Hot As Sin (22 page)

Gabe broke off to give her a hard look. “Are we clear on this?”

“No.” Emily didn’t like the plan. It was too much like Patrick’s plan. She didn’t think she could go through that again. “Why do you have to go out there? Why can’t I go with you?”

“Because killing men is what I do,” he said bluntly as he grabbed the Beretta and an extra clip off the tray. “And I do it a helluva lot better when I’m not distracted.”

He opened the door wider and scanned the area. Satisfied, he slipped out into the cold. The black night was slowly giving up its hold on the sky, grudging every inch stolen by the dawn. A diffuse gray light washed the driveway, but purple shadows still clung to the woods.

As quietly as he could, Gabe faded into the woods on the left of the cabin. He moved from tree to tree in a smooth motion, always parallel to the drive, and his attention riveted on the trees across the way. If he were the marshal or the hit man, that’s the approach he’d have chosen. More trees, better cover, better view of the cabin door and window. Finally he stopped about thirty yards from the cabin, setting his shoulder against the icy bark and bracing himself for the shot.

His hands stung as the cold seeped into them, but he didn’t move them to his pockets to warm them. He couldn’t take the chance. He might get only one shot at the man; he couldn’t miss.

Gabe waited, motionless, constantly scanning the far side, searching for the movement that would give him his target. As the minutes passed, Gabe felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Slowly he turned toward the cabin, gut instinct telling him that too much time had gone by. Something was wrong.

Dammit!
Whoever tripped that thread was playing with him or very, very good. Or both. Somehow he’d managed to slip by.

As swiftly as he could, Gabe silently retraced his steps. Pausing at the edge of the cabin clearing, he checked for footprints in the snow, trying to see if anyone had approached the cabin. From this angle all he could see were the indentations made by his own boots and the drifts of snow piled around the cabin and the woodpile.

He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. Emma was alone.

Quickly Gabe checked behind him, giving the drive
and the area one last sweep. Then he searched the tree-line around the clearing. A few more minutes and dawn would be gone. For a second Gabe wondered if an animal had tripped the sending device, and then he saw the dark green fabric of a coat sleeve, just barely extending beyond the corner of the cabin. As if someone were waiting, arm upraised, leaning against the cabin and ready to shoot.

Gabe took an experimental step, gauging the sound of his footstep in the loose snow and the reaction of the coat sleeve. It didn’t move. Gabe took another slow step, still close enough to the woodpile to dive for cover if the man heard him. Once Gabe made it to the side of the cabin, he forced himself to keep the same careful pace.

At the back corner of the cabin, Gabe waited and listened. Finally he risked a glance around the corner, and all he saw was the blue-black metal of a gun as it cold-cocked him. Stunned, Gabe staggered and felt his gun ripped from his hand. When his vision cleared, Gabe spread his hands and focused on the tall, familiar man who leveled a 9mm at his head.

“Archangel, I presume?” The man tossed away the Beretta. It landed beside the remains of the sending device. “Funny. I thought you’d be faster. And perhaps smarter.”

“Obviously not.”

“Obviously.” He jerked his head toward the front of the cabin. “I believe I’ll let you walk in that door first. In case you’ve planned any other surprises for me.” He smiled. “You have, haven’t you? Sure you have. You’ve lasted longer than Patrick. I’ll give you that.”

Gabe fought for control. No mistakes, he cautioned himself. No emotion. He had to be as cold as this bastard. It was their only chance. Slowly he turned and started for the front, his mind racing.

“Stop at the porch, Gabriel, and tell her we’re coming in.”

Gabe halted, his foot on the first step. “Emma! It’s Gabe. We’re coming in. Me first. Don’t do anything stupid.” Then he added, “Take my advice for once. You’ll be safer that way.”

“Nice touch,” the gunman praised. “Let’s hope she listens.”

Gabe smiled grimly as he approached the door. “Let’s hope.”

He turned the handle and let the door swing open. Emma stood facing them, shotgun raised. And just as he told her, she pointed at the noise, closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger.

The moment Emma closed her eyes Gabe dove for the Beretta on the floor by the couch. He found the grip and rolled in the same motion. The force of the shotgun recoil knocked Emma backward; she went down hard, but Gabe’s attention was focused on the silhouette in the doorway. When he fired, the man—already stunned by the damage Emma had done to his right arm—wavered like a cut tree right before it snapped and fell.

With a great deal of satisfaction Gabe softly called “Timber!” when the man hit his knees and pitched forward into the cabin. “That was for Patrick.”

At his words the paralysis that gripped Emily evaporated. She realized she was still sitting on the floor, shotgun on her lap. As the man fell, she shoved the gun away. Hating the feel and smell of it.

Hearing her, Gabe tried to get up, but pain blindsided him and drove him back down. Nausea hit him in waves, and he knew he’d dislocated his shoulder in the dive.
Dammit
, he thought as his head rested against the
floor. He was getting soft. He’d been out only a year, and he’d not only let someone get the jump on him, he’d forgotten how to dive and roll. At least the adrenaline had kicked in long enough for him to get the shot off. That was all that mattered.

“Gabe! Are you all right?” Emily tried struggling to her feet, not quite making it when she saw that Gabe was lying on the floor by the couch. She crawled over to him, chanting, “Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. I need you.
Gabe!
”

“I’m fine.” He held up a hand to reassure her as she reached him. “Just dizzy for a minute. I had to catch my breath.”

“Oh, thank God! Don’t you ever do that to me again!” she yelled at him.

Grabbing a handful of his shirt, Emily crumpled into a tearful heap at his hip, realizing she needed some oxygen, or she was going to pass out right alongside him. There was too much she wanted to say, so she sucked air in and out until her heart stopped racing and the faintness passed. Her hands were shaking so badly as she rubbed beneath her eyes, she could feel them vibrating on her face.

Emily spared a glance for the body in the doorway. She didn’t look long because the weight of what she’d done bore down on her. She studied her hands, turning them over and over as if they could explain where the strength had come from. For so long she had thought of herself as weak, powerless to control her life.

In that split second before she pulled the trigger, something changed inside her. She knew what she wanted, and she knew what she had to do to keep it. “I
didn’t want your death on my conscience too. All I could think about was you, what you told me to do. That I didn’t want you to die.”

Gritting his teeth, Gabe knew where this was leading, and he had to stop her before she convinced herself that guilt and gratitude were love. Before he allowed himself to encourage her, to use her fear of being alone in the world as a way to chain her to him.

All his life he’d wanted to be important to someone, to be needed. Now he knew that simply being needed wasn’t enough.

He wanted more for himself. More for Emma. He loved her enough to let her go.
Sister Mary Joseph’s last lesson
.

Forcing himself up, he used his good hand to hold his arm tightly to his body. He ground out words through the pain. “You did what you had to do. We both did. Don’t analyze it to death.”

She twisted around at the strain in his voice. “Oh, my God, Gabe, you are hurt!”

“Don’t,” he told her, waving off her concern and her touch. “It’s just a dislocated shoulder. I can manage.”

Stung by the coldness in his tone, Emily slowly dropped her hands, wondering what she’d done wrong. She searched his face for a clue, but found only detachment, a stranger’s face. There was no anger, no softness, no love, no emotion of any kind.

Uneasiness crept over her, tiptoeing into her soul and chewing up her certainty. She and Gabe had made some sort of commitment last night. Hadn’t they?
Nothing was actually spoken, but it was implied. Wasn’t it?

Suddenly she wasn’t so sure anymore. Did she want him to love her so badly that she lied to herself to make it so?

Her mind raced as she tried to find something concrete to reassure herself. But there was nothing. No words of love, or of a future. No words at all. Just their bodies and passion in the night. Just two people trying to feel alive one more time before they died.

The truth closed in on her, and her heart began to ache. Her pride refused to let her cry. Backing away from him, she gave him the distance he wanted, emotionally and physically. “We need to get you to the hospital. If we wait, the shoulder joint will be too swollen for them to pop it in manually. They’ll have to do surgery if that happens, and they have to X-ray it anyway. It could be broken, you know.”

Emily knew she was babbling, but she had to do something to keep the awful blackness inside from swallowing more than just her heart. Without waiting for his response, she got their coats. Gabe was on his feet, his jaw clenched as she stretched up to put his coat around him without hurting his shoulder.

“Get the keys out of my pocket.” While she did, he said, “Tell me you can drive a stick shift.”

“Not great. Not for a long time, but I’ll manage.” She shrugged into her own coat, averting her eyes from the body on the floor. “What about—”

“Leave him. You go start the truck. I’ll handle it.”

“Handle what?”

“We need his keys in case his vehicle is blocking the
drive, and I need to check his pockets. If he’s law enforcement, he’ll have his badge. They don’t go anywhere without it.”

“You can’t turn him over. Not with your shoulder. I—I’ll do it.”

“Emma, don’t argue for once,” he said wearily. “Just get the truck.” When she held her ground, he said, “I don’t want you to do this. All right?”

For a second he sounded like he cared, but then his voice hardened, eradicating the tiny flare of hope. She nodded. Even if he didn’t care, he was right; she couldn’t do it. There were too many bad memories waiting for her. So she slid by the body without looking.

Gabe was waiting for her by the time she’d finally figured out the gears. Before she could get out, he pulled open the passenger door. He didn’t need her help getting in. That was obvious from the way he gritted his teeth and just did it. He was a Navy SEAL, by God! They could take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’, she thought bitterly, wishing her heart could perform the same trick.

“Cascade Valley in Arlington is the closest hospital.” He gave her directions, swearing softly as she ground the gears.

“Sorry.” Her second attempt was better.

When they passed the rent-a-car sedan, Gabe spoke again. “His name was Walker Nance. He carried a marshal’s badge, and he had some transport and transfer papers on your hit man, Joseph Bookman.”

“Well, now, that was a bright idea,” she said sarcastically. “Sort of like letting the fox into the henhouse.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t know if he was doing the
transporting. Probably wasn’t. The papers are probably proof that he dusted Bookman. And if Bookman’s dead, your testimony no longer matters to the prosecutor. Or to whoever was paying Nance. You’ll be free. You can have your life back.”

Emily almost laughed.
Her life
—what a joke. That wasn’t the life she wanted anymore, but she couldn’t tell Gabe that. He didn’t want to know; he probably wanted to pack her off as quickly as possible. His debt to Patrick had been paid in full. As far as he was concerned, canceled had been stamped across the account with a big rubber stamp.

“So, why risk it,” she asked, picking up the conversation. “Why’d he come after me if he had already killed Bookman?”

“With you dead he could probably have continued as a deputy marshal, working both sides of the fence. And then there’s the money. I’m sure he didn’t get it all up front.”

Tired from the effort of keeping his emotions off his face and out of his voice, Gabe turned away from her and stared out the window. The shadowy grays of dawn still hovered on the horizon, reminding him that he liked his world, as well as his choices, black and white. He liked simple. Loving Emma and letting her go was one of the grayest choices of his life.

He knew she was confused and hurt right now. He could see it in her eyes every time she glanced over at him, when she held open the emergency room door. She might bend, but she didn’t buckle. Another couple of hours of being safe and she’d be thankful she hadn’t done anything rash.

She’d get over it; the lady had guts. He had to give her that. Even under Chief Dayton’s barrage of suspicious questions, she’d held it together.

Miles Dayton was in his early fifties, the kind of methodical individual who’d spent his whole life in small-town law enforcement, hauling in drunks and scaring the hell out of teenagers for speeding. Cases involving murder, corruption, ice skaters in disguise, and the Mafia didn’t come up often. He wasn’t at all sure they were telling the truth until Officer Willis walked in.

It took Willis all of half a minute to absorb what Gabe told him and to convince Dayton to have the King County sheriff’s office run her name through the National Crime Information Computer.

King County called back in five minutes. They got a hit the instant they put in her name. Dayton mobilized the force. He sent Officer Willis out to the cabin, had the dispatcher call the King County coroner for a wagon, sent the part-time secretary out for muffins, and contacted the marshal’s office in Los Angeles himself.

By early afternoon Dayton had “solved” the case of his career. Willis had placed a phone call to his friend in California. Deputy marshals from the Seattle office had come and gone, taking all the evidence and notes from their interviews. They’d also confirmed Bookman’s death—one bullet, at the base of the skull. The marshal with him had been killed the same way.