Capture the Night Page 13

  “I’ll let you know.”

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  Johnny’s fever had set in with a vengeance. He was burning with it.

  Alexa eased out of his lax embrace, careful not to wake him. He stirred and shifted, but his eyes remained closed. She laid the back of her hand on his cheek, then his forehead.

  He needed water. She crawled over to the blanket and fumbled for one of the bottles.

  She’d tried to give him more ibuprofen—for the pain, as well as the fever—but he’d turned it down. They were dangerously low on it, with only eight pills left. He could do without it for now, he’d told her.

  The unnatural, intense heat of his body alarmed her. She wondered just how high his fever had climbed as they’d slept. He muttered something in his sleep and turned, trying to get comfortable.

  They had eaten some of the ham and bread earlier. Johnny hadn’t been able to stomach much of it, though, and Alexa understood. At the time, it had still been cool and edible. But there wouldn’t be any more of it, she thought. She wouldn’t risk them getting food poisoning on top of everything else. The cheese would last longer. That would be their next meal.

  She uncapped a bottle of water and felt her way back to where Johnny lay.

  “Johnny?”

  “’M awake.”

  Relief washed over her. Awake and coherent.

  “Hey.” She smiled in the darkness, her fingers skimming chest. “Brought you something.”

  “José Cuervo?”

  “No, sorry.” She laughed. “Just a bottle of our best bottled water. You need to drink as much as you can so you don’t get dehydrated.”

  He was quiet a minute. “What about you?

  “Me?” she asked, surprised. “Don’t worry about that. I don’t have a fever—you do.”

  He reached for the water and she helped him drink a few swallows. “I don’t want to use it all,” he muttered.

  “Hold this a minute, will you?” she said, as he started to release the bottle. “I want to get you some medicine.”

  “Alexa—we may need it…later.”

  But she shook her head and reached for the medicine bottle, pulling off the cap. “Officer, has anyone ever told you how stubborn you are?” She poured out two of the pills and re-capped the bottle.

  “Lex—”

  “Open wide.” Her tone was firm.

  “I think you got me beat on that stubborn rap.” He opened his mouth for the pills and raised the water to his lips, drinking one last, long drink before handing it to Alexa. By the way he slumped back to the floor close to her leg, she knew it had taken all his strength.

  She smiled. “I doubt that, Johnny.” She tightened the cap on the water. “Besides, being mule-headed isn’t always a bad thing.” She was thinking of her marriage; how set she’d been to try and hold on to it. She should’ve recognized the signs of failure long before Richard had hit her over the head with his decision to leave. But she felt she’d done the right thing, for her girls, if nothing else.

  They were both quiet as she set the medicine and water carefully to the side, within easy reach.

  “Who is Pete?”

  Johnny didn’t answer right away. Finally, he said, “My younger brother.”

  “You wanted to tell him something, you said.”

  Johnny smiled. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Why not?” she asked softly.

  “Because…it’s not going to happen. Not now, anyway. Not as long as we stick together. I can’t explain it. It’d just sound crazy…but, I just know it’s not…gonna happen…”

  He changed the subject. “You…okay?”

  “Sure. This is nothing,” Alexa joked, but her voice shook. “Just got a bad case of nerves right now.”

  Johnny reached up, his hand closing around her wrist. She took it between her own palms and raised it to her lips, grazing his knuckles. She held it to her cheek, her eyes closing. “You don’t need to worry about me, Johnny,” she whispered. “We’re gonna be just fine.”

  “I know. I have a feeling about that, too.” Johnny said. “Just stay with me, Lex. We’ll be okay as long as we’re together.”

  Chapter 18

  Ever since he’d ordered the woman hostage, Traci something-or-other, to see to Officer Logan’s care, Kieran McShane had been sorry. His gaze flicked to where she knelt beside him now, shaking him awake.

  He should’ve known that having his men beat Logan would only make the stoic police officer seem somehow—heroic—in this woman’s eyes. And now, she was feeling sorrier than ever for him, tending to him—God, it made him want to puke. But it also made him wonder. Did Eileen feel some kind of compassion for Logan as well? Hard-bitten Eileen, who cared for no one but herself? He’d thought he’d caught a glimpse of something quite unexpected earlier, when Eileen had settled the ice pack across Logan’s eyes.

  Women were so easy to read. He smiled. That’s why he’d picked Traci Whatever. One of the reasons, anyway. As Logan eased into a sitting position, McShane’s stare shifted to Eileen Bannion—the other reason. She took a sudden step forward to help, then caught herself. She bent down and rubbed the back of her leg, as if it had cramped suddenly.

  She was good, McShane would give her that. She quelled the reaction to look around, to see if he was watching. But just as he anticipated the darting, furtive glance of guilt, he also knew it would not come; that Eileen would remember, at the very last instant, to shield her eyes, veil her expression, and stop her feet from taking another step.

  She did all those things in the split second it took McShane to think it. He slowly returned his stare to Logan and the female beside him, holding the Styrofoam cup of water. McShane watched the cup. It trembled in her hand, then steadied as Logan took it from her.

  McShane felt Eileen’s gaze drift over him in feigned carelessness. He knew her so well…knew the moment, even, when she would turn away, satisfied that he hadn’t noticed her blunder.

  McShane was content, for now, to allow her that misconception. She would bear watching. And for now, it was enough that he knew.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  No matter how much he needed to sleep, Johnny hated to give in to it. Even though there was nothing he could do to change the circumstances they were in, he still felt he had a small measure of control over their destiny if he remained aware. Conscious. And it was getting harder and harder to stay that way.

  Alexa wasn’t sleeping either. From time to time, he’d feel her palm against his forehead, and twice, she’d taken a pre-moistened towelette from her purse, opened it, and washed the sweat away from his face and neck.

  Her breathing was regular, even…she must have drifted off, at last. But Johnny knew if he moved, shifted the slightest bit, she’d awaken. Her head rested on his shoulder. He couldn’t see her features in the darkness, but it wasn’t important. She was there, together with him. He’d memorized her face, and locked it safely into his heart. No one else had ever stayed with him like this. He was a definite liability to her—not only because of his injuries, but also, because of his identity.

  His thoughts turned again, trying to come up with a plan. It was futile, but still, he couldn’t help himself. Escaping this hell seemed to be a problem with no solution.

  The compressors hummed to life and the rush of air sucked by him and Alexa. He couldn’t turn off his mind or the wondering if any of the terrorists had had a good look at him—singled him out. He replayed it all in his mind.

  He’d come into the dining room to grab a bite to eat. It was his night “off”, and he’d had a blasting headache.

  Just as he’d started in the door, gunfire had erupted. The elderly couple a few steps in front of him had died the instant they were hit, falling so abruptly that Johnny had almost walked right into the older gentleman’s body as the man fell to the floor with a gasp of surprise. There were other bodies, moaning sounds, screams—and more gunfire.

  Just as the couple fell, the bullet had ripped through Johnny�
�s side, the pain sudden and sharp, almost driving him to his knees. As the full force of it registered, a shot of fire in his left thigh made him grab for that wound in reflex. Only then did he see the trail of bright red smearing across his upper arm, already wetting the denim jacket. That one, he hadn’t even felt.

  He could barely breathe, the pain was so sudden—and so surprising. There was a serving door nearby. He’d fallen against it, letting himself inside as self-preservation took over. He hadn’t had time to look around, to see if anyone was looking for him. But no one had followed him through the narrow, dim passageway that led to the kitchen. From there, he’d gone through that other doorway and made his way to the roof.

  And not once had he given his nephew a thought. He might have stepped right over his body in that bloodbath as he headed through the kitchen for the back door. Because José wasn’t supposed to be working tonight, either. He’d probably been trying to put in some overtime, saving every dime for his upcoming summer wedding.

  Johnny squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t help José—not now.

  Alexa sighed, snuggling closer to him, as if sensing his black thoughts. Johnny’s lips curved upward in the darkness. His fingers glided across her shoulder in a gentle pattern. Out of all the bad, there was some good. Alexa Bailey. It seemed as if everyone’s timing was rotten—José’s, Alexa’s, and his own. Love had come—finally; and now, it might be too late to matter.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  The sunrise was one of the most glorious ones he’d ever seen, Carter thought. One more than Levi Santiago would ever see… He dashed the remains of half a cup of coffee to the ground.

  The sun began to light the sky with a hint of pink, tingeing the clouds a reddish hue with gold edging. Carter sat on the back of a black-and-white, watching. The FBI agents had shown up a few hours back, and all but relieved him of any authority. It was shit. He’d told them so, too, for all the good it had done.

  There was only one bright spot in this whole damn mess that still let him keep his hand in, whether they liked it or not. McShane refused to speak to anyone other than “the Captain”, as he liked to say.

  The FBI men had tried, upon their arrival, to establish contact with McShane. There was much speculation that he was after the freedom of two IRA members who were awaiting trial in D.C., for trying to smuggle a bomb into the British consulate.

  By now, no one believed the terrorist leader planned to release Brendan Roberts unharmed. It was the general consensus that McShane planned to kill Roberts, then martyr himself—that this would be his final, most brutal terrorist act.

  When Evan Sanders, the senior FBI agent, had tried to negotiate with McShane, the Irishman had laughed—long and loudly—and informed Sanders he didn’t care for Sanders’s “high-handed attitude”. He’d then directed Agent Sanders to put him in touch with “the Captain”.

  “An’ don’t be callin’ me again, boyo. Leave the real men amongst us to negotiate, and take your own self back to yer mother’s teat.”

  Sanders had spluttered and squawked, finally handing Carter’s cell phone back to him.

  “Says he won’t talk to anybody but you,” he sneered, his eyes growing even harder at Carter’s pointed grin at the snub.

  Carter took the phone and put it to his ear. “McShane, this is Carter.”

  “Hello, Captain. I’ve a bit of somethin’ I need to talk to ye’ about.”

  “Go ahead.” A wary edge crept into his tone that even he could hear. The place was crawling with FBI and his own men, listening anxiously for any piece of information he could give them from McShane. Holcomb was monitoring the conversation through his equipment. He looked at Carter as Sanders flipped the switch to make the conversation audible to all of them.

  “Well, it’s my requests—what I need from you in order to see this thing ended.” McShane was practically licking his lips in anticipation. “I’m thinkin’ you’re the one to help me out here, boyo.”

  Carter gave a mirthless chuckle, his eyes raking the glowering FBI men. “I’ll do what I can, McShane—you know that. But—I’m not in charge here anymore. The feds are here, now.”

  “Fuck them,” McShane stated succinctly. “You can tell ’em I said so, Captain.”

  “My pleasure,” Carter replied. He shrugged at Sanders’s dark scowl.

  “Captain, I’m asking for very few things. I’m hopin’ you might accommodate me, to avoid any more—unfortunate incidents.”

  “Deaths, you mean?”

  “You’re a plain-talker, Captain. I like that in a man. Makes it easier to strike a deal.”

  Carter remained silent, and McShane continued.

  “I want a helicopter on the roof. A pilot to fly us out won’t be necessary. The one who lands the helicopter can walk away, once he’s set her down.”

  “You shot down one of those already—”

  “News media jackals, Captain. Your man won’t be harmed. Fly two choppers in. Leave one and take your pilot aboard the other one. They’ll be safe enough if they haul their Yank asses out of there within five minutes.”

  “Will you all be able to leave in one, McShane?”

  Carter could almost hear McShane smile through the telephone at his none-too-subtle attempt at discovering how many men McShane had. He had not asked for any certain model of chopper, Carter thought, and McShane’s next remark jolted him.

  “We’ll fit, Captain. Now, I also need you to begin work on allowing a couple of my countrymen their freedom once more. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  We’ll fit. No matter if the chopper was meant for five or fifteen. A very small group, then. Carter moistened his lips before answering.

  “You know I have no authority over that. Besides, they were trying to blow up the British consulate. I don’t think you’ll get anywhere with setting them free. We’ve gotten pretty touchy over here since Nine Eleven happened. No bombs allowed.”

  There was a long silence from McShane’s end; so long, that Carter began to wonder if the connection had been broken. “McShane?”

  McShane took a raspy, deep breath. “Surely, you aren’t telling me ‘no’, Captain Carter.”

  Carter rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m not able to tell you one thing or another—yet. Just asking if there isn’t something you could request that might be a bit more reasonable.”

  “Like a pizza?” McShane mocked.

  “You got it, didn’t you?” Carter answered in a level voice, tamping down the urge to ask if Pete was okay.

  “What about the helicopter?” McShane sounded almost petulant.

  “I’ll see what I can do. That’s a definite possibility.” Carter fell silent a moment, then, “McShane—why don’t you send out some of the hostages?”

  McShane snorted. “And how many will you be wantin’ then, sir?”

  Carter shrugged. “How many do you have?”

  “Around thirty.”

  Carter’s lips twitched as the FBI men all began to make notations. It was the first piece of information McShane had given them that vaguely corresponded to the numbers they had gotten by process of elimination.

  “Send us half of them,” Carter said. There was a long silence, as if McShane was thinking about it. “We’ll be just as worried over fifteen as we would thirty. Be less trouble for you, too.” It was a long shot, Carter knew, but maybe he would be willing to get rid of some of the hostages to make his life easier, and to show he was willing to cooperate.

  “Anyone in particular that you’d like to see…spared?” The mocking note was back, and Carter feared he had lost the ground he’d gained. A thousand answers jumped to mind in the space of a second. If he asked for any of them above the others, it would give McShane leverage, and it would bring the media down on the Dallas PD without mercy.

  Carter closed his eyes for a moment, blocking out everything but McShane’s voice. He pictured the Irishman pacing inside the hotel lobby, the phone to his ear. There was an unsettled tone to his voice
despite all the bravado. Carter supposed it must be the stench of death around him, being cooped up inside, and with nowhere to get free from it but the roof. It would drive them all up there, eventually.

  “Any women left in there?”

  “Just the one. But she’s occupied. I’ve got her playin’ nursemaid to your Officer Logan.”

  Carter’s heart jumped, pounding against his breastbone. “What happened?” he gritted.

  There was a smile in McShane’s voice. “He’ll be all right, Captain. I just had to make an example of him. Just so the others would know…even police officers bleed.” McShane paused, then, “I rather like him, Captain. I may take him with us.”

  Carter pressed his lips together to keep his reaction inside. He’d been afraid of something like this from the moment he’d let Pete volunteer. Of course, if Pete had done what they had agreed upon, he wouldn’t be in this fix now. Carter struggled for control, knowing McShane’s penchant for playing cat and mouse.

  McShane taking Pete with them—that was a very real possibility. They’d need to protect themselves from being blasted out of the sky as they made their escape.

  “Relax, boyo,” McShane said in a low voice. “I haven’t hurt him too much. He’s not beyond repair. Just so’s you understand he won’t be one of the fifteen I send out.”

  “All right,” Carter ground out. “I understand.” And Pete does too. He knew what he was risking. “What about anyone with medical problems?”

  McShane laughed. “Well, now, Captain. If I go in asking for anyone with ‘medical problems’ I’ll see all thirty of ’em developin’ a heart condition right before my eyes.” He chuckled again. “No. I’ll do it randomly. After all, you know Brendan Roberts and his men’ll be stayin’ with me. Don’t leave too many ‘regular people’ to choose from.”

  “McShane, you won’t gain anything. The killing—it’s not helping your cause.” Carter was grasping at straws.

  “About the hostages—I’ll let you know,” McShane said tersely. “You get to work on my chopper—and securing the release of those two men—McGuire and Gains.”