ve been sitting on Hawk’s bed for the past hour—or two?—talking to him, stroking his hand. He’s breathing on his own, which the docs say is a good thing, but hasn’t shown any signs of waking up, or that he’s heard a single word I’ve said.

“None of this is your fault,” I tell him for the millionth time, squeezing his hand, tracing his big fingers with mine. “I waded into it of my own volition. Besides, I’m fine. We’re fine. The baby’s fine, Hawk. Your baby. And I’ll sit by your side until you open your eyes and look at me. Look at me, Hawk. Look at me!”

“Miss,” the nurse tries again, putting a hand on my shoulder. “The doctor is waiting. And you should be resting.”

“No.” I shrug her hand off. I can’t leave before I see a sign he’s waking up. I can’t stand the thought of walking out of the room and not knowing if he’s aware of me or not. “Not yet.”

“Miss…”

I lean closer to him, brush my mouth over his. “I love you,” I whisper against his lips. “I love you more than I ever thought possible. Come back to me.”

Someone is talking behind me, probably the doctor, growing impatient with my insistence to stay—but I feel it.

I feel his hand tighten around mine, I feel his lips move.

Drawing back, I stare at them and read the words he’s breathing.

“Layla,” he whispers. “Don’t leave.”

I let out a long breath and give him a shaky smile, although he hasn’t opened his eyes yet. “I’m not going anywhere.”

***

Dorothy is seated beside me, her arm linked to mine. She says nothing, but her presence is comforting. She’s been so quiet since we got here at the hospital, and I feel so guilty for dragging her into this.

She smiles when I glance at her, though. She’s a strong girl. We’ll get through this together.

“Sandivar is behind bars,” Storm is saying, stroking Raylin’s hand with his thumb, and probably not even aware he’s doing it. “And the Big Boss is facing charges. Incriminating evidence was found in his accounts. He’s awaiting trial, but the prosecutors are confident he won’t walk away.”

Good.
I nod, glancing at the door to Hawk’s room where the doctors are checking him over yet again.

“You did this.” Storm leans forward, looking at me. “If you hadn’t been in that basement with Hawk, if you hadn’t helped him, he might have died in there.”

I nod, although my mind is far away. Okay, not so far away—just behind the door to Hawk’s room. And to be honest, I don’t care about the Organization. All I care about is that Hawk’s still alive.

The rest of the world can go screw itself.

Maybe I’m more selfish now that I have Hawk back and a baby on the way. Honestly, I don’t feel guilty about that.

If my dad and Hawk’s parents had thought about their loved ones first, about their kids and the danger they were putting them in, if all the Organization members had thought about specific human lives first, then maybe all this wouldn’t have had to happen.

The door opens and the doctors walk out. “Mr. Jordan?” one of them says, and Storm stands up and walks over to them. “Mr. Fleming has to stay for another two days, to be monitored, but after that, if there are no complications, you can take him home.”

Home.

I stand up, too, putting a hand to the wall to steady myself. Hawk will be fine.

We’re going home—and home is wherever Hawk is. He’s all that matters.

“Ms. Green?” The doctor nods at me. “Mr. Fleming would like to talk to you. Keep it brief, please.”

I walk back through the door as if in a dream. Because Hawk is sitting up, the back of his bed propped up, and he’s looking straight at me.

When he opens his arms, I almost trip over my feet in my haste to sit on the bed and fall in them. Resting my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, that’s where I want to be. Where I want to stay.