L. A. Heat (36 page)

Gun in hand, the blunt muzzle pointed toward the
ground, he walked stiff-legged toward the deeper shadows in the rear of the
house. Frosted moonlight glinted off a window, shadows pooled in a doorway. His
eyes darted from side to side, seeking out anything that didn’t belong.

The flowerbed was buried in shadow, but he easily
spotted the large stone near the back step. Keeping one eye on the door, he
crept along the grass bordering the bed of raised earth and knelt to pry the
stone up. The key felt small in the palm of his hand. He slid it into pocket of
his pants and brushed clammy dirt off on his thighs.

He slipped past the door, toward the back of the
house.

Monday,
1:45 am, Blackridge Road, Santa Monica Mountains

Chris knew he couldn’t wait any
longer. Tom must be looking for him. He eased away from the door, crossed to
the bed, and gingerly stepped onto it. It bowed under his weight, but
thankfully didn’t squeak.

The window made a grating sound as he opened it,
and Chris held his breath, waiting for a shape to charge out of the darkness.

Pushing the screen off, he eased one leg over the
sill, then the other. He jumped. There was nothing but air under his feet and
he fell, stumbling into the damp earth. He squirmed at the prickly feel of
ground cover and the sharp dig of pruned bushes on his bare skin.

Overhead, the moon slid behind a bank of silvering
clouds. The darkness was more solid than any Chris had experienced. He prayed
it would hide him.

Monday,
1:50 am, Blackridge Road, Santa Monica Mountains

A sound halted him. David tensed,
both hands locked on the Glock, muzzle still pointing at the ground.

The sound came again.

The slight scrape of wood on wood. A window
sliding open.

David crouched behind a twisted mass of
musk-scented sage as a pale figure slipped out of the newly opened window. In
the wan light he could barely make out that the figure was unclothed.

David drew in a sharp breath. It was Chris.
Glancing at the walls of the house, wondering if Tom was close behind, David
eased forward.

Chris stepped away from the house, brushing past
the ficus. David knew he dare not speak, nor allow Chris to make any noise that
might alert Tom. In a half crouch David slid the Glock into his shoulder
holster and wrapped one arm around Chris, blocking his mouth with the other
hand at the same time he dragged him into the protective shadows behind the
sage. He felt Chris’s startled intake of breath against the skin of his hand
before his palm pressed down on the other man’s mouth, sealing it.

Chris fought savagely. David scrabbled for purchase
on the uneven ground as he dragged Chris backward, away from the open area.
Chris even tried butting his head against David’s, but he was totally off
balance. He bit the fingers that covered his mouth and David grunted in pain.
Thrashing, Chris bit harder. David hauled him upright and hissed in his ear,
“Chris! It’s me.”

Chris went limp, and only David’s grip kept him
from tumbling to the ground. He spun Chris around and gathered him into his
arms. “Oh God,” he whispered, holding Chris’s frozen body against his. “I
didn’t think I’d find you in time.”

“D-David.” Chris shook so hard he could barely
speak for the chattering of his teeth. Shock.

Without another word David stripped off his jacket
and wrapped it around Chris’s shaking shoulders. “Come on,” he said. “We have
to go. Martinez will be here soon, but I want you out of here.”

Chris clung to David; goose bumps marbled his
flesh. David rubbed his arms through the sleeves of his thin jacket.

“H-h-how—”

“Becky told me about this place. I talked to Ruben’s
wife. He’s missing—”

David’s hands were busy bringing life back to
Chris’s frozen limbs. Finally he was able to speak.

“H-he’s dead. Tom shot him.”

David frowned. He hadn’t expected Tom to have a
gun. That made their situation more precarious.

“Come on, let’s get you to the car.”

Chris stumbled wearily on the rough ground and
stifled a cry as he nearly went down. David hauled him upright, ignoring his
hiss of pain.

“Hang on, we’re almost there—”

Gunshot cracked. David saw the flash of light at
the same time Chris grunted. His arms were no longer around David. David had
the barest glimpse of his face; eyes round in shock, mouth open as he fell
away.

“Chris!”

Tom stepped away from the shadow of the house.
David stared down the barrel of the blunt-nosed Walther nine-millimeter Tom
held unwavering in both hands.

Monday,
1:55 am, Blackridge Road, Santa Monica Mountains

“Ironic, don’t you think?” Tom’s
voice seemed to come from a long way off. David’s answer, when it came, was a
faint whisper, unintelligible.

“It was Uncle Saul’s,” Tom said. “For protection.”

Chris hunched forward, wondering why his shoulder
felt so numb. Why was he lying on the ground? It was cold and damp against his
bare skin. Something lay atop him and it was a moment before he realized it was
David’s jacket, still draped over him.

Memories returned. He tried to roll over; the
numbness in his shoulder gave way to a spreading ache that encompassed his left
side. He could see Tom with his arms out in front of him, holding a
heavy-barreled handgun in both hands. Pointed at David. Despite Chris’s efforts
to suppress it, a groan emerged.

Looking up he met David’s eyes. Pain and relief
co-mingled on his lover’s face. Chris opened his mouth to speak, but no sound
emerged.

“Ah, sleeping beauty’s back with us,” Tom said.
The gun swung around, and Chris found himself staring down the bore of what
looked like a cannon. “Good. That makes this a whole lot simpler. Drop your
gun, detective.”

Chris stared at the weapon in Tom’s hands, at the
stiff finger hovering over the trigger, finally at the man behind it. Out of
the corner of his eye he saw David take a step forward.

Without blinking, Tom squeezed the trigger. Chris
twisted away. Dirt sprayed his twitching flesh. He felt the breeze of the
bullet’s passage on his shrinking skin.

“Move again and I punch a hole in his pretty
face.”

Chris pulled air into his lungs, fighting the
terror. His heart hammered in his chest.

“What do you want?” David’s hoarse voice was
nearly unrecognizable.

“I want out of here.”

“Then leave.”

“Drop your gun.” Tom motioned toward David. “I
have to admit I didn’t think you’d find the place so fast. How long before your
buddies get here?”

“I don’t know—”

The gun spat again. Searing pain erupted above
Chris’s hip; he screamed.

David went white. His weapon tumbled from his hand
and hit the grass at his feet. Splattered dew glistened on the dark frame. He
spread his arms.

“How long?”

“Sheriffs’ men could be here anytime.”

Tom’s smile faltered, then returned. He stepped
closer to Chris, who struggled to move away, sure he was going to die this
time.

“Jesus, don’t—” Chris said. “Tom—”

Tom’s dress shoe nudged Chris’s thigh. He spared a
brief glance at the prone man.

“Get up, Chrissy.”

“What—?”

“You’re coming with me. That way I know your
boyfriend will keep the pigs off my ass.”

Chris struggled to rise, pain stroked his side, a
flaming branding iron rippled along his nerve endings. He collapsed with a
gasp.

“I can’t—”

“No,” David said.

David took a step forward. He froze when Tom’s gun
hand twitched. Grimly he folded his arms over his barrel chest.

“He’s not going with you.”

“Then he’s a dead man—” Tom raised the gun’s
barrel and Chris steeled himself for the shot.

“No.”

Tom froze, his smile finally fading altogether.

“You want a hostage,” David said. “You take me.
I’m not letting you take him anywhere.”

“I’ll kill him, I swear—”

“You’ll kill him anyway. A bullet here’s a lot
quicker than what you have planned for him.”

Chris stared at David. Mesmerized by his words.
David’s face was flat, devoid of expression. The hated cop face.

Tom seemed equally mesmerized. Then he grinned and
waved the muzzle of the handgun languidly toward the front of the house.

Obediently David stepped over his fallen gun. He
spared Chris a glance, but his expression never changed.

“David...” Chris whispered. But instead of David,
Tom turned. He raised the gun, bringing it around in a shallow arc. “Right,” he
said. “Almost forgot—”

David swung around and caught Tom in the solar
plexus. The smaller man stumbled back, his gun discharging in a shattering
roar. David grunted and a dark stain blossomed above the pocket of his white
shirt. He looked at Chris in surprise, then crumpled to the ground.

Chris screamed David’s name. Pain forgotten in a
surge of rage, he threw himself at Tom and the two of them went down in a
tangle of arms and legs. The gun discharged a second time and Chris felt the
zing
of its passage through the short hairs on his temple. He attacked with frenzy,
knowing only rage fed his fight.

“You killed him. You bastard. You bastard—” He
pummeled Tom, madness lending him new strength. “Bastard. You killed him.”

He wept in fury and pain as he slammed into
David’s killer. He didn’t care if Tom turned and shot him, didn’t care if he
wound up dead too.

Wanting Tom dead more.

They rolled across the ground, struggling for
possession of the gun still in Tom’s hand. Chris bit and punched and screamed
in fury.

Tom shoved Chris off and stumbled to his knees. He
tried to raise the gun, and Chris kicked him. The gun flew from his hand,
vanishing into the shadows that clung to the edges of the house.

Chris snarled more curses and tried to scramble
upright. Tom swung his fist into Chris’s chin, and everything exploded. Chris
screamed and tumbled backward. Light flared in his head when Tom’s fist
connected with his temple, glancing off his skull.

Chris pummeled back, but he was too weak. His
strength ebbed; half his body no longer responded to his commands. Tom’s next
blow slammed into his jaw.

He cried out and went down. Tom advanced. Chris
rolled so that Tom’s foot smashed uselessly into the flesh of his ass. Chris
kicked his shins as he rolled again. Tom’s next attempt was even farther off
the mark, barely brushing his thigh.

But it was only a matter of time. If he couldn’t
get to his feet, Tom was going to kill him right here. His next kick put the
toe of his shoe into Chris’s already injured hip and pain ripped through him.
Tom grunted and kicked again, catching him in the same place.

Chris roared at the pain. A third time the shoe
descended, catching him in the kidneys this time. His vision grayed and Chris
knew that with any more blows he’d succumb to the black peace that
unconsciousness offered.

Blood patterned the ground around him. He caught
sight of David’s body in the encroaching light and an enervating sorrow filled
him. Why was he fighting so hard? David was dead.

Except that would be giving in. Something David
hadn’t done, right to the end. Could he do less? He—

David moved.

Tom’s foot slammed into Chris again, laying a
trail of fire across his naked belly and ribs. Less than a yard away David lay
on his back, a flowering crimson stain covering his upper shoulder. Chris
blinked and strained to see through the spreading light. Had he really seen
David’s hand twitch?

His hand moved again.

With new hope came renewed energy. Chris lurched
to his knees. Tom’s eyes blazed with gleeful fury. He was fully aroused now,
reveling in the destruction he caused.

With a yell, Chris made the final push to his
feet, and ducked to avoid the next swing of Tom’s fist. It glanced off his
back.

He caught Tom around the hips and once more they
ended up on the ground. Tom punched his head, hitting him on his cheek, another
on his throat. Chris tried to strike back, but his arms could do little more
than fold him in an empty embrace.

Too late he tried to deflect Tom’s arm. It slid
around Chris’s throat.

Chris tasted blood and bile. Light exploded behind
his eyes. His lungs screamed for air that wasn’t there. Shadows lurched through
the dazzling lights and he thought he heard David shouting something. Then
Chris’s scrabbling fingers encountered cold metal. A gun. His hand closed
convulsively on it and he jerked it up between them. There was another
explosion and almost instantly the tightness around Chris’s throat vanished.

Tom staggered backward. His hand tried to stem the
gush of blood from his chest. He collapsed.

Chris fell to his knees, gasping hungrily for air
that now poured freely down his throat. His eyes were closed tight while he
fought to grab all the sweet revitalizing air he could suck in.

David groaned and Chris scrambled to close the
distance between them. “David!” His lover’s mouth was a bloody rictus that
might have been a smile. His swarthy face was pale.

“David.” It emerged as a strangled whisper. Chris
rubbed his throat and winced at the sensation of ground glass in his chest.
“You look like shit.”

“Hey. At least I don’t look half as bad as you.”

“Oh, right, flatter me.” Chris tried to hold his
arms out but he couldn’t move. “David.”

He lifted Chris up gently, his arms feeling
wonderfully strong around his bruised shoulders. He stroked Chris’s cheek.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again, okay?” Chris
murmured. “I thought you were dead.”

“Just a flesh wound.”

“Liar—”

They both heard the crunch and clatter of gravel
as a car raced down the narrow drive.

They didn’t have much time.

“I love you, David.”