Capture the Night Page 25

  Johnny glanced toward the door. “Let’s go.” He turned away, still bracing himself against the wall, and put his hand on the doorknob. Without warning, the heavy steel door swung open with a forceful motion. Johnny let go, moving back fast, not quite able to stifle a groan at the sudden sharp pain the movement caused.

  “Well, well, well…” Kieran McShane grinned, stepping up and out onto the roof, the semiautomatic rifle pointed directly at Johnny’s heart. “Look what we have here.”

  Chapter 31

  “Can I trust you not to run?” Eileen had asked just moments earlier. She’d stood poised by the bathroom door, ready to push it open.

  Pete slid, very slowly, down the wall he’d been holding up…until he reached the blessed, solid ground. He’d given her his best wise-ass grin, gripping the wall even tighter as the room began to spin.

  “Yeah, Ms. Bannion, you can trust me. See, I gotta have this wall…and I don’t think I can carry it with me…especially not at a run.” He motioned vaguely toward the door. “Go on. I can barely tell what’s up or down. I’m just going to flop here on the floor while you…take care of business.”

  Eileen’s lips quirked. She gave Pete a measuring look. “I like you, Logan. You’ve got plenty of—heart. A lot of heart.” She shook her head. “You won’t ever give up, will you?” There was something wistful in her tone; something infinitely sad, that Pete wished he could fix for her.

  She must have sensed it, for she left the bathroom door and walked toward him, her beautiful, haunted eyes scanning his face before she spoke.

  “Promise me something, Peter.”

  Pete moistened his lips, trying to focus on Eileen, on her words, rather than the crazy spinning of the room. “What?” he gritted.

  “Promise me—that you won’t interfere, when the time comes for me to do…what I must.”

  “Kill your baby? Yourself?” He shook his head, not sure if he was doing it or if it was the spinning of the room making his neck turn. “I can’t promise—”

  “If it helps—I’m dying anyway.” Eileen wet her lips. “I have cancer. The old ovaries gave up the ghost, and plan to make a ghost of me, too, in the end. It’s a miracle—and an accident—that I ever conceived.” Her eyes sought his, holding them, hungry to make him understand. “Please—don’t take this from me. Your men intend to kill McShane anyway—and, most probably, me, as well.”

  Pete couldn’t deny it, and she rushed on.

  “This way, I have the best of my world—my life and my death. I’ll have control of it. It will—count—for something.”

  He was trying to listen; to give her words the credence they deserved. But his head was muddled. Her voice faded in and out, back and forth between the actual words themselves and a humming sound.

  “Does…McShane…know you’re…sick?”

  “No,” she responded in a flat tone. “And he must not ever know. I want him to think I did what I’m going to do—as a choice. My choice…to end his life, our baby’s, and mine. To wipe every trace of him off the earth.” She stopped and looked away from Pete, and he began to slide further, hoping the floor would be there at some point to break his fall. He hit it with a rough jolt, feeling sicker by the minute.

  Eileen put her hand on his arm, joining him on the carpet. Only, she was kneeling beside him…and she was not going to puke at any second.

  “Can you understand, Peter? Can you imagine someone taking your brother…snuffing out that precious life, then telling you it was a mistake?” She gave a short, caustic laugh.

  He made an effort to get to his hands and knees. Much as he’d love to stay and chat, he knew he had to find the men’s room, and soon. Sweat covered him as the nausea seized the pit of his stomach.

  “Yes…” he managed. “I understand. I have lost…one brother already.”

  She grinned. “Ye’re green at the gills, Officer. Let me show you to the bathroom. No more talk of this now.” She put her hand on his arm to help him stand, but he’d never make it. She understood, guiding him the few feet to the men’s restroom as he crawled on all fours, pushing the door open for him.

  “Don’t be drownin’ yerself in the toilet, boyo.”

  The door closed behind him as he crawled, easing himself into the nearest stall, glad he’d made it; grateful he hadn’t puked his guts out in front of her or Traci, and laughing at himself inside. To think he’d worry about that at a time like this. He was finally alone, where he could throw up to his heart’s content without being hovered over. Pretty amazing, the things you could find to be thankful for.

  And maybe, if he got his being sick over with in a hurry, he could take a few minutes when he was done and try to collect his thoughts…come up with a plan in his fuzzy brain…figure how the hell to get out of this alive.

  Once they got up on the roof, they were all dead. Even Eileen would have no sway in the balance of life and death—at least, not enough to count.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  “We should have heard something by now.” The FBI’s lead agent, Evan Sanders, fumed. He walked in tight circles, all but wringing his hands.

  Carter agreed, but he didn’t voice his opinion. He would’ve enjoyed watching the pompous son of a bitch work himself into a frenzy, but for the fact he was just as worried. The silence was ominous, and he figured it meant only one thing: McShane had, at last, realized he was not going to get anything he asked for.

  The helicopter was still being negotiated among the upper echelons of the FBI, British intel and Dallas Police Department. From what Carter had learned, the in-fighting was quite remarkable. The Brits would give McShane whatever he wanted in order to keep Brendan Roberts alive; the FBI was maintaining the hardliners’ edge of never dealing with terrorists, and the Dallas PD was trying to walk the line of international diplomacy and loyalty to the FBI men who represented America in this ordeal.

  The hand-delivered missive from Commissioner Vince Thompson burned a hole in Carter’s pocket. It was terse, short, and left no doubt in his mind as to what to expect. But it also contained one very important line of support: You have my backing in however you choose to end this standoff, Ray, whether your decision is in agreement with Sanders’s or not. My trust is with you, and I know you’ll do whatever you deem necessary.

  Carter ran his hand over the folded paper in his shirt pocket, watching Sanders pace. The air was thick with tension as the afternoon shadows lengthened. He was exhausted. This would have to end soon, one way or the other.

  His thoughts went to Pete Logan again, then to Johnny. Johnny, his partner for five years. Knowing him like he did, Carter could only hold fast to the hope that Johnny would somehow be resourceful enough to survive.

  And then, there was Pete. By God, when he got his hands on Pete, he was going to— His shoulders slumped. Probably hug him. Just hug him, and tell him how freaking glad he was to see him—alive—again. If he got the chance.

  He glanced up at the roof, not expecting to see anything. There was a widely-spaced railing all around the edges of the roof, and from what Ronnie Williams had said, the equipment housing door and the smaller door that opened up onto the roof from the kitchen were both set much farther back, where they weren’t visible from the street.

  They were up there. And they were alive. Somehow, he just knew it.

  “Captain!”

  He turned as one of his men trotted over holding another written note. Carter’s lips quirked at the way they were being forced to communicate to avoid McShane’s equipment…having to send a runner back and forth with messages. If there was any humor in the situation, it was this irony.

  He took it with a nod of thanks and opened it, careful not to show anything in his expression on the off-chance Sanders had quit pacing and had begun to take notice again. He scanned it quickly, barely managing to re-fold it and get it tucked into his shirt pocket before Sanders descended on him.

  “What’s that?”

  Carter glanced up, as if he were surprised. Sander
s pointed a freckled finger at his shirt pocket.

  “Huh? Oh, just a note from the other side.” He inclined his head toward the hotel, indicating the backside where the rest of the men were stationed. He gave Sanders an easy smile. “Watson was just reminding me that he’d asked off this evening and tomorrow to be with his wife. First kid. Guess she’s having a C-section done and—” he stopped, shrugged, and winked at Sanders. “I better walk over and tell him to go on. Sounds like he’s getting antsy.”

  Sanders gave a slow nod, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. He spun away and headed back for the makeshift comm center.

  Carter waited until he was out of earshot before turning to the messenger, Tony Lambert. “See that gentleman over there in the checked shirt?” He didn’t look toward where Ronnie Williams sat alone, his eyes closed.

  “Under the tree?”

  “Uh-huh. Want you to make your way over to him here in a few minutes. Wait about ten minutes or so after I leave. Escort him back around to the other side. Tell him you’ll meet him over by the john.” Carter nodded toward where the porta-potties had been set up a few hours earlier. “That way, if Sanders says anything, Williams can tell him he’s gotta go to the can. Then you hook up with him and bring him around to the other side.”

  “You got it, sir.”

  “How did his brother look? Was he hurt?”

  The other man shook his head. “No. Not hurt. But…well, sir, he’s kind of…wild. He kept saying he crawled in the vents to try to help Pete, but that the terrorists had moved him.” He shrugged. “We weren’t really sure how reliable he was. Could be he’s just loco.”

  Carter shook his head. “You bring Ronnie Williams over there, Tony. I want a crack at his brother without Sanders sticking his face into it. Somehow, I don’t think Williams’s brother is as crazy as you might suspect—but we’re about to find out.”

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  “McShane,” Johnny breathed.

  “None other, lad!” McShane gained the roof, and stepped closer to Johnny, his pistol never wavering. He gave a self-satisfied chuckle as he scrutinized Johnny’s face. “Ye’ve got to be the other Logan…” He wet his lips. “And—ye’re not afraid.” He nodded. “I like that, John. It gets damned boring to see fear in every man’s eye that turns your way.”

  Johnny wished McShane would move to one side or the other. He needed to lean on something, and the Irishman was blocking the doorframe. He was alone…where were the hostages? Pete? He looked down, not allowing McShane to read anything in his gaze.

  “You could solve that, McShane. Leave…Leave the hostages. You and your men—go free.”

  “Oh, John. Now, surely, you don’t take me for a fool. It’s one thing not to be feared—quite another to be thought an idiot.” The genial expression fled, a scowl replacing it. “You must know by now, that nothing has quite worked out as I planned.”

  Johnny glanced up. “Where are they?”

  “Cooling their heels in the stairwell.”

  Johnny looked over McShane’s shoulder and met Brendan Roberts’s determined eyes. The men were kneeling on the floor. Standard procedure for McShane, Johnny thought. The Irishman was proud of his military knowledge—even down to the way he chose to mete out the executions he was so fond of.

  He turned his attention to McShane again, careful to brace himself against the doorframe. “Where’s my brother?” The question was quiet-spoken, but the threat was unmistakable.

  McShane eyed him for a long moment, then grinned. “He’s safe enough.”

  “You like to—to talk in riddles, McShane.”

  In answer, McShane sighed, lifting his radio mouthpiece to his lips. “Eilly, love, are you there?”

  “Is there trouble?” she responded.

  “No. I’ve got the other Logan here, with me. He’s concerned for his brother.”

  “He’s in the can right now,” Eileen answered. “Want me to check on him?”

  “No.” McShane quirked a sandy brow at Johnny. “Satisfied?”

  More than “satisfied”. Relieved beyond the telling. But he couldn’t let McShane see that. “For now,” he answered, with a curt nod.

  McShane smiled at Alexa. “Ah. This must be the lady that Danny was mentioning earlier.” He nodded, looking her up and down. “You’ve been quite through it, haven’t you Ms.—Ms.—”

  “Bailey,” she supplied coldly.

  “Bailey,” McShane repeated. He bent his gaze on Johnny once more. “And Danny…where would he be?”

  Johnny didn’t answer.

  “I—asked a question, Mr. Security Guard. I hope you aren’t getting noble on me. That would be most—unfortunate.”

  “I’m not sure where he is. He took off. He’s…kind of unbalanced in the head, you know?” Even leaning on the doorframe for support wasn’t going to help if his knees buckled under him—which they were threatening to do if he didn’t just…sit down somewhere.

  McShane’s gaze narrowed. “Now, John T., I’d hate to think ye’re holdin’ out on me. Are you sayin’ he just set out on his own? That doesn’t sound likely at all.” He pressed his mike button. “Sorley? Sorley, are ye’ there, man?”

  Alexa took a deep breath, as if she were about to unravel and tell McShane the truth of what had happened only minutes earlier…minutes that had spun themselves into an eternity, already. Johnny shot her a glance and she lowered her eyes.

  McShane frowned at O’Brian’s failure to reply.

  “Well, no matter. Let’s go see what Sorley’s up to.” He gave Johnny a jovial wink. “Could be he’s trackin’ down this Danny and has his radio turned off.” He backed away from the doorjamb. “Come out, gents. Come out and see the view of a lifetime! Dallas, Texas at your feet!” A sardonic smile quirked his lips, and Johnny guessed he was inwardly laughing at his own joke; that their lifetimes were all to be cut short.

  One by one, they filed out onto the roof, seven in all, every one of them from Brendan Roberts’s entourage.

  Was this it? Johnny clamped his lips shut, knowing not to ask that question. Yet, his mind couldn’t close around the idea that this might truly be all that was left of the survivors, other than the group Eileen Bannion would be escorting; his brother among them.

  Roberts detached himself from the group, and, walking tall and straight as if he’d just come out of his office for a press conference, made his way to where Johnny slumped against the doorway.

  “You look as if you could use some assistance, sir,” he murmured, reaching for Johnny’s arm to loop it over his own neck.

  Johnny winced at the other man’s unintentional rough handling of his wounded arm. A guttural groan forced its way past his lips. “Other…side,” he managed to grit out, as the Prime Minister moved quickly to comply.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”

  “It’s okay. I’m pretty…shot up.”

  “Yes, I see. Again, I apologize—” He hesitated a moment, then, “May we speak freely?”

  Johnny glanced up at him. “You can say anything in front of Alexa. Anything you got to—to say to me, Mr. Roberts.”

  The Prime Minister nodded, his expression softening. They began walking with the others toward the equipment housing door, all fully aware of Kieran McShane at their backs with his arsenal of weapons.

  “Did he search you?” Roberts murmured. “I know you must have some kind of weapon. Or, don’t security guards carry guns here?”

  “No search. Not yet, anyway. He was too busy posturing.”

  “He won’t forget it, you can be sure of that.”

  Johnny was breathing hard. “I’ve got a .38 and a Glock.”

  “Would you like to get rid of one?” Roberts smiled. “I’m a fair shot.”

  “My back waistband.”

  Johnny stumbled and Roberts made a show of catching him. Reaching under Johnny’s long shirt tail, he snagged the .38 and dropped it into his own suit coat pocket.

  “Loaded, I presume?” the Prime Minister whisp
ered as he braced Johnny, giving him a chance to catch his breath.

  “Four rounds.”

  Roberts quirked a brow. “O’Brian?”

  Johnny nodded.

  “Come on! Move it!” McShane’s voice sounded a few feet behind them, stridently commanding.

  “Lean on me, please, Mr. Logan.”

  Johnny glanced at him, complying. “Pete—”

  “He was still alive when we left him. The female terrorist, Eileen Bannion, was bringing him and another hostage—a woman—right behind us.”

  “How bad…is he—”

  Roberts shook his head. “Don’t talk, my friend. I’ll try to fill you in as much as possible. Just lean on me, and let me help.”

  “Your suit—” The wound in Johnny’s side had reopened, probably when he’d catapulted both himself and Alexa into that cubbyhole to keep from being seen. He’d been trying to keep most of his weight off of Roberts—not because the man was too slight to bear it, but because Johnny was covered in blood. He figured the suit Roberts wore cost more than what he brought home in two months’ paychecks.

  “It doesn’t signify, Mr. Logan.” Roberts shifted to take more of Johnny’s weight as he spoke.

  “Johnny,” he corrected. “Just Johnny, Mr. Roberts.”

  Roberts’s lips slanted up. “All right, as you like, Johnny.” He shot Alexa a worried glance. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  Alexa gave him a faint smile. “Just exhausted. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine, Mr. Prime Minister.”

  “Please.” He gave her a pained look. “In light of the situation, it’s best we dispense with formalities, don’t you think? Both of you, call me Brendan.” He leaned near Johnny’s ear and murmured, “We’re nearly there. Can you hold up? I can call my men over, but I’d rather not involve them, if I don’t have to.”

  “Dirty?” Johnny muttered.

  Roberts nodded in grim acknowledgement. “Yes. Not all of them, but I’m not sure which of them can be trusted.”

  “I’ll…make it.”

  Alexa shook her head at his stubbornness. She slipped in the door of the equipment housing room just in front of Johnny and the Prime Minister, making for a spot beside the wall.