Locked and Loaded Read online

  His eyes flicked back towards me, then narrowed. “What do you think you're doing?”

  I was straddling Michaels' lap, so I could cover his head and torso with my body without putting pressure on the wound.

  I said nothing, because I was trying not to cry.

  “Get off of him,” he said. “Now.”

  “I won't let you hurt him.”

  “You think you can protect him? It's your hands I need, and your brain. Everything else—” he took aim at my legs “—is of no consequence.”

  “So the rumors are true. You do own the BN now.” And he wanted me to work for him. This was worse than anything I could have imagined.

  “The going rate was pitifully cheap,” he agreed.

  “But how?” I had to stall. I had to think of something, anything. “They wouldn't sell to you willingly.”

  And I was curious—why would Hawk sell the company? To the very man he had been trying to destroy all these years, no less? It didn't make sense.

  Or it didn't make sense until I remembered that look in his eyes when I asked him at the edge of the loading area whether he was a father.

  I drew in a sharp breath.

  “That's it, isn't it? You threatened his family.”

  “Threats are so vague. I find I get better results with a more visceral display, particularly with one as jaded as your Hawk.” He added absently, “Pretty thing she was, not a day over seventeen, I'd fathom, and my, how she did scream.”

  He turned back towards me.

  “Haven't you wondered how you survived all this time? Did you think it was because of your strength? Your intelligence? Your physical prowess?” His lip curled. “I could've killed you a hundred times over in as many ways, had it been your death that I wanted. Bí beo sa láthair.”

  “I—I don't know what that means.”

  “It means I could use a hacker. It means, for the moment, that you are more useful to me alive. Aye, with the tragic end of the Sniper, I'm rather lacking in linguists. And there are things you can do for me, my bonnie lass, that the late Villanueva could not.”

  I shivered with loathing.

  “I know what you're thinking,” he said softly. “You're asking yourself whether I might have put you in that pretty dress. The mind is a powerful engine of denial, but you'll always wonder. There'll always be that little ribbon of doubt woven through your mind. That's the beauty of it.”

  God, he was so sick.

  Beneath me, Michael stirred. Something nudged my thigh. He had his phone out.

  I could only imagine how much that gesture had taxed his draining strength.

  “Take it. Message typed out…just hit send. All you have to do. She'll take care of the rest.”

  Who will?

  “Last chance, Christina. Get up, slowly, with your arms behind your head. You can't win, but you can control how much you lose. Starting with your ability to walk.”

  Fighting back tears, I hit “send.”

  And the world, it exploded into darkness.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Truth

  It all happened so suddenly, I was left completely disoriented. For the span of a heartbeat, I forgot my fear.

  It was like Target Island, all over again.

  Flashes of light were going off in my periphery from the total, sudden darkness. My ears were ringing, and I thought for sure that I had been deafened in the explosion, until I realized that it was the scream of a second alarm.

  Beneath the high-pitched siren I heard Adrian cursing, and then—yes, then I remembered the fear, remembered that I was running out of time. Time that Michael had bought for me. For us.

  I had to get out before the lights came back on.

  I had to get out before Adrian recovered his senses.

  Then I felt the hand close around my ankle. I had just enough time to scream before I hit the floor with a ragged cry as all the air collapsed out of my lungs.

  Adrian—

  He was on top of me. I lashed out when I felt the pressure on my middle, only to have my arm pinned beside my face, at a slight angle, straining the joints. Pulling that arm sent bright flares of pain bursting in the darkness like fireworks.

  “Just like before,” the hateful voice said, his hand tracing the boundary between dress and skin. Charting me. I was a map of enemy territory, and he was preparing for war.

  His hand reached my breast. I stiffened, heart in my throat, my one free hand straining, reaching. Surely the gun must be somewhere. He hadn't picked it up.

  “We played this way before when we waited for Michael.” He rolled my nipple between his fingers. “Do you remember?”

  Where was Michael?

  Where was the gun?

  He twisted his fingers neatly, and I let out a hoarse cry. “That's better.” He skimmed over my ribs, to the other breast. This time, he used his nails, and I let out a sob.

  My fingers brushed something hard. Yes.

  “It is far more pleasurable to break something beautiful. A butterfly's wings, so much better to tear off than that of a common fly. A crystal sculpture shatters so much more satisfactorily than a dull jar of clay.”

  He dragged up the hem of my skirt. “I have a devil of a time getting an escort to these functions. I'm afraid I've developed somewhat of a reputation.”

  My hand closed around the handle of the gun. Then it slid away from the sweat slicking my palms. “For what?” I snarled. “Sending girls home in boxes?”

  “There are two ways this can happen, Christina Parker. You work for me in the capacity of a hacker and fulfill your duties there. I'm willing to pay you overtime for whatever additional services you perform for me in my office after hours.”

  “No.”

  “Ten thousand dollars an hour is the flat rate. I'll double that if you let me cut you. Triple it, if I get to leave something more permanent.”

  “You're sick.”

  I pulled back the trigger and shot him. I shot him, and he backed off of me and I rolled away. Located Michael and his phone in the darkness.

  I shoved the cellphone into my cleavage for lack of a better place and grabbed Michael by the shirt collar, careful to leave enough slack that I wouldn't choke him.

  In the other hand, I held the gun in a death grip.

  He was a heavy man. Tall. Solid muscle. I was willing to bet he had at least seventy pounds on me, and I was no featherweight. Moving him had been difficult back at my Arizona apartment, and that had only been a few feet. This was a task worthy of the Herculean labors.

  I gritted my teeth so hard that pain splintered down my jaw. Stupid Greek mythology.

  I had no idea where I was going, or how long I could do this before the strength in my arms gave out, but staying put would be even worse.

  Hold on, Michael, please, hold on.

  I had no idea how much blood he might have lost so far. There had been quite a bit of it when I first looked at the wound, but my panic might have made it seem worse.

  Oh, God, how I hoped that was the case.

  The alarm stopped.

  I sucked in a breath and, blinded, and deafened as well from that merciless onslaught of sound, I strained to hear something, anything, while my heart did marathons inside my chest.

  I couldn't remember going this far when the guard had led me out of that locked, empty room. Was I going the wrong way? What if I was going in circles?

  If I was going in circles, that meant I was heading right back towards Adrian. The very thought made me feel like dropping into a faint. I managed to remain standing. With Michael unconscious, that left me to be the hero; there was nobody to save me this time, so I was just going to have to save myself.

  Darkness had warped my sense of smell. I could make out spilled alcohol, ozone, crumbled plaster, human sweat.

  I imagined I could also smell blood.

  I must be back in the viewing room.

  That meant I was closer to the exits. I was going the right way. Gracias a dios, I
was going the right way.

  Gunfire erupted from deeper within the silent chamber. I gulped down my heart, which had leaped up into my chest at that sound which precipitated the worst of violence, and ducked down. There was a bit of light filtering in through the windows, even though the drapes were drawn.

  Standing silhouetted in that dark room, I was a sitting duck. Stupid! I readjusted my grip on Michael's collar. It was damp from my sweating palms. You almost got killed!

  “What the fuck are you doing?” snapped a voice that sounded as annoyed and incredulous as I felt. “Put that goddamn gun away. The boss said he wants her alive.”

  Me? Were they talking about me? Shit.

  I didn't want to think about the reasons Adrian Callaghan might have for wanting me alive.

  Several came to mind immediately, none good.

  The footsteps faded away.

  I was glad I had kicked off my heels earlier. The sound of Michael's clothes rasping against the tile were as loud as a scream in the sudden silence.

  Heels would be worse.

  Keeping in mind my close call from earlier, I stayed low. I forced myself to crawl on that disgusting floor, dragging Michael behind me with one arm while feeling ahead for obstacles with the hand that held the gun. It was slow, tedious, and my shoulders were burning at the joints.

  I kept going, because the alternative was worse.

  But then, finally, I realized I could see the door, illuminated at the bottom by a thin bar of white-hot light. The light dazzled my eyes, making the tears I had been holding back this whole time course down my cheeks and stinging cuts and scrapes I didn't even know I had.

  “We're almost there,” I whispered. “Hang on, Michael. We're almost there.”

  I reached up to open the door, peeked out quickly along both sides to make sure nobody was standing watch. There was a limo parked out there illegally, blocking the fire exit. I felt a surge of alarm when the door opened and an Indian woman began making frantic gestures at me.

  I started to back inside the relative obscurity of the darkness, but then she said, hurriedly, “What are you doing? Get him in—quickly! We don't have much time!”

  “Who are you?”

  “The one who set off the bomb that shut off the power.” Her dark eyes flicked towards the gaping maw of the building. “I don't have time to explain. You're just going have to trust me.”

  I hesitated. Trust was not something you could just hand over, like spare change.

  “Get him in the car now. Or don't. Either way, I'm getting out of here, with you or without you.”

  I made my decision.

  “I'll come. But he's hurt and he's heavy. Can you help?”

  She cursed in a language that wasn't English, but she did help me hoist him onto the floor of the limo. She slammed the door closed before I could thank her and a few seconds after that I heard the rev of the engine and felt the car begin to accelerate.

  I sat where I was on the floor and stared down at Michael. The wound was just as bad as I had imagined, though it appeared to have stopped bleeding.

  I set the gun off to the side, after resetting the safety. I tore a strip of fabric from the skirt of the dress and looked for something to clean the wound. There were some bottled waters in the mini-fridge, but I decided to forgo those in favor of the scotch.

  “You bastard.” I soaked the strip of lace into the amber liquid. Its fumes filled up the car and I winced as I pressed the wadded up fabric to his chest; my eyes were stinging.

  “How could you get yourself shot?”

  I was trying to figure out whether the slowed bleeding was a good thing or a bad thing.

  We had covered this in Girl Scouts but that had been years ago. I remembered nothing.

  Had the bullet pierced his heart?

  Is he dying?

  With my free hand, I dug my index and middle fingers into the soft hollow under his chin, searching for a pulse. Afraid I wouldn't find one.

  It was there, but weaker.

  “No!” I slapped him. “You weren't supposed to get shot. You're supposed to be too fast for them to catch you.”

  I set the bottle of scotch aside unsteadily, swiping my tears away. Then I grabbed his hand, and held it in both of mine as I pressed his knuckles to my cheek.

  “You're not allowed to die. You're not allowed to do what you did to me and then leave me all alone after I've fallen in love with you.” I was sobbing now.

  “It isn't fair. Oh, God, it isn't fucking fair.”

  “Life isn't fucking fair. That's why you…cheat.”

  His eyes were open. He looked weak, tired, but his eyes were open. He was alive. He was alive.

  “You're alive,” I breathed.

  “That, or heaven's got some really naughty angels.”

  I slapped him again.

  “…fuck was that for?”

  “For making me think you died! That you were dying! Have you been awake this whole time? Hijo de puta — ”

  I trailed off into a stream of angry Spanish, because English just couldn't sufficiently cover the range of anger and relief and panic and hysteria I was feeling.

  Eventually, I ran out of words.

  “Finished?” Michael asked at last.

  I looked down. “I hate you.”

  Michael exhaled slowly.

  “Hate myself sometimes.”

  “Good. You're a son of a bitch.”

  “Probably. Never met the woman.”

  I made an anguished sound. “Stop making me want to laugh when I want to slap you and cry.”

  “You…already did slap.”

  “I meant again.”

  “Why do you want to cry?”

  “Because I thought I lost you, you bastard. I thought you were going to die. Were you awake the whole time?”

  “In and out. Chest hurts…motherfucker. I think…bullet's still inside.” His fingers, which had been stroking over mine, stilled. “You were crying for me?”

  “Who do you think?” I sniffled. “The Pope?”

  “You're Catholic.”

  “Stop it,” I said, “I don't want to laugh.”

  “I don't want…you to cry.”

  I swiped away at the tears again. “Why not?”

  “Seen you cry before. Not pretty. Snot everywhere. No thanks.”

  I hit the floor beside his head. “Stop that! Just…stop.”

  “Kiss me,” he said, cracking a smile. “Make you feel better.”

  “No it won't.”

  “Make me feel better, then.”

  “I don't care about you, Michael Boutilier.”

  “Prove it,” he growled.

  “You want me to prove it…?”

  I grabbed him by the collar and mashed my lips against his. He scraped his teeth over my lower lip, his tongue darting inside my mouth, trying to pin mine down. Then I felt him gasp.

  He pulled away, clutching at his chest.

  “I'm sorry,” I said, “Oh my God, I'm so, so—”

  “False alarm.” He gave me a wan smile. “You should work on your bedside manner.”

  “You—”

  When I looked down at him again, he appeared to be unconscious. But the smirk had stayed frozen on his mouth.

  Michael

  Recuperation was slow. Painful. The bullet had been about an inch away from clipping my heart. I'd had closer calls. Not a lot closer, but still—I would live.

  Callaghan would, too, or so I heard. Christina told me that she'd heard him in the hall when she dragged me out, and Angelica said he'd been injured when the building collapsed, but she wasn't able to tell me how or where.

  They were keeping things pretty fucking quiet down there at the IMA and doing a mighty good job of it.

  That meant things were serious.

  Suraya had driven me to a doctor specially trained not to ask questions, on the recommendation of Angelica, who, luckily, had answered when Christina called her from my phone.

  I was there now
, under observation. The doctor was making sure infection wouldn't settle in, and that the stitches were working their magic. Making sure his clients felt like they got their money's worth.

  His bedside manner was a helluva lot better than that of Lionel Lott, who I'd had to distance myself from, anyway, now that I had a reputation. It's hard to portray yourself as one of the Good Old Boys when your mug is plastered on America's Most Wanted.

  Angelica was in and out of the recovery room. Like Kent, she was able to charge a premium for the information she dredged up because he had taught her much of what he knew. After his death, she informed me, he had given his private suite of offices to her—and me. Split 60/40.

  “I have been sending the money to your accounts, Mr. Boutilier, as per his request.”

  “Wait a minute, how come I only get forty?”

  She flashed white teeth. “I suppose he thought you could take care of yourself, Mr. Boutilier. Though it seems as if he might have been wrong.”

  Christina was also in and out. Sometimes I'd wake to see her at my side, but her face was streaked with tears. Eventually, I took her aside and asked her what the hell was the matter, and she looked at me with that stricken expression as if she had forgotten I was even there.

  “They killed my mother.”

  “Who did?”

  “Somebody—I'm guessing somebody from the IMA. It's horrible. They pretended to be one of her boyfriends, I guess. And then, the moment he thought he was in the clear, he killed her. Angelica told me.”

  “She did what?”

  “No, I'm…I'm glad it was her. And not—well, I heard it made the morning news. Apparently, they weren't kind.”

  I imagined not. The woman was a harpy.

  Had been, I corrected myself. Fuck. “I'm sorry.”

  “I can't believe she's…really gone.” She wiped tears from her eyes. “I know she wasn't always the nicest person in the world, and sometimes she made me hate her, b-but…I still loved her. And now she's gone, and the last thing I ever said to her was in anger. And I'll never be able to change that!”

  “You didn't kill her.”

  “I might as well have. They're only doing this to hurt me. Because I reneged on that stupid contract!”