Into the Crossfire (23 page)

no imagination. So, fuck, what else was there? He racked his brain for other

flowers and all he came up with was daisies. Weren't daisies associated with

death?

Christ, he didn't recognize himself. This wasn't him. He was...dithering.

Sam Reston, dithering. He didn't do dither. He did action.

Only not tonight, he thought with a sigh. Showing up on her doorstep

would just alienate her, not to mention the fact that her dad was really sick and

Sam might disturb him if he was sleeping. Man, he'd never seen anyone look the

way her dad did, ready to step over the threshold of death at any moment. Sam had

seen death before, but usually it came in the form of a bullet, shattering a healthy

young body.

No, if Nicole's dad was sleeping, or had taken a turn for the worse, she

wouldn't appreciate his ringing her doorbell. If there was one thing that had been

made real real clear to him, pounded into his thick skull, it was that Nicole loved

her father and had made him her top priority, and that wasn't going to change.

It was a real pity that it only made him admire her even more.

Jesus. Maybe it would be a good idea to go back to Plan A, getting shitfaced with his brothers.

Yeah, that would-Sam froze. He had a bank of monitors on the short side of his L-shaped

desk, one showing the corridor outside his door. It had gone blank about an hour

and a half ago, and he'd made a mental note to have it fixed, toot sweet, as Nicole

would say.

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The monitor showed Nicole, right outside his door. Looking troubled and

tired and unbearably beautiful. Long, slender hand outstretched, touching his door.

That's right, honey, he thought, rising. Oh yeah. Knock on my door and

walk straight into my arms and we can pick up where we left off.

She stood, clearly tempted, but then she turned around and he lost her.

She'd gone into her own office.

Shit.

Well, she was here. He wasn't going to have to wait till tomorrow to see

her. Whatever was going on inside that complicated, beautiful head of hers, he'd

find out in the next five minutes.

Sam shut down the office and walked across the hallway.

He was about to ring the bell next to the door when he stopped, frozen.

Oh Christ.

He could hear a man's deep rumble, though he couldn't make out the words.

Shit! Of all the scenarios he'd run through his head, the fact that she was seeing

someone else simply hadn't occurred to him. But if she was going out with

someone else, then why the fuck had she accepted his invitation to dinner? Gone

to bed with him?

He turned his head, good ear towards the door. Oh yeah. That was a man's

voice. Unmistakeable. He stood there, as if someone had encased him in cement,

trying to process this thought. Nicole was with another man.

Then he heard a high-pitched cry of pain and Sam forgot every ounce of

training, every second of experience he'd had as a soldier. It had been drilled into

his hard head by men with equally hard heads, over and over again, that you do

not go blind into a battle situation. Ever. Any instructor would have had his ass if

he'd done in training what he now did.

If he'd been able to use his brain to think instead of being instantly filled

with terror at the nightmarish image of Nicole being hurt he'd have gone back into

his office, where he had a shitload of weapons in his gun locker, picked up his

Glock 19, checked to see the load, get a pair of restraints in case he didn't kill the

fucker, used his thermal imager so he'd know where Nicole was, and make a

dynamic entry.

He'd have taken a few seconds to run through the scenario in his mind and

it would have gone smooth as shit through a goose, something he'd done a

thousand times before, though never on his own, without a team by his side.

There'd been only one male voice, and Sam would pit himself against any

man alive in combat.

Training said to wait and to go in prepared and with the right gear.

But the hell with training. No one knew better than Sam how much damage

an angry man could do to a woman in just a minute. Broken arms, broken jaws, a

punch so hard it reduced the liver to pulp...he'd seen it all in his childhood.

He'd touched every inch of Nicole last night and though she was toned and

sleek, she didn't have the muscles of someone who knew self-defense. She was

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helpless.

Nicole cried out in pain again and Sam operated out of pure, wrenching

terror, picking the lock in a second and launching himself into the room and, oh

Christ, it was his worst nightmare.

A man in tactical gear, holding a gun against Nicole's head, one arm around

her throat. They both turned, and Sam would never, ever forget the look on

Nicole's face. She'd been struggling in despair and when she saw him her face

simply lit up, with joy and hope. Blood dripped from where the muzzle broke the

skin of her temple.

"Sam!" she choked and moved instinctively toward him, only to be caught

up short by the man holding her.

"Oh no, you don't," the man growled, tightening his arm. "Stop right there,"

he said to Sam and Sam stopped. Fuck fuck fuck! They were against the wall, with

Nicole's desk between them. There was no way Sam could rush him. The man was

holding a Kimber 1911, safety off, finger in the trigger guard. He looked like he

knew how to use the gun. And he looked like he would use it in a heartbeat.

"Who the fuck are you?" The man tightened his left arm even more around

Nicole's throat, caught inside his elbow. Sam could hear her struggling for breath.

It was a hold he knew and he tried not to let panic overwhelm him because it was a

hold a trained man could use to snap her neck in a second. A lift of the forearm, a

push to the left from the gun hand and the delicate bones in the neck would snap.

It was a hold Sam had used. On men who dropped lifelessly to the ground.

Terror iced his veins. This was no casual thief he could maybe trick. This

was an operator. Sam circled to the left, but the man kept something between

them--the desk, a client chair.

The man shook Nicole. "I said, who are you? Tell me or her brain will be

decorating this pretty desk."

Jesus. Sam knew exactly what a bullet through the head looked like. He had

to exercise all his self-control not to visualize Nicole, red mist where her head

used to be, collapsing to the floor.

Time. She needed time. He held his hands up. Look, no weapons. Christ, it

was true. Not even a fucking knife. "Sam Reston," he said.

"Reston, huh." He shook Nicole a little. "Stay still, bitch." The man's dark

gaze sharpened. "The guy with the office across the way?"

Sam nodded, eyes never leaving his. Nicole was fixed on him, eyes

pleading, but Sam didn't dare even look at her. Every cell in his body was focused

on the man, watching his every movement. All Sam needed was the barest chance,

even a second's drop in attention.

But this guy was good. He moved carefully, completely unmindful of the

fact that he held a desperately wriggling woman in his arms. He was circling

toward the door, dragging Nicole.

Her chest was bellowing in a useless attempt to pull in air. Her lips were

turning blue.

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"You're choking her." Sam kept his voice low and even, watching the man's

eyes. "Ease up a little."

The man didn't even answer. He jerked his head toward the back wall. "Get

over there behind the desk. Sit down and put your hands on the desk."

Sam hesitated. Nicole's eyes were starting to roll up in her head. Maybe he

should just launch himself at the fucker, see what happened. Nicole was going to

be dead in a few minutes, anyway, if he continued choking her. Maybe the

fuckhead would switch the gun to the big guy rushing him and away from the

woman. If he didn't get off a head shot, maybe Sam could take the bullet and live

long enough to snap the fucker's neck...

"Now!"

Except maybe the intruder would go for a head shot. The guy could drop

him in a second and then Nicole would be at his mercy. As long as Sam was alive,

she had a chance. He moved to the chair and sat.

"Hands on the desk. Palms down, fingers spread."

Jesus. Sam didn't even have a knife. He was good with a knife, almost

better than with a gun. He could have his K-bar through this guy's eye and into his

cortex in a half second, dropping him dead so fast that the instruction to his trigger

finger to fire a bullet into Nicole's head would never make it past the first synapse.

But he was weaponless. His hands and feet were weapons but he had to get

to the man first and right now, that was impossible.

The intruder was moving toward the door, dragging Nicole with him. Her

wheezes sounded painfully loud in the silence of the room. Her feet scrabbled for

purchase, heels drumming against the guy's ankles. He didn't even flinch. Sam

dropped his eyes to the man's feet. He was wearing combat boots. Nicole was

trying to kick him, hurt him, and he wasn't even feeling it.

Nice try, honey. She was nearly passed out from lack of oxygen and she

was still fighting.

The two had reached the door. The guy was going to try to escape with

Nicole, but he wasn't going to get far, dragging a woman kicking and screaming.

Sam would catch up with him soon enough, it would be...

Sam was mentally reviewing his options, none of them good, when the man

loosened his arm from around Nicole's throat, picked her up bodily and hurled her

across the room, straight at the big plate-glass windows of her office on the ninth

floor.

"Honey, honey, stay awake. Don't go away again, that's a good girl. Look at

me now. That's right, open those beautiful blue eyes."

Strong fingers, tapping at her cheek. Annoying. It was really annoying,

when all she wanted to do was sleep. Some small memory in the back of her head

told her she'd been drifting in and out of consciousness.

She was on her back, head in someone's lap. Someone she knew...

Another tap and her eyes opened. Strong features, face drawn, deep

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brackets around his mouth.

"Sam?" Her voice came out a raw whisper. It hurt to talk. Hurt to swallow,

she discovered.

"Yeah." Sam's own voice was harsh, hoarse. "Yeah, it's Sam."

"What--" Nicole brought a hand to her throat. God, it hurt. "What

happened?"

Sam's face above her was grim, nostrils pinched with stress. He looked

pale, stressed. Ten years older.

"Someone was waiting for you in your office, honey. He was hurting you.

When I came in he was holding a gun to your head. He tossed you across the

room." His jaw muscles worked. "You nearly went out the window. Of the ninth

floor." His eyes closed. "Just about gave me a fucking heart attack."

Flashes of memory blossomed in her mind, like scenes under strobe lights.

A gun muzzle, tightly held against her temple. A strong, unyielding arm around

her throat, cruelly tight, cutting off air. Sam, still and dangerous-looking, ignoring

her, carefully watching the man holding her like a cat watches a mouse.

Being picked up, flying through the air, limbs flailing, caught at the last

minute by Sam...

"Where--" Nicole raised a hand to her head. The blood at her temple had

dried. "Where did the man go? Did you catch him?"

"No." Sam ground his teeth, hard. She could actually hear the enamel

grating. "I was too busy catching you. Your windows aren't bulletproof. They're

just simple glass. Nine stories is a hell of a long way to fall. Luckily, we didn't find

out what a nine-story fall looks like."

Nicole stirred in his arms, groaning. She seemed to be one big sore muscle.

She might not have fallen out of the window, but she'd definitely banged against

some furniture.

"Shhh." Sam held her more tightly. "Don't move. The EMTs are on their

way and so are the police. They should be here any minute."

Nicole's hand sought, and found, Sam's. "That's nice," she said drowsily,

eyelids drooping. She ached all over and was so tired. "I think I'll just rest my eyes

for a moment."

The next time Nicole felt that annoying tapping against her cheek, her

office was filled with light and people and noise. She sat up, Sam's hand to her

back helping her up. It took her a second to realize her head wasn't swimming.

"Ma'am?" A young face thrust itself in front of hers. Thin, short hair, clever

eyes. He shot a glance at Sam. "Sir, you're going to have to give me some space

here or I can't do my job."

With visible reluctance, Sam let her go.

The medic shined a light in her eyes, took her pulse.

"Shouldn't she be strapped to a stretcher?" Sam asked. He hadn't gone far,

crouched on his haunches next to her.

The medic shot him an ironical glance. "She was sitting upright when I got

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to her. If she has a spinal injury, it's too late."

Sam closed his eyes and winced. "Jesus, I didn't think of that."

Nicole reached out and closed her hand around his. "That's okay, Sam. I

don't have any serious injuries, I promise."

Sam's eyes met the medic's. "She was tossed across a room. Didn't go out

the window by a miracle, but she hit the bookcase. God knows what kind of