Capture the Night Page 3

  Johnny’s lips quirked again at this last statement, at the bite of indignation in her voice. “Guess I…knew that, Lex. I prob’ly wouldn’t’ve gone to sleep, otherwise. I mean…thinkin’ you might kill me…” His voice trailed off as his eyes closed again, the effort to keep them open too great.

  “I wouldn’t leave you,” she repeated.

  “I figured that, too.” A sudden chill made him shudder. “’Lex? Would you come…lie down here…next to me? Just—Just for a minute? ’M cold…” He clamped his jaw tight. When she didn’t answer immediately, he slitted his eyes open.

  Her expression must have registered the sudden terrible fear she felt at his words, because he gave a short laugh as he reached to pull her down to him. “It isn’t…that. I’m not dyin’—not yet, anyhow.”

  She lay down on the floor with him, the flush of embarrassment heating her face. He turned toward her a little, his lean body seeking her warmth. She laid her head gently on his right arm, mindful of his side, fearful of every move he made. It wouldn’t take much to start the bleeding again.

  “Can I…would you mind if I…put my arm around you—pulled you closer to me?” His warm, minted breath fanned her cheek, his smooth voice tickling her ear, comforting her with its nearness.

  She shook her head against him. When he still hesitated, she raised her eyes to his, her breath hitching as she caught a glimpse of something like vulnerability there, so close to the surface. She swallowed hard. “I…don’t mind.” Her voice sounded quiet, and wondered if he’d heard her when he made no move to draw her near.

  Alexa could not look away from the ocean-blue gaze. The pain was obvious, but there was also a measure of warmth—and attraction. A glimmer of humor shone through it all, briefly, before the hurt of his wounds became the most recognizable emotion in the cerulean depths once again. It was that unwitting grimace, that flash of agony, the shuttering of that window against her own worried gaze that drew her nearer to him, so that their bodies touched, very carefully.

  Alexa closed her eyes, her forehead resting against Johnny’s neck. She inhaled, dipping her head a little, her nose barely brushing the inside wall of his shoulder and chest. He smelled clean. Like he’d stepped out of the shower, dressed, and gone to the club. Then, he’d been shot. As she let her breath out slowly, he moved his arm across her with a tentative deliberateness that shattered her heart.

  She fought the urge to burrow closer to him, appalled at the discovery she wanted to do such a thing—with a stranger.

  But he wasn’t a stranger, the other half of her argued. She could look into his face and know him in so many ways…without having met him until an hour ago.

  He breathed steadily, and she shifted even closer against him, wanting to give him whatever she could in the way of comfort.

  “Johnny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We probably need to move, after you’ve rested a minute. We’re—kind of—vulnerable here.”

  “Yeah. Not a good…place to be, is it?”

  She didn’t say anything, and he went on. “I don’t like it, either. Wish I knew where that damn cell phone was—”

  “You said they couldn’t get to us anyway.”

  “No. They can’t.”

  “So, I’m all you’ve got.”

  “Somehow, I think you’ll do just fine, Lex.”

  They were silent a moment, then, “What are they after? The…terrorists?” Alexa could feel his quick smile against her hair.

  “What makes you think…I know?”

  Her hand moved slowly to the .38 pressed between them, and he stiffened almost imperceptibly. “This,” she murmured. She drew back a little so she could look up into his face “Who are you?”

  As she had expected, his expression was serious, thoughtful, as if he were deliberating about what to tell her. His sensual mouth was set in a grim line, his dark hair falling across his forehead. His eyes were veiled as they searched hers for a moment. Finally, he said, “Who do—do you…think I am, querida?”

  A question within a question.

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head, putting her forehead next to his warm skin again, breathing in his clean, masculine scent. “I don’t know.”

  “Yet, you…you’re helping me.” He moistened his lips, waiting for her to say something. When she remained silent, he asked, “Why?”

  Why? She wasn’t sure. This whole trip had been madness. On a whim, she’d decided to celebrate her divorce anniversary. She’d driven down alone from Oklahoma City to Dallas for a long weekend of pampering herself, and ended up extending her stay by two extra days. She would have been leaving day after tomorrow, but instead…instead she had ended up in here with this wounded stranger, hiding from terrorists on top of a high-rise hotel.

  The stranger. A man she’d never seen before this very night, yet somehow, trusted. She didn’t even know his last name…had no idea who he might be… But his voice was reassuring in spite of the rough edge she supposed was due to the terrific pain he was suffering. His hand on her back as he pulled her near was strong, firm—but not overbearing.

  Alexa sensed he was used to helping others; that he did so as second nature, with little or no thought to himself. He was strong, with enough grit and determination to spread around. Just his touch, his calm demeanor, poured his strength into her. He was a born leader, and he didn’t need to say a word to convince her that she should follow—she already knew she would.

  “Alexa?”

  He wanted an answer. She met his eyes, lifting her chin. “I—I trust you, Johnny. Maybe I shouldn’t—I don’t know.” She glanced away. “Maybe—the whole world’s gone crazy and me right along with it. I mean, I don’t even know you—not really… You—you could be anyone.”

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  Johnny figured she had to be close to his own age—early to mid-forty range—which meant she was not naïve, and had probably seen enough of life to know she had every reason to be on edge. But he had learned one thing about Alexa in the short time he’d known her, and he was more than grateful for it. She was probably the most level-headed female he had ever met—and it was his pure good luck that she was the one who had ended up here with him.

  There was a sweet goodness about her that he drew strength from, somehow. The image of her bending over him hovered in the back of his mind—that first moment when he’d come awake and been aware of her palm, cool and soothing, against his cheek.

  From the edge of consciousness, he heard her say something, felt the brush of her full lips against his hot, bare skin as she spoke, almost like a kiss. He cracked one eye open, then the other, as she lifted her head, his name like a soft, whispered prayer hanging between them, her eyes wide.

  Johnny slowly raised his hand to her face. He stroked the gleaming locks of copper away from her tawny cheek. His hand lingered, holding the errant strands in place; at that moment, he wasn’t certain if her skin or her hair was the softest thing he’d ever felt. When she raised her eyes to his, he knew the sweet, worried look she gifted him with had everything else beat. He had the sudden urge to put his mouth on hers, just to see if it was as generous and giving as the rest of her seemed to be.

  “Lex…I’m not—not a threat. You…You’re right—to trust me. I’m…” He broke off, as if debating what to say next, then he finally finished with, “I’m…okay. Not…one of them.”

  His halting explanation had been lame. He wasn’t able to trust her—not yet. He’d hurt her, but she didn’t understand what was at stake for him. Telling her he was “not one of them” could mean anything—especially since she didn’t know who “they” were. Confiding too much too soon could buy him a quick and early grave…if she was the wrong person.

  But how could she be? Looking into the shimmering green lights of her eyes was like falling into a magical pool of pixie dust. Her coppery hair was cut short and turned under, catching the soft glow of the scattered low-wattage bulbs and holding that light like an incandescent
flame. When she’d laid her head on his bare shoulder, the silky drift of the soft tendrils against his feverish skin had been more comforting than he could have imagined. Any woman with that kind of caring and compassionate spirit couldn’t be “the wrong person.”

  She nodded, accepting his answer—for now.

  He squeezed her hand gently in silent thanks. “Alexa—you ever dig a bullet out of anyone before?”

  Alexa looked down and shook her head, her hair falling forward. “No. I’m sorry. Not a doctor or a nurse. Don’t even work in the medical billing department. But I’ve put my share of band aids on skinned knees, and I’ve wrapped sprained ankles…all the little stuff moms do for their kids.”

  “This isn’t ‘little stuff’, Lex.” He sighed heavily, then muttered half-teasingly, “And…I ain’t no kid, either.”

  “No,” she said after a moment. “I—I suppose all that’s true enough. But I’m not afraid to—to try,” she murmured. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

  His lips quirked at that. “No. I reckon…that oughtta be me—the one ‘afraid’.”

  She glanced up, giving him a wan smile.

  “Can you—do you think you can do it? I mean—you seem…pretty uncertain—”

  “That’s because I am,” she said quietly. “Maybe you’d rather wait until we get out of here.” She bit her lip. “What if—What if I can’t do it?”

  Johnny shook his head slowly. “Don’t be thinkin’ like that, now, ’Lexa. I need you. You’ll do…fine.”

  Chapter 5

  The news helicopters arrived on the scene just as the fourth hostage fell heavily to the ground, a bullet in his head. He stared sightlessly upward toward the sound of the rotating blades, the searchlight finding him and the others in its steadfast, unwinking eye, before it moved on, surveying whatever other damage there might be below.

  Sorley O’Brian was a master sniper, who thoroughly enjoyed his work, with no remorse over these or any of the other killings he had done. He was a soldier.

  A police bullet sang past his ear from where he stood, sheltered in the alcove of the entryway. He grinned. Amateurs. He turned his back on the dead and the beginners, and headed back inside the hotel lobby.

  Tall and muscular, he dwarfed McShane as he walked across the room and came to stand beside his leader. McShane handed him a shot of ten-year-old Bushmills and O’Brian took it, with a questioning look.

  “Drink up, Sorley,” McShane said quietly. “Then, go take out those damn choppers—or one of them, at least. Make an example.”

  O’Brian took the whiskey with a nod of thanks and tossed it off quickly, then reached for the SAMS launcher on the bar.

  “You’ll be able to get a clear enough shot from the roof,” McShane told him, slapping his shoulder.

  O’Brian gave him a narrow look as he turned away. “I’m not going to the roof.”

  McShane swiveled. “Why in God’s name not?”

  “I’d be a sittin’ duck up there, Kier.” O’Brian grinned, soothing the quick anger he saw forming in McShane’s eyes. “I know you wouldn’t want that, eh? I’ll go up to the top floor; knock out a window…and wait. It’ll only take one shot.” He nodded. “You know I’ll get it done. I won’t let you down.”

  “Us, Sorley. You won’t let us down. The Brotherhood.” It was the only time Sorley could recall disputing him, even casually. Kier hadn’t called him on it, but he damn sure hadn’t liked it.

  “Right.” O’Brian shouldered the long tube and headed for the elevator.

  He felt the fog-gray eyes narrow, watching him go.

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  “Your brother in there?”

  Officer Pete Logan glanced at the captain. The colored lights flashed around them in the darkness. Like carnival lights.

  “Pete?” The voice came again, forcing him to focus on the previous question. The one he did not want to think about.

  Pete nodded and swallowed hard. “Yeah. I think so.”

  Captain Ray Carter’s eyes narrowed, and he let his breath out in a rush. He looked down. “But you don’t know for sure.”

  Pete shook his head. No. I don’t know for certain, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure that Johnny’s inside…somewhere. Johnny had been uneasy about this assignment from the beginning, but he’d volunteered for it. He was one of six undercover officers who were to pose as ordinary guests of The Riverwind while Britain’s prime minister enjoyed his brief stay in the Dallas-Fort Worth area.

  “You okay, Pete?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” I hope to hell he didn’t have his shield with him.

  “If—you need to go, you tell me.”

  Pete finally raised his eyes to meet Carter’s. He shook his head, turning to look at the hotel again. “I won’t be going anywhere, Ray. Not until my brother comes out—one way or the other.”

  Carter snorted and turned to walk toward his car, his last glance telling Pete he’d better watch his step.

  Pete Logan wasn’t a rookie, but he felt like one tonight. He’d never seen anything like this, and he’d been detailed to New Orleans in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina—seen the floating bodies, the death. But that had been an accident of nature, not a perversion of humanity.

  He had never felt so helpless. Never. Watching those four men marched out to their deaths while practically the entire Dallas Police Department stood just yards away…He shook his head. It wasn’t like there was anything any of them could’ve done—not without setting off an international incident that could include the murder of Great Britain’s Prime Minister.

  He half-sat, half-stood against the hood of his cruiser, his gaze finally finding his partner, Levi Santiago, where he stood a short distance away talking with Carter. The two of them threw surreptitious glances Pete’s way from time to time. He pretended not to notice. Levi’s dark eyes rested on him a moment, with an expression of worry and compassion. Finally, Pete stood and walked a few steps, leaning against the front driver’s side door, facing the other way. He could feel their stares boring holes in his back, hear the soft-spoken whispers. It irritated him, although he knew they were just concerned. He had other things on his mind, anyway.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to look at those dead men. He didn’t want to relive the horror of their executions just minutes earlier, or the fearful surge of relief that had coursed through him when he’d realized that none of them was his oldest brother. He’d almost hated himself in that instant, as the sniper’s bullets slammed into those four victims—four men who were not his brother—and he’d sent up a silent prayer of thanks. But the fact wouldn’t leave him that they were somebody’s brothers…and sons…and maybe even fathers.

  He couldn’t lose Johnny. Not after their brother, Drew, got himself killed. Drew had been the wild one, the gangster, the one for whom their mother always prayed special prayers…for all the good it had done him. He’d ended up just as dead, a casualty of Latino gang warfare.

  Johnny would be okay. Johnny wouldn’t have gotten himself shot. He was smart. He’d be hiding or—or something.

  Even the thought his brother might still be alive among the hostages inside did little to lift Pete’s spirits. He couldn’t accept the idea that Johnny might be dead. Somehow, he thought he would know if that were the case.

  No. Johnny is alive. Somewhere in that hotel. Pete’s gaze swept up the side of the hotel to the roof, and down again to the four bodies on the immaculately manicured lawn.

  A sudden flash of flame followed by a shrieking whine erupted from a top-floor window, jarring him from his thoughts. The ball of fire hit its mark, and the Channel Nine helicopter exploded above him in a blinding flash of light accompanied by a deafening roar. Pete shielded his eyes and, with a savage motion, threw open the door of his cruiser. He fell into the front seat, covering his head with his hands as parts of the helicopter and its five passengers rained down into the street.

  Something heavy crashed beside the open door th
at he hadn’t had time to slam shut. He forced himself to keep his head pressed into the seat, knowing the area of the street where he was would take the hardest hit. His car had been almost directly beneath the chopper.

  Small pieces of debris fell, making a tinkling noise against the glass of the windshield. Pete lifted his head, his arm across his forehead still, his eyes narrowed.

  “What the fu—” Pete jammed his face and shoulders as tightly as he could into the material of the cruiser’s seats, waiting for what he was certain he had glimpsed. Two seconds later, a flaming steel propeller shaft speared straight down through his windshield, shattering the glass, and lodged in the bottom of the seat, just inches from where he lay.

  Pete lifted his head again, aware of the crackle of the flames. The fiery metal singed the side of his shirt and the skin beneath before he could get out of the car.

  The quiet that followed was as deafening as the explosion had been. He stood over one of the helicopter runners beside his door. Must have been the first heavy piece he’d heard fall.

  “Pete…” The agonized whisper floated to him in the sudden stillness. At first, he thought he’d imagined it, but it came again, this time a little louder. “Pete…”

  He turned slowly, squinting into the dark madness all around him. It was a combat zone, the snipers in their positions, the lights flashing on every side, and flaming fragments of the downed helicopter burning on the ground for what seemed like miles.

  But the voice, borne on the acrid smoke-filled breeze, was that of a dying man. He knew what he was looking for, the truth of the situation, before his eyes ever found his partner’s.

  Levi was lying a few feet from their cruiser. His dark eyes were open, barely, staring at Pete. His legs and back were twisted at an odd angle, and there was soot and dirt patching across his face and into his black hair along with a thin line of blood that trailed from his nose to his ear.