Rush (Phoenix Rising) (33 page)

He put all his focus into opening his eyes. Nothing happened. He worked to move his hand. No go.

Fumes drifted into the car. Gasses from whatever was burning. Something toxic that made Quaid’s stomach roll. A groan met his ears. His groan. That was a good sign. Right? And so was the fresh, wet air whisking in from somewhere nearby. And the sweet, soothing sound of rain pinging against metal. So beautiful. It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t remember what. Still, he smiled internally.

A revving car engine drifted to his ears. He tried his eyes again. Concentrated all his energy on sliding his eyelids up. They fluttered, but didn’t move. He drifted. Came back to the distant sound of helicopters. Apaches . . . no. Black Hawks. Three.

Light drifted in from somewhere. Faint. Gentle. Then distant voices.

The car came up fast and skidded to a stop. There came the click of a door and footsteps so crisp, so loud in the silent night.

Footsteps ceased. Heavy breathing filled the space. The crush of glass. Pressure on Quaid’s neck.

“Fucking A, Legend.” A man’s voice—a familiar voice—hit his ears. “You are the biggest pain in the ass.”

Quaid didn’t know why that struck him as funny, but he wanted to laugh. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to laugh. Yes, he could. It had been with Cash. Or no, maybe Jessica.

A fist gripped his heart. He sucked in air, the sound loud to his own ears.

“Hold on, buddy. You’re okay.”

Kai. It was Kai.

“Let me drag some of this dead weight out of the way . . . no pun intended . . .” But he gave a dark chuckle that linked to something in Quaid’s memory. Something he didn’t like. “And I’ll get you out. But don’t fucking move, moron. Foster borrowed this car and it doesn’t have shit in the way of emergency gear. Last thing I need is you tweaking your neck, freaking paralyzing yourself and having to listen to Jess bitch at me for the rest of her life about all the
amazing
sex I cheated her out of.”

Jessica.
The image of Green, with his hands on her, that dark chuckle—

His muscles flexed and he sat upright on a wheezing indrawn breath. His head floated off his shoulders. He gripped a seat back to steady himself.

Kai dropped a body to the pavement, turned back to the car and froze. “Fuck me,” he muttered. “Legend, what in the hell did I just tell you? What part of
don’t fucking move
didn’t you understand?
Lie down
.”

“Sorry, chief.” The words scraped out of Quaid’s throat. They felt awkward. Foreign. Kai must have found them odd, too, because he looked up from assessing Quaid’s legs and abdomen for injuries with an almost haunted look in his eyes. But Quaid pushed forward with what he needed to know. “Jessie. Where’s Jessie?”

“I’m right here.”

Her voice sounded behind Kai, and he jumped clear out of the car’s open doorway. Stumbling backwards, he swore in combinations Quaid had never heard.

“Where the
fuck
did you come from?” Kai finally said from somewhere behind the car.

And there in the doorway, silhouetted in the lights from the other car, Jessica stood soaked to the bone. Smeared with mud. His body softened with relief. He clenched the seat tighter to stay upright.

“I transported,” she said, tucking her dripping hair behind her ears. “Once I got my shit together, I mean.”

“Are you . . . ?” Quaid took a breath, growing light-headed again. “Are you okay?”

Those big, worried brown eyes warmed with her slow smile. “I’m supposed to be asking you that.”

His muscles gave in to relief and he slid back to the floor with a groan. “Jessie, come here. I need to touch you.”

She crawled onto the backseat and looked down on him where he lay on the floor of the car with the uncomfortable hump in the foot well jabbing his back. Her face was mottled with mud, her hair dripping wet, her smile the brightest he’d ever seen.

And she’d never looked more beautiful.

The
whap
of the Black Hawks’ blades came close. It was a nice sound. The sound of safety. The sound of brotherhood. The same kind of brotherhood he’d found here with his team.

He’d never felt luckier.

More cars. More lights. More people.

Mitch crossed his arms on the roof of the car and peered in at Quaid. “Kai wants off my shit list. After this stunt, I might just let you take his place.”

“Yes,” Kai hissed, a fist in the air.

Beside Mitch, another man appeared. A man Quaid didn’t know, which made him instantly tense. Jessica murmured reassurances.

Quaid’s gaze found hers. “Gorin. You have to get to Gorin. I have to know about all those years—”

“Gorin’s dead.” The stranger offered this information with a stern face, but curious eyes. “I’m Owen Young. I had to take a look at the man that’s caused such a stir. Officially unimpressed. Gorin died the same way Alsadani died. Get your ass out of here.” He turned to Mitch. “I’ll clean this up. You all clear out and stay low profile. And when I say low, Foster—”

“I hear you. I hear you.”

“Until I contact you.” Owen put a finger to Mitch’s chest. “Stay available.”

“Yes, sir. And you’ll let me know about Dubrovsky,” Mitch said. “And Schaeffer.”

Owen grinned. “Yes, sir.”

When Mitch stuck his head into the car again, Quaid asked, “What about Schaeffer?”

Mitch glanced toward the front passenger’s seat where Schaeffer had been sitting. “He survived the crash. The other three are dead. I’m hoping he makes it so I can clip electrodes to his balls and get some questions answered.” His gaze rested on Jessica and he tilted his head toward Quaid. “Is there anything wrong with him?”

Her eyes danced to his as she sputtered, “That’s a loaded question.”

Quaid used the last bit of his strength to yank on the arm he still held and pulled her off the seat and on top of him, where he found her mouth and kissed her quiet.

“I guess that answers my question,” Mitch said. “Get your filthy, soaked asses in my car before the cops get here.”

Mitch disappeared and they were alone. Quaid pulled back from the kiss, laid his head on the floor and gazed at the dented roof.

“Gorin’s dead.” Disappointment and anger slipped into Quaid’s relief. “There’s still so much I don’t know.”

Jessica took his face in her hands. “We’ll find your answers, Quaid. Gorin isn’t the only person who knows what happened to you. And there’s Trent. Alyssa can help you find him. Help him.”

Despair slipped away and hope filled the space. He kissed her. “I want to know about my past, and I will find Trent. But what really matters to me is everything from this day forward. I want to start making memories, Jessie. New memories.
Our
memories.”

Her smile grew, her eyes filled with joy and she nodded, pressing her forehead to his.

“One more question.” His warm breath brushed her cheek. “Why is your last name Fury and not Legend?”

She pulled back to look in his eyes. “Because we wanted to stay on the hazmat team together and the department had a policy that spouses couldn’t be stationed at the same firehouse or serve on the same team. We had a small, quiet wedding and were keeping it secret for as long as it lasted.”

His mouth twisted up at one corner and he cupped her face in his hand. “I love your name. Maybe we can use it to name our first baby girl. But . . . I want you to have my last name. Marry me, Jessie. Again,” he whispered, his heart beating in his throat. “I want to carry that day with me. Always.”

She pulled back, caressed his face with her gaze. “I will absolutely marry you—again. And we’ll make all new memories.”

He kissed her, slowly and sweetly. When she looked down on him again, her eyes glistened a warm, rich cinnamon brown. Eyes he recognized deep in his soul.

And Quaid knew exactly where he would always belong.

Read on for a sneak preview of the next in the Phoenix Rising series,
Shatter,
coming in January.

 

 

H
eather Raiden sat on the floor of her darkened home, sandwiched between the arm of her sofa and the wall of windows looking out over the western most portion of Lake Washington, Seattle. She rested her arms on her upturned knees and watched the stalker where he huddled in the metal dingy he’d rented from a local sport’s outfitter under the name Dane Zimerelli. The black BMW he was driving had been rented under the same name at the airport with an unspecified return date.

She lowered the glasses and stared out at the one a.m. blackness. “I hope you’re freezing his balls off out there, asshole.”

Three nights. He’d been out there watching her house for three nights. Had dropped anchor in the perfect location to view Heather’s living room, kitchen and bedroom, all on the lake-side of the property. He probably had a glimpse the driveway as well and had been watching her comings and goings.

“Maybe I got lucky and he’s a run of the mill rapist or serial killer.”

At her elbow, Dexter whined. She ran her hand along the Sheppard’s silky-soft fur. “You’re right, Dex. I’m not that lucky.”

Resting her hand on the dog’s shoulders, she looked into his golden brown eyes and sighed heavily in resignation. His brows moved with his darting gaze, making him look truly worried. He was an incredibly sensitive animal, frighteningly intelligent.

“This is obviously a problem,” she told him, her mind winding around and around solutions she’d already considered. Cops would brush her off. Private investigator would take time. Ignoring the Zimerelli dude had potentially lethal consequences. She’d trained seven long years to prevent lethal consequences. Training she had, admittedly, hoped never to use. But deep down, she’d known they’d come for her some day. “I can’t let it go on.”

She hurried through the darkness to her bedroom with Dex’s nails clicking behind her on the hardwood. When she stepped through the door, he pushed past her, jumped on the bed and lay in that alert pose, head up and watching her every move. “I can’t just sit here and wait until it’s too late,” she told Dex. “Let him plan. Let him call in reinforcements. The last seven years will have been wasted if I don’t
act
now. All my sacrifices wasted.”

She dropped her hands to the sink and closed her eyes, absorbing the weight of loss that always came with the thought. So many sacrifices. But only one she regretted. Only one that haunted her.

Already dressed in black, Heather slipped on the black, lightweight sport shoes and tightened the laces. In the bathroom, Heather wrapped her long hair into a bun.

Resigned, focused, Heather headed for the door leading to the garage and pulled her slim black jacket from the peg. She slipped it on, crouched in front of Dex standing faithfully at her feet and hugged him tight.

“Yalyublyutebya,”
she said in Russian, then repeated it in English with more emphasis because once just didn’t feel like enough. “I love you so much, sweet boy.”

With a kiss to the side of his face, she stood, met his eyes and firmed her voice when she commanded him to protect the property.
“Zashchita.”

In the garage, Heather located her black canvass duffle at the base of the stairs. A fine adrenalin buzz sang through her blood and made her breath come faster. The duffle’s zipper sounded like ripping fabric and tension pulled at Heather’s skin. Crouching with a flashlight held between her teeth, she pulled the Sig Saur forty-five semi-auto from the bottom of the bag and check the remaining contents—lock hacker, silencer, extra ammo magazines, rags, bleach-laden wet wipes, latex gloves. With a jerk of the zipper and a tug on the car door handle, she was ready to launch.

As she turned the key in the engine of her BMW. Heather experienced a tangle of deep, complex emotions—fear, resignation, and the dark thrill of power. Of taking control over her life.

The door rumbled open and Heather backed from the garage. Raindrops tattered against her roof, splashed her windshield. “He’s gonna be so cold by the time he reaches the dock his dick is going to snap like an icicle.”

She left her sleepy Laurelhurst neighborhood for the streets bordering the University of Washington, still dotted with cars and pedestrians. After locating his rental, she parked a block down and turned off her car to wait.

Fear drummed its fingers on the back of her neck. What-if’s teased her mind into tangles. Her schooled neighbors would take care of Dex if anything happened to her. She’d set up charitable trusts to receive her assets. But having her death in order didn’t help her face the possibility.

Zimmerelli finally emerged from the dark lake’s surface. He jogged to his car wearing a dark parka, the hood pulled over his head and carried only a backpack over one shoulder. The lights of his car blazed on and Heather’s heart surged with adrenaline. Dual jolts of excitement and fear shot through her belly. She waited until he’d driven a block before following. Waited another block before turning on her headlights.

Her first step was to identify him. Then identify his purpose for stalking her. If she got beyond that without a deadly confrontation, she would consider digging into his role in her exposure. But if Zimerelli had been sent by whom she was almost certain he’d been sent by, they’d never get past the confrontation.

His BMW turned toward a business district with shops and restaurants and bars.

“Probably needs a few drinks to warm himself up.” Better for her. He’d be off his game if he was drunk. Slower. Sloppier.

But he bypassed all the watering holes and made another turn into The Summit Hotel’s parking lot. Heather pulled to the curb until he’d parked, then backed into a spot fifty yards away beside a large commercial van.

“Nice place for a stalker,” she murmured, shutting down the car and taking hold of her Sig.

A newer hotel, the rooms here were all high-end suites, clustered half a dozen to each small. Lucky for her, she knew the rough layout of the suites. Lucky for her, the rooms were large, the buildings insulated from each other by the ample landscaping and surrounding forest. Lucky for her, the grounds were deserted, the other units dark.

The rain had stopped and parking lights cast oval pools of warm light at scarce intervals. When the man stood from his car, his hood was down and his hair looked as black as the wet asphalt. But that’s all she could see of him as he set a purposeful stride toward the buildings. His height and the fluid, strong way he moved suggested he was youthful and fit and wouldn’t be an easy take down.

She reached across the console and found the silencer inside her duffle without taking her eyes off Zimerelli.

When he’d disappeared inside, she pulled her lock-picking kit from the bottom of her bag and slipped it into one pocket, latex gloves in the other, still watching the room. Lights filled the windows. Blinds lowered.

Heather knew exactly where he was headed. She’d spent enough time on the lake in those frigid conditions know how he’d warm himself up—the shower. He’d turn it on hot and he’d let the water pound him until he stopped shivering.

To calm her growing jitters, she closed her eyes and visualized every step of her plan. Get in, look around, grab information, shoot him—if necessary—and get out.

Before she let her mind sabotage her, Heather climbed from the car, scouting the parking lot for witnesses. She was alone. No security cameras. She pushed the Sig into the waistband of her leggings, then followed Zimerelli’s path.

At the hotel room door, Heather tilted her ear close and concentrated on the sounds within. A running shower eased a sliver of tension in her shoulders and made her breath hitch with relief.

She crouched and unrolled her lock picking kit on the welcome mat, praying this hotel lock was one of the millions worldwide that would break under her hacking device. She thought of Dex and her heart pinched. She thought of how she’d lose her job if she were arrested.

“Stop thinking.” She shut out all the what-if’s and fears and focused on the thin, palm-sized electronic device. A quick connect to the door handle and she held her breath as she connected the second cord to the unit.

A green light appeared above the door handle. Her heart jumped.
Yes.

She turned the handle slowly, silently, easing the door open a crack and found the security slide in place. Her stomach dropped. She traded the device for a flexible piece of plastic from the kit, slid it into the open space and finessed the slide’s arm over the metal ball.

When the door pushed free, a painful wash of relief slid through her body. She slipped inside the room and the relief instantly faded, replaced by the kind of fear that came when she was in way over her head.

Yes, far more realistic. It was one thing to be trained, another to have experience. She had none of the later.

Heather darted directly to the backpack sitting on a side table, flipped the pack over and dumped the contents on the bed. Extra clothes, bottle of water, notebook, pen, flashlight, power bars, instant warming packs. No ID.

She opened closets and drawers—nightstand, dressers, desk. Nothing. No wallet, no luggage tags, no receipts. Time for plan C. Unfortunately, she didn’t have one.

“Shit,” she whispered, her gaze locked on the bathroom door.

Heather held her Sig ready and turned the bathroom knob with the other. As she inched the door open, steam poured out. She slipped into the humid, clouded room and closed the door.

Everything was bright white—white marble floor, white granite counters, white sinks with chrome fixtures, white toilet, white spa-type tube with an arched chrome shower curtain rod and a pristine white shower curtain, and a full wall of mirrors.

In stark contrast a pile of black clothes sat in a rumpled pile at the base of the shower. And a black 9mm Beretta lay on top. The weapon would have blended right in with the fabrics if it weren’t for the shine of moisture on metal. And the gun was just a quick reach beyond the curtain.

With her own weapon pointed at the shower and her heart knocking hard against her chest, she crossed the marble tile and grabbed the gun.

 

Mitch Foster stood under the shower’s hot spray long after he’d cleaned off, trying to raise his body temperature. His fingers and toes were ready to fall off from hypothermia.

He turned the shower’s massage setting to
hammer
and steamy water thumped his neck, shoulders and back, all the areas where most of his tension gathered. There and at the center of his chest, beneath his ribs.

Tomorrow, first thing, he’d confront her. He couldn’t wait for this Dexter dude to show up any longer. The guy had to be away on business. Or maybe he and Halina were on the outs. Mitch would just have to take the chance of confronting both her and her boyfriend.

A sound tugged at his ear. A sound outside the shower. His thoughts evaporated and the hair on his neck prickled into tiny needles. The skin across his shoulders rippled with gooseflesh. He eyed his clothes pile through the inch gap between the curtain and the wall. Mitch eased his hand through the space and felt for the gun.

He realized it was gone at the same moment the shower curtain whipped aside. Shock blazed over his spine in a hot wave. He straightened with his hands half way up in a partial surrender.

“Fucking sonofabitch,” he said, letting his frustration out in his voice. “You don’t even have the decency to wait until a guy is dressed?”

The threat was hidden among the steam filling the room. The water dripping in his eyes, didn’t help. But whoever it was had dressed in black head to toe, and he was small.

“You afraid I’m too much of a threat under normal circumstances?” he asked. “Pretty chicken shit, dude. If you walk away now, I won’t tell your boss how badly you handled this.”

Mitch shook his head like a wet dog, flinging water across the bathroom. A surprised sound came from the intruder’s direction. A sound that spiked shock and a whole different kind of fear through his body. A high-pitched,
female
sound.

He wiped the water out of his face and push his hair back. Mitch’s mind snagged on that information, and he looked at the situation with a different perspective. There
were
a handful of women who’d like to shoot his balls off after the number of dates he’d broken and phone calls he hadn’t returned over the last two months—all thanks to this damn quagmire—but this . . . ? He didn’t date women this extreme. At least that he knew about.

The woman backed toward the door, no more than a fuzzy black shape in the steam. But her arm remained outstretched, with a powerful semi-auto in her hand.

“I’m just going to turn off the—” Mitch started.

“No. You’re not.” She finally spoke, her voice rough. “You’re not going to do anything. Don’t move.”

The sting of needles traveled from his neck straight down his spine. That voice . . .

She opened the door several inches and the steam rushed out like mist returning to a genie’s lamp, clearing the air.

And he stood there facing Halina.

His stomach sprouted wings and darted wildly around his abdomen. His mind turned to oatmeal. He hadn’t been prepared for this. Of all the people to ambush him—she was the very last person on the face of the earth he’d expected. In the very last place he’d expected.

His anger reheated—fast and furious. “What the
fuck
?”

Her eyes were wide with shock and she shifted her weight, uneasy. “Exactly what I was thinking.”