Midnight Hero (25 page)

Con's heightened state of alertness hummed in the silence, like a live wire connecting him to her. She had the eerie sensation she could read his thoughts and he, hers. As if they were one person, sharing one mind.

Their survival in the next few seconds depended on it.

She knew the power of the weapon she held. The primal, instinctive fear it inspired. A fear that overrode reason. She knew its ability to maim, to kill.

To scar.

She harnessed the dragon and rode it into battle.

“Three.” Before the word completely cleared her mouth, she aimed the water gun at the cigarette and pumped the trigger. Fire exploded from the dish and crackled up Tony's arm. He screamed and flailed. An instant later, she yanked the pistol from her waistband with her right hand and tossed it to Con.

He caught the weapon on the fly, and barked, “Down!” She hit the floor facedown. Two gunshots roared in fast succession.

Then all hell broke loose.

Tony's crew tore into the theater, weapons drawn. Con shoved the money cart in front of her, then his body slammed on top of hers, sheltering her. All eight theater doors imploded with a huge crash and the SWAT team stormed inside. A brilliant light flashed, blinding her. A deafening boom shook the building. Choking, sulfurous smoke roiled, burning her throat and making her gag. She couldn't see, couldn't breathe. Could only listen and pray.

Boot steps thundered, vibrating the floor. Men's deep voices shouted. “Down! Get on the floor! Everybody on the floor!”

Gunshots exploded, bullets whined.

On top of her, Con fired his gun. A series of clicks sounded in fast succession, and his weight settled more firmly. He must be out of ammo. Suddenly, his body jerked. Thick, warm liquid soaked her sweatshirt. The coppery tang of blood assaulted her nostrils.

Con's blood.

4:00 a.m.

“C
on!” Bailey's scream was lost in the turmoil. She struggled to roll over, but his body pinned her to the floor. In the thundering, smoky melee, she couldn't tell if he was purposely holding her down, or if he was merely dead weight on top of her.

Her throat closed up in horror. Dead weight.
Dear Lord.

“Clear!” Eight different deep male voices boomed. “Clear!”

Boot steps trampled the carpet. More shouting. Con's weight lifted. Seconds later, a man's strong arms scooped her up and carried her through the thick, swirling haze. She coughed and gagged, battling to catch her breath. Involuntary tears streamed down her face, and she couldn't see who held her.

Every shrieking instinct proclaimed it wasn't Con.

She had to find him! Bailey beat her fists against the man's Kevlar vest and struggled to escape. One big hand captured hers and his hold tightened, immobilizing her. She blinked rapidly and squinted up at him. He wore a black helmet, with the face-plate lowered against the smoggy gloom. A blue-and-gold patch rode on the upper arm of his black uniform. SWAT. One of the good guys.

Where was Con?

Her rescuer swept her outside, and sharp, cold air slapped her face. Stinging pellets of freezing rain struck her skin. She sucked in desperate breaths, exhaling the noxious smoke. The man whisked her past a row of lit ambulances. Raised stretchers inside the open vehicles held bleeding bank robbers and police officers, surrounded by gun-wielding cops and busy paramedics. Uniformed police and SWAT team members shouted and
sprinted past in the swirling sleet. In the wet, white pandemonium, everywhere she looked, she saw the red gleam of blood.

She caught a brief glimpse of Liam and Aidan bent over a cop on a stretcher. Grady leaned close to the patient, his face grave, his movements rapid and precise. Her rescuer quickly turned aside, his body blocking her view.

“Con!” She fought the man's iron hold. “Put me down!”

He shifted, holding her more securely. “Medic,” he roared. He strode to the last ambulance in line and stepped inside, then laid her on a stretcher.

Bailey sat up. “Let me go!”

“Easy.” One big hand tugged off his helmet, while the other urged her back down. Hunter Garrett's tawny mane spilled to his shoulders as he leaned over her. “I'm not gonna hurt you.” He stuck his head out the door and again shouted for a medic. None came, and he muttered under his breath.

She fought his restraining hold. “I need to get to Con!”

“His brothers have him.” His soft Carolina drawl was kind, his blue-gray eyes implacable. “Stay still. You're bleeding.”

A sob caught in her burning throat. “It's Con's blood.”

“All right.” He grabbed a pair of scissors and cut off her shirts, leaving her in the lacy camisole. “Just let me check.”

Chilly air washed over her and she shivered. Couldn't stop shivering. “How badly wounded is he? Tell me!”

“I don't know, honey. Sorry.” He wiped her arm and shoulder with a damp cloth. The white cotton came away streaked with red. Con's blood. Hot anguish balled in her chest. Hunter set the cloth aside. He cupped her chin in his broad palm. “Look at me. Con will get the best possible medical attention.” He studied her eyes, her face. “Now calm down and talk to me. Do you hurt anywhere?”

Yes. My heart has been ripped out.
She shook her head.

His quick, impersonal hands skimmed her limbs, her ribs, before tucking a blanket around her trembling body. His gentle fingers brushed aside her hair. “DiMarco burned you.”

Con! Please be all right.
“It doesn't matter.”

Hunter's square jaw tightened. “It does to me.” He applied soothing ointment, followed by a bandage. “There. Is that better?”

She sat up, shoving aside the blanket. “You have to let me go to Con!”

“I can't do that. The best thing for him right now is for you to stay calm and let me take care of you.” He encircled her wrist to check her pulse.

“Hunter.” She gripped his vest straps in both hands and yanked, bringing the surprised cop nose-to-nose. “Take me to Con this instant, or I will—”

“Playing doctor with my woman, Garrett?” Con's deep voice asked from outside.

Bailey's heart stuttered on a surge of wild relief. “Con!” She scrambled past Hunter.

Con stood outside, his arms spread wide. “Come here, darlin'.”

She leaped out of the ambulance, into his waiting arms. Tangled emotions—held at bay too long—slammed against the battered wall of her composure. Overwhelmed, she burst into tears.

Warm, vital, alive, Con held her tight. “Easy, baby. It's all right. I'm here.”

Clinging to him, she sobbed. “You were shot. There was b-blood all over. I th—thought you w-were dead!”

“I'm sorry, darlin'. I tried to get to you.” He stroked her hair. “A round ricocheted off the cart and grazed my scalp. Dazed me for a second. Liam and Aidan grabbed me and hauled me to the ambulance. They held me down while Grady checked me out and bandaged the wound. Took both of 'em to do it, too, the swine. I have to stop in at the ER for stitches on the way home.”

“Your poor head.” He was all right! Why couldn't she stop crying? Tears streaming down her face, she tried to pull away. “L-let go, I'll hurt you.”

Con wouldn't release her. “It's nothing. A scratch.”

“A scratch that b-bled all over? Th—that's what you always s-say.”

“That's all it is. Hey, now. You're shaking so hard, your bones are rattling.” He swept her off her feet and stepped into the ambulance. Sometime in the last few minutes, Hunter had faded into the storm. Con eased her down on the edge of the stretcher and
wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. He sat and again took her into his embrace. “Are you all right?”

“N-no. Y-yes,” she sobbed. “I don't k-know.”

He rubbed her back in slow circles. “You've had a rough time. Just let it out. Let go. I'm here.”

She rested her cheek on his wide chest and the night's trauma poured out of her in wracking sobs. She cried for all she'd lost. For what she'd gained. For what she'd done, and everything she'd left undone. “I—I'm s-sorry. I—I'm such a w-wimp.”

“You're anything but. It's a natural reaction after all you've been through.” Con held her close, murmuring comfort. “Crying will make you feel better.”

“Y-you d-don't c-cry.”

He chuckled. “No, but I'll probably go a hundred rounds with the punching bag tomorrow. Everybody has to purge strong emotions, sweetheart. Even cops. Well…wise cops.”

Con gently rocked Bailey as she cried. He calmed and soothed, while fighting growing dread. Her sobs didn't worry him; tears were a healthy response after a crisis. He'd be far more concerned if she acted cool and detached. What had him on the ropes were the long-term consequences. Bailey had held her own during an ordeal that would have wigged out most people. Without her intelligence and courage, he might be going home in a body bag. He didn't doubt she loved him—enough to sacrifice her own life.

But tonight, she'd lived through combat. Waded knee-deep in bullets, blood and death. His tenderhearted girl had been forced to hurt another human being with cold, premeditated violence. If that wasn't enough horror, she'd seen him get shot, and had thought he was dead. Even if the other events hadn't traumatized her beyond bearing, that could be the final nail in the coffin of their relationship. He couldn't blame his brothers, they hadn't known how badly he was hurt. But in trying to save his life, they might have snatched away everything that mattered.

Bailey shuddered, and he held her tighter, continuing to rock. She wouldn't stay with him if he resigned from the team, she'd made that perfectly clear. Every time he donned his uniform, hol
stered his weapon…every time he walked out the door, she would remember. She would know. She didn't have to imagine the hazards of his job anymore, hell, she'd experienced them up close and personal. Could she live with that?

His stomach clenched. Would she want to?

He patted her back. Her sobs were slowing, becoming quieter. “C'mon, darlin'. I'll take you home.”

She sniffed, and wiped away tears with the back of her hand. “Don't you have to do paperwork or something?”

He smiled in spite of his inner turmoil. Leave it to his practical girl to remember duty in the midst of mayhem. She must be feeling more stable. “Yeah, reams of it. You'll have to give a statement, too.” He wrapped the blanket more snugly around her slender shoulders as they climbed out of the ambulance and cold sleet smacked them in the face. A thick layer of ice crunched under his boots and coated everything with a silver sheen. “But not tonight. I doubt any of us are coherent enough.” His grin widened. “Except Letty. I heard her bending Wyatt's ear about DiMarco outside the ambulance when Grady was doing his doctor impersonation. Good thing Wyatt has negotiator training.”

Bailey jerked to an abrupt halt in the center of the melee. Several ambulances had departed. Others lingered while medics stabilized casualties. Police officers and SWAT teams swarmed the parking lot and adjacent mall. Yellow crime scene tape around the perimeter flapped in the bitter wind. She hugged the blanket tighter. “DiMarco…” She hesitated. “Is he…did we kill him?”

“I don't know. I can check once we get home, if you want.” He glanced at her pale profile, as white and translucent as the snow drifting against the building, and a band of pain constricted his chest. How would she react if they
had
killed DiMarco? Would she be able to recover? Post-traumatic stress took good cops out of action. Men who were trained to deal with violence and death. Bailey didn't have the resources to deal with that enemy.

“Yes.” He could barely hear her low reply. “I need to know.”

“Yo! Irish!” Syrone's shout hailed Con from inside an ambulance.

Con kept one arm around Bailey as they hurried over. Syrone
was propped up on a stretcher. IV tubing snaked from one arm, and a BP cuff dangled from the other. Con patted the big man's leg. “Hey, buddy! How's it hanging?” He didn't bother to disguise the deep emotion simmering beneath the lighthearted greeting.

“Low and mighty, thanks to both of you.” Syrone's gaze held Con's and the men exchanged unspoken respect. Each knew the night had brought them both too close to the Grim Reaper. “Considering.”

“You need me to contact Jazelle?”

“Nah, she's meeting me at the hospital. Liam sent a squad car for her. He and Murphy found me. Man, I have never been so glad to see that hound dog. And the German Shepherd, too.” Chuckling, Syrone gestured at the leather jacket draped over the stretcher. “Couldn't let them haul me off without delivering this.”

Con picked up the coat, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Hours ago, Bailey hadn't wanted the ring tucked in the pocket. Tonight's events had probably massacred any chance he'd had of changing her mind. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Hey, Bailey.” Syrone's wide smile flashed. “You're looking fine.”

“Ha.” She self-consciously smoothed her tousled curls. “What's in that IV, Ecstasy?” Weariness tugged at her wan smile. “Get well quickly. The mall won't be the same without you.”

“Aw, go on.” Syrone waved a broad hand at Con. “Get your woman outta this dump. Take her someplace warm and friendly.”

“That's the plan.” He hoped.

Con draped his jacket over the blanket covering Bailey's shoulders. They turned and walked down the row of occupied ambulances. Bailey kept her face averted. As they reached the last ambulance, Con gave her a gentle squeeze. “Look, sweetheart.”

She turned. A stretcher bearing Nan was being loaded into the back. Nan's husband Brad hovered protectively alongside, cradling his daughter in his arms. Nan waved and blew them a kiss.

Con glanced at Brad, cuddling the baby, and then at Bailey. Purple bruises in the shape of a handprint marred her pale cheek. His throat tightened. He hadn't noticed that before. He leaned over and brushed a soft kiss on the marks. She glanced up, her
eyes wide and wounded, and his throat closed up completely. He'd imagined himself by her side as she brought their children into the world. With each passing moment, his hopes and dreams seemed to fade farther from the realm of possibility. His hands fisted. DiMarco had not only murdered his father, he might also have succeeded in killing Con's future.

They continued the slippery journey across the dark parking lot. He'd parked his truck on the outer perimeter so she wouldn't spot him when she left work. Her shoulders sagged beneath his supporting arm, and she stumbled several times. His poor darlin' had to be running on fumes.

They'd just reached the crime scene tape when running boot steps sounded behind them. “Hey, bro!” Aidan yelled.

Con stopped, turned. “What's up?”

Aidan skidded to a halt. He had Bailey's purse in one hand and the pitcher of pink roses in the other. “Liam and Murphy found these in the bookstore during their sweep. The mall will be closed for days while CSI does their thing, and Bailey needs her stuff.”

Con resisted the urge to groan as Bailey tucked her purse under her arm. Subtlety wasn't an outstanding trait in the O'Rourke family. Aidan and Liam must have discussed Con's dilemma and the resulting flower purchase. Hell, Grady was probably in on it, too. He should be grateful his brothers thought Bailey was perfect for him and had embraced her as one of their own. But their matchmaking efforts were nearly as zealous as Letty's.

Aidan offered Bailey the roses. “A shame to let these wilt and die in a deserted mall.”

Bailey's hands shook as she accepted the bouquet. The fragile petals trembled in the wind's icy bite before she tucked them under the blanket. Bailey looked as frail and easy to destroy as the flowers, and Con's heart ached. Their relationship might have withered and died in that mall. He shook off the thought. Not the time or the place. He had to shove aside his anxiety and focus on Bailey's needs. She wouldn't be up to a discussion for several days, at least.