Читать книгу Dakota Marshal - Jenna Ryan - Страница 9

“No hospitals, Alessandra. No cops. Say it.”

McBride was hanging on to consciousness by a fine thread. Experience told Alessandra that thread wouldn’t be allowed to snap until she made the required promise.

He held and shook her wrist. “I need you to say it.”

There was no decision, really. If she didn’t agree, he wouldn’t let her help him. If she didn’t help him, he’d die.

“Yes, all right, no cops.”

“Or hospitals.”

“I heard you, McBride.” She attempted to lever him up. “I can’t carry you, though. You’ll have to help me.”

Alessandra used all her strength to get him to his feet and into the clinic—and all her will not to go against her word. He’d been a cop once. Now he was hiding from them. Every shred of common sense she possessed told her to do what was necessary, then walk away. She also knew she wouldn’t listen to it. She never did.

And so the nightmare would begin.

HE DIDN’T KNOW where he was because everything had gone black and weird. He felt like he was being dragged over a wet, rocky mountain. Water splashed onto his face, and the whole left side of his body felt numb. Until he took a wrong turn and ran straight into a red-hot knife.

He heard Alessandra’s voice. It sounded far away. She wanted him to help her.

Help her with what?

The darkness was split by twin headlights on a twilight road.

The pavement was old, chewed up. The guardrail, where it existed, tilted into the canyon below.

He thought he was driving south, but direction didn’t matter, because suddenly there was a sea of lights, red and flashing. He braked behind one of several ambulances.

A biker watched from the sidelines. “Bus went through the guardrail,” he said, pointing. “Took the turn too sharp and started to roll.”

Now McBride heard screams and saw people, wild-eyed and bleeding, as rescue workers assisted or carried them out of the canyon.

One of them, a man with a heavy accent, was hysterical. A woman sitting close to him had been impaled by a long piece of glass. He’d never seen anyone die before.

Lucky guy, McBride thought.

He identified himself to the officers on scene, then, without waiting to be asked, started down.

More people were being stretchered upward, among them the driver. They didn’t know how many passengers might still be on board, but figured the bus wasn’t going to remain much longer on the ledge where it had landed.

McBride agreed. The thing was rocking like a drunk ready to topple.

He skidded down the treacherous slope, spotted a firefighter spraying foam on the undercarriage so flying sparks wouldn’t ignite the fuel tanks.

“There’s at least two more inside,” the man shouted. “I can’t get them out and stop this sucker from blowing at the same time.”

Nodding, McBride switched direction. He spied a man, facedown in a patch of scrub. Blood had pooled around his head. He wasn’t breathing.

But somebody was. Fists pounded on one of the rear panels.

The only way in was through the front. He had to crawl over the impaled woman and, nearby, an older female who’d been crushed by a row of seats.

The pounding stopped. He muscled a chunk of twisted metal aside, was about to call out, when a woman’s face appeared.

She was bruised, filthy and looked to be no more than eighteen years old. He noted both relief and suspicion in her eyes.

“I’m a cop,” he said, because right then he knew he didn’t look like one. “Detective McBride, Chicago P.D.” The few lights still working illuminated the most amazing pair of gold eyes he’d ever seen. “Is there anyone else?”

“There was. Now there’s only me.”

He motioned for her to give him her hands. “We need to get out of here before the tanks blow or this bus goes for a second roll.”

Once free of the wreck, he kept her ahead of him on the upward climb. She had a truly spectacular butt and mile-long legs to go with it. Her hair was dark, her features nothing short of extraordinary. She was headed for Chicago to become a vet.

Now how did he know that…?

A paramedic and a cop, both about to descend, met them at the top. The paramedic took the woman aside. The cop, a friend, began strapping on gear.

“Figured it was you down there. Anyone left?”

McBride hoisted himself over the edge. “Not alive.”

The cop continued to harness up. “It’s a mess, all right. Like you. Why the beard and long hair?”

“Undercover case screwed up. I needed to get out of Chicago.”

The woman hissed as the paramedic cleaned one of her cuts. “I guess I’m lucky your case didn’t work out.”

A smile crossed McBride’s lips. Through a thickening haze, he bent to kiss her. “Maybe we’re both lucky, Alessandra.”

She grinned, though her features were cloudy now. “You’re slipping, McBride. I didn’t tell you my name…”

The memory skidded to a halt. Wait a minute. She hadn’t said that. And he hadn’t kissed her. Not there. Not then.

Oh, he’d kissed her all right and more, much more, but that was later, when he couldn’t get her out of his head—and after he’d discovered she was twenty rather than eighteen.

Then his life had tanked and landed both of them in hell.

Pain sliced through him like a lightning bolt. It shattered all the images in his mind—the bus, the sobs, the screams, the sirens, everything. Except for Alessandra’s eyes.

MCBRIDE WAS, WITHOUT question, the most stubborn man Alessandra had ever met. Fortunately, he was also the most resilient. The moment she removed the bullet, which had come dangerously close to nicking a major artery, he’d fallen into a deep, healing sleep. She could almost see his red blood cells multiplying.

The generator outside growled noisily, but with the rainstorm disinclined to move on, she barely noticed it.

“Since when do you listen to Keith Urban?”

McBride’s question came as no real surprise given his exceptional recuperative powers. But the clarity had her raising a brow as she emerged from the lab.

She had two scalpels in her hand and didn’t put either of them down. “Joan left her iPod in the dock. I wanted music. How do you feel?”

“Like a man whose been shot, probed with a sharp instrument and left to die in a cowboy bar.”

“So, well on the way to recovery, then.” She held up one of the scalpels. “No double vision?”

“Not much vision at all.” He squinted at the ceiling bulbs. “Is the power off?”

“It went out right before you arrived and subsequently fainted.”

He half smiled. “I’ll let that go, Alessandra, because I do, in fact, see two scalpels. I also heard your voice while I was floating around in the black fog of our distant past.”

“Yes, you were reliving it fairly accurately until you got to the kissing part.”

“Call it wishful thinking.”

Alessandra looked at him and sobered. “Not that I want to be any more deeply involved than I am, but are you planning to tell me what you’re doing here, minus a great deal of blood and with a hole in your chest where a bullet used to be?”

“Just another day on the job, darlin’.” Wincing, he worked his way onto his right elbow.

She sighed. “You know you shouldn’t do that, right?”

“I know a lot of things, Alessandra, some of them not particularly pleasant.”

“Like the name of the person—possibly a cop, though I seriously hope not—who shot you? No hospitals, McBride? No police?”

“The shooter’s name is Eddie. He’s not a cop, but he is a pro, a dog with a bone, so to speak. And I’m the bone.”

“So, nothing new in your world. Except that this time the bad guy did a little more damage than usual and is, in some twisted way, connected to the police.”

He pushed up higher. “Your cynicism’s showing.”

“Removing bullets from people tends to bring it out.” She struggled with mounting frustration. “Why is this Eddie after you? Or were you after him and somehow the scenario shifted?”

“The details aren’t important. I’ll explain the cop thing later. I was doing my job, Alessandra. I have no idea what you were doing with that no-neck jackass in the parking lot.”

She could have told him it didn’t matter, let him sleep for another few hours, then given him a prescription and suggested he return to Chicago to sort out his police-related problems. Her conscience would be clear, and the status quo would be restored.

However, whether or not he would have acted on it, Hawley had a mean streak, and he was as tough as the bull who’d sired the now-dead calf. McBride had gotten rid of him. That rated an explanation.

Setting both scalpels aside, she released her hair from its long ponytail and boosted herself onto a table. “Frank Hawley wants to make his fortune breeding bulls. He just doesn’t want to spend a cent more than is necessary to keep them healthy. His farm’s like a puppy mill for cattle. One of his calves got sick. He waited too long to call. The rest—well, you heard him. He thinks I’m a killer.” Seeing him hoisting himself up, she hopped down and poked a firm finger into his chest. “The more you move, the more likely you are to reopen that wound.”

“I know.” Ignoring her warning, he swung his legs down and sat up, gripping the side of the cot. “What time is it?”

“It’s 4:00 a.m.”

“And the power’s still out?”

“We’re a little off the grid out here. Ergo, the big, noisy generator.”

He moved a tentative shoulder, hissed in a soft breath and stood. “I have to get out of here.”

“You realize that’s suicide, right?”

“Give me some bandages, Alessandra, and whatever else you think I’ll need to keep me on my feet. Then go home, and pretend none of this ever happened.”

Irritation momentarily crowded out concern. “You never change, do you, McBride? You crash in, scare the hell out of me, tell me not to worry and then disappear.”

He managed a weak smile. “That’s why you left me. Which goes to show how smart you are. Or how stupid I am. One way or the other, you don’t want to get mixed up in this.”

Her answering smile had more of a bite, but she simply said, “I’ll pack a medi-kit.” Then she went into the back room.

He’d broken her heart once. She wasn’t up for a repeat performance. Let some other female fall for his sexy, outlaw-cop charm. He was a good guy who read like a bad guy, and okay, yes, maybe he could still take her breath away with a look, but he didn’t have to know that.

She wanted someone more stable next time, not a brooding, gray-eyed rebel who seldom had less than a three-day growth of stubble on his face, disliked the thought of scissors touching his hair and hated rules almost as much as he did the people who’d so carelessly brought him into the world.

Well, damn, she thought, exasperated, now she’d gone and dumped sympathy on top of righteous indignation. She really needed to speed his departure along.

She stuffed gauze, sterile tape and antibiotics that could be used on animals or humans into a makeshift medical pack, added rubbing alcohol, electrolyte water and iodine for good measure, then zipped it closed and swung the bag onto her shoulder.

Through the window she noticed a shadow pass by outside. Apparently McBride truly did want to be gone, and quick. She was more than happy to facilitate that desire. She opened the side door, intending to offer some comment in line with her mood, when a weak beam of light from the porch slanted across the shadow’s face. It was not McBride.

Quickly she eased the door shut, not making a sound. Then she turned. “McBride!” She doubted he could hear her urgent whisper. Still holding the medi-pack, she ran for the lab. And plowed right into his chest.

He steadied her with his good hand as he glanced over her shoulder. “Is someone out there?”

“A guy with a gun. A big one.”

“Did he see you?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe.”

McBride stuffed the Glock he’d evidently retrieved into his waistband. “Can you describe him?”

“Long hair, ratty beard, nose ring.” She let him nudge her to a less visible exit. “Eddie?”

“Yeah.” He kept his eyes moving. “Bastard. I drove in ten different directions before coming here. I thought I’d lost him.” With a glance out the window and another behind them, he positioned her next to the door. “Stay right here, Alessandra. Don’t move.”

He drew his gun, pointed it up. Alessandra’s muscles knotted.

The moment McBride left, she went for the medicine cupboard, unlocked it and pulled out the .45 Dr. Lang kept there. She had to go through his desk for the bullets. Grabbing her purse, she doused the scattering of overhead lights, shoved everything into a backpack, then froze when she caught a faint creak of hinges behind her.

Instinct told her it wasn’t McBride. Careful not to make any sound, she ran back to the door, took a quick look into the rain and slipped out onto the wraparound porch.

She saw McBride’s black truck—barely—in a far corner of the lot. A light appeared, then vanished, in one of the examination rooms. Eddie must be working his way through the building. With an eye on the window, Alessandra inched carefully along the wall. “I’m going to kill you if Eddie doesn’t,” she whispered to the absent McBride.

She saw something a split second before a hand snaked around her neck and covered her mouth.

“Not a sound, sweet thing,” a man’s Southern-accented voice whispered in her ear. “I need to know where that slippery badass I shot and I reckon you helped has gotten to.”

She should have loaded Dr. Lang’s gun. That was Alessandra’s first and pretty much only thought. Instead, a greaseball with bad aftershave had his gun pressed into her neck and was dragging her around the porch.

“Sorry to say, I’m gonna have to do you, but not until the badass is as dead as my cheating ex-wife.” He inclined his head again, and she heard the grin in his voice. “I upped my rate when I heard McBride was the target. Come on now, you can tell old Eddie, how bad’s he shot up? One to ten. Use your fingers.”

She held up two, ordered herself to move with him, to keep breathing, to think.

“Is that all?” He sounded pissed off, but only for a moment. Then the grin returned. “Or could it be you’re lying to buy time?”

Although his breath smelled of beer, he didn’t sound drunk. He continued to haul her sideways. Alessandra waited, counted.

“C’mon, McBride,” the hit man growled through his teeth. “I got the girl. Play hero, and…” The rest came out as a shocked curse.

He hadn’t noticed the single step down to his right. Off balance, he let her go as he stumbled, then slammed into the clapboard wall.

Alessandra didn’t hesitate. She scrambled from the porch.

“You come back here!” Still off balance, Eddie fired. Unsure if she’d been hit, Alessandra ran for the corner of the building.

She heard a thud. Two more shots whizzed past.

“Get to my truck,” McBride shouted.

Looking back, the only thing Alessandra saw was a blur of rain and motion.

Another bullet discharged. Eddie swore again in a wheeze, and got off two more shots.

A hand gripped her arm. “Inside,” McBride ordered. He shoved her through the driver’s side door. “Stay down.”

She knelt on the floor in front of the passenger seat and tried to determine if either of them had been injured.

Once in the truck, McBride fishtailed out of the lot one-handed, his eyes on the rearview mirror. “Man, he’s packing four semiautomatics.”

Was that some sort of twisted admiration in his voice?

“How can you possibly—” She broke off when she glimpsed his shoulder. “You’re bleeding.”

“I know. He got me in my bad arm when I tackled him.” He swung the truck down a narrow road.

Bracing for the potholes, Alessandra stole a brief look out the back window before climbing up into her seat. “You need to stop and let me restitch that wound.”

“Not until we put some miles between us and Eddie.”

“McBride, you can’t ignore the laws of medicine forever. Lose enough blood, and you will die.”

His eyes were still fixed more on the mirror rather than the road in front of them. “I’ll do that a lot faster if we don’t lose him.”

Twisting around, Alessandra risked another glance, saw nothing and stared at his profile. “Who is that guy, and why does he want you dead?”

“Us dead,” McBride corrected. “And I’m really sorry about that part.”

“So am I.” However, since she knew he meant it, she breathed through her irritation. “Talk to me, McBride. Who sent a hit man after you and why?”

“Long story short, I was dispatched to apprehend an escaped felon by the name of Rory Simms. Rory’s sister is one of those crime lords the FBI would love to have under lock and tossed key, but unlike Rory, Casey’s smart enough not to get caught standing over a corpse, holding a smoking gun. That’s murder one. Rory’s in for twenty-five minimum. But big sister was afraid he’d go a little crazy inside, say things he shouldn’t about the family business, so she engineered an escape. Now Rory’s on the run, I’m on his ass and big sister’s hit man’s on mine.”

“And the no-cops, no-hospitals thing is just you not wanting to be removed from the case?”

He regarded her shrewd face. “Would you go with that if I said yes?”

“Not even if I was twelve years old and you looked like Captain Jack.”

Which he kind of almost did, but that was absolutely not the point.

She looked again, did a double take. Were those headlights bouncing far in the distance? She turned around as the tires slammed through a series of ruts. “Do you know where you’re going?”

McBride narrowly avoided a low tree branch. “At this moment, no. Overall, yes. Rory’s heading south. That means we are, too.” The apologetic tone returned. “I didn’t plan for you to be involved in this, Alessandra, but you can identify Eddie, so you are. I’d love to call in, get information, request backup, but I can’t. The last time I did—right before I got shot—I let my boss and only my boss know where I was heading. And yet Eddie, who’d been chasing me until that time, suddenly wound up ahead of me.”

“You think someone in your home office leaked the information to him?”

“To him or Casey.”

“Unless Rory called Casey or Eddie himself and told one or both of them where he’d be.”

“That’d be the logical explanation,” McBride agreed. When he hitched his injured shoulder, she noticed the bloodstain was spreading. “Problem is, I have a strong feeling Rory’s not following Casey’s orders. Which could be another reason Eddie’s been dispatched—to take little brother to a place where he and Casey can have a nice long chat.”

“And you know all this because?”

He flashed her a quick smile. “That’s classified information.”

“Meaning, you have a source within Casey’s organization.”

“And you thought being a cop’s wife had no benefits.” His smile widened slightly. “My X source is a guy I’ve known since I was a rookie and he was a street dealer. Casey’s screwed him over a few times, so he came to me with a deal. I’ve held up my end, now he’s holding up his. X overheard part of Casey’s conversation with Eddie. He knew the assignment to track Rory was mine. He called me.”

“Honest to God, McBride, I feel almost ridiculously cloak and dagger right now. Okay, you’re convinced there’s a leak in your office, but every police department in every state doesn’t report to the Chicago division of the U.S. marshals.” Hesitating, she slid him a sideways look. “Do they?”

“They do if one of the deputy marshals goes down. Gunshot wounds have to be reported, Alessandra, by hospitals and police. That puts information on the computer, makes it accessible to anyone who cares to find it.”

“Specifically, a turncoat marshal.”

“For one. My gut tells me there’s somebody on the take in the Chicago P.D., as well, probably in Homicide.”

She kept a close eye on the spreading bloodstain. “You’ve got names in mind, haven’t you?”

Although the smile that had been hovering on his lips grew a little, there was no humor in it. “Yeah, I’ve got names in mind. Doesn’t do me any good here and now, but it will when Rory’s back in prison and I’m back in Chicago.”

She searched the heavily treed road behind them for anything resembling a tail. “This uncharacteristic optimism is a treat, McBride. If I hadn’t just dodged flying bullets, I’d actually applaud it.” Something glimmered, and she looked more closely out the rear window. “Those are definitely headlights.”

McBride’s gaze slid to the rearview mirror. “They definitely are.” He gave her unfastened seat belt a flick. “Buckle up and hold tight, darlin’.” His eyes glittered with anticipation as he geared down. “This ride’s gonna get wild.”