Assassin P.I. (20 page)

Jack’s heart skipped a beat. So he’d been double-crossed then. By who? The Fed? He turned around, the gun now trained on his heart, reached into his pocket retrieving his lighter and a cigarette, lit it, and took a drag. He held the nicotine in his lungs until they burned. The smoke wafted around them as he blew out. “Yes.”

He offered Benicio the cigarette. The gun never wavered as the man accepted the peace offering, took a hit, and passed it back.

Benicio blew out a smoke ring and smirked. “Seems to me like someone wants us both dead.”

But who? From the looks of things, only one of them was walking out alive. And he was standing at the wrong end of that barrel.

Jack took one last drag, then dropped the cigarette to the ground and snuffed it out with his shoe. He stepped from the curb and onto the road. “I’m ready.”

Chapter 20

Numb. Baffled by the odd sensation of feeling absolutely nothing, Jack opened his eyes. Where was he?

A bright light seared his retinas. He blinked. Below him the ground, hard and wet, trembled. A mixture of gasoline and oil assaulted his senses. Asphalt.

Not good.

Why was he so numb? And tired?

Jack lifted his head from the asphalt and tried to shake the cobwebs from his mind. Instead, he was rewarded with a pulsating headache that only intensified with each beat of his heart. Between the pounding and the fuzziness, rational thought was next to impossible. He closed his eyes and took stock of the situation. All limbs seemed to be intact, even if they didn’t seem to be willing to cooperate at the moment.

He tried to push himself up, but a blinding pain stabbed him in the shoulder, forcing him to return to a prone position. It wasn’t a position he particularly enjoyed unless there was a warm, curvy body beneath his.

Out in the open, he was vulnerable. Too vulnerable. All it would take was one bullet to the back of the head and it would be lights out, Gracie. He had to move, but his body didn’t seem to pick up on the urgency of the situation. Groaning with the effort rolling over took, Jack closed his eyes again and focused on staying conscious. It would be so easy to give in to the dark recesses that threatened to overtake his mind.

Numb.

Other than the pain that throbbed in his shoulder, he felt nothing. No emotions. No sense of urgency to save himself. When had he become so damned numb? He clutched his shoulder. Blood seeped between his fingers. And there was a hole, a ragged hole where a bullet had torn into his flesh and buried itself deep.

That was new.

Tracking down bumbling criminals, drug lords, and all around bad dudes once thrilled him, set his heart to racing in the heat of the moment when he was staring down the barrel of a gun. From the time he could walk, his fight or flight response had permanently been set to fight. But now, when every fiber of his being should be screaming for him to get up, grab his gun, and either start shooting or start running, there was only a cold, numb feeling settling into his chest.

He closed his eyes again, too tired to even bother fighting off the darkness that promised to consume him. He was beyond caring if he lived or died anymore.

And that scared the hell out of him.

Oh
my God.

Nick leaned over and hurled, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the ground. He’d never shot anyone before. Never drawn his gun except during training exercises. This was nothing like that. Nothing could have ever prepared him for the gut-twisting aftermath that came from firing a bullet into a human being, watching a body crumple to the ground.

He drew a shaky breath and wiped away the rain from his face. Drawing his gun again, he kept it trained carefully on the two bodies that lay in the street. Neither moved. Was he too late? Were they both dead? Pushing the thought from his mind, he forced himself to recall his training. Clearing and securing the scene was his first priority.

Nick approached the first man with caution, kicking the man’s gun out of reach. The gun skittered along the oil-slick pavement. Kneeling, he checked for a pulse. Blank eyes stared back at him. He was too late. Nick’s heart sank as he went to check the other man for any signs of life. What little pulse he found was weak, there for now, but not for long if he didn’t get the man some help.

Using one hand to staunch the flow of blood ebbing from the man’s wound, Nick’s fingers trembled as reached for his phone and called 911. “This is Special Agent Nick Shaw. There’s been an officer-involved shooting. I’ve got two down.” He rattled off the address, then snapped his phone shut, turning his attention back to the injured man. “Hang on, help’s on the way.”

A door opened, and a panic-stricken woman emerged from the house. “Benicio?” She scanned the street. A blood-curdling scream pierced the air. “Benicio!” Barefooted, she ran toward the street.

“Get back inside!” Nick commanded, but his words had no effect on her.

She dropped to her husband’s side, weeping.

“Mama?” A little girl, confused and frightened by her mother’s wailing, stood in the doorway.

Christ, this night just kept on getting better. Reluctantly, Nick left the man’s side and turned his attention to comforting the two bystanders while he waited for help to arrive.

“Get up,” someon
e hissed.

Jack’s eyes fluttered open but he couldn’t find the source. The voice sounded familiar, like he should know who it belonged to.

“Get up, you big, dumb oaf!” The voice was louder this time, more insistent.

He was being tugged, feet first.

No. Not tugged. Shoved.

What the hell?

Jack forced his eyes to stay open this time, trying to cooperate with the mysterious voice issuing commands. A face swam into his line of sight, but the features were distorted, like a drug-induced memory.

God, he was tired. Why was he so tired? Was he that hung-over?

In the distance, the shrill sound of sirens called, getting louder by the second.

“Good boy. Keep your eyes open this time.”

His body was propped up to a sitting position, which hurt like hell, sending a new round of pain shooting through his left shoulder.

“Now move. Run, Jack!”

Chapter 21

Red and blue lights lit up the misty night sky, casting an odd glow to the crime scene. One man lay dead at his feet, another had vanished into thin air. Around him the commotion of detectives and crime scene techs at work mingled with the periodic sobs from the grieving woman and child.

This wasn’t supposed to happen, Nick thought. He was supposed to stop this from happening.

Watching the scene with a sense of emotion detachment allowed him to mentally retrace every step he took that night with perfect clarity. Had it truly been less than twenty-four hours since Jack had asked for his help? In one day, one single lousy day, he’d gone from tracking a killer, to helping spring a killer from jail, to becoming a killer himself.

Unable to bear the crushing weight of his bad judgment, Nick sat down on the curb and raked a hand through his damp hair. What the hell? How did he get here?

“I thought you said there were two victims. Where’s the other one?”

Nick peered up at Chief Deluca, who appeared thoroughly peeved at having his sleep disrupted. “Gone,” he said simply. “He was here one minute, bleeding, gone the next.”

The body, having already been photographed for evidence, was zipped into a body bag and hoisted onto a gurney. Another officer snapped pictures of the gun on the pavement before dropping it into an evidence bag. He moved on to the cigarette butt on the ground. In the rain, Nick wasn’t sure how much DNA they could recover, but he was guessing it wouldn’t matter.

Chief Deluca blew out an annoyed breath, speaking slowly, as if to a child. “Gone where?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?” Nick snapped back. He stood and paced the crime scene. What little patience he’d had for this town was gone. He wanted to get out of this hellhole and back to his wife.

“You shot the man. Shouldn’t you know where he went?”

Had he? Or had he fired the kill shot? Which man did he shoot? Jack, or Benecio Acevedo?

Nick closed his eyes and tried to think back. It had been dark, but he’d watched Jack approach Benicio’s house, watched him talking to the wife, but he’d been too far away to stop him. He’d been right. Jack, with his screwed-up sense of morality, had gone there to take out another thug.

But something had gone wrong. Benicio got the drop on Jack, sneaking up behind him. There’d been a gun, but when the first shot was fired, Nick couldn’t be sure anymore who’d been holding the gun. Nick had fired the second shot, but in the darkness, he’d been shooting at a shadow.

“Did you get a good look at him?”

Nick didn’t answer at first. Lying wouldn’t do any bit of good. Once the techs extracted the DNA from the cigarette and ran ballistics, there’d be no way of hiding the truth.

“It was Jack.”

As the information registered, a myriad of emotions crossed Chief Deluca’s face. He grabbed a fistful of Nick’s shirt and dragged him closer, until they were eye to eye. “You mean to tell me, that the man I released into your custody, shot and killed a man and then escaped? On your watch?”

Nick didn’t bother to set the record straight. Hell, for all he knew, maybe Jack
was
the one who’d killed Benicio. Or maybe it was him. Either way, one man was dead. Another was missing. And he was to blame.

“Whatever happens next, kid, it’s all on you.” The chief released him and stalked off.

Angie propped Jack agai
nst the doorway to her apartment. Tiny drops of blood pooled on the carpet at his feet. Hands trembling, she shoved the key into the lock. Beside her, Jack’s legs buckled, his head falling forward.

“Oh, no you don’t. You do
not
get to pass out on me now.” Catching him under the arm, she yanked with all her might, pulling him back to a somewhat standing position.

Twisting the doorknob, she used a foot to kick open the door and dragged Jack inside.

“Jack’s back.” Shamus took to the air, squawking his approval.

“Yeah, Jack’s back,” Angie repeated softly. But for how long? His bullet wound wasn’t life threatening, or at least didn’t appear to be, but then again, she wasn’t a doctor either.

Calling Agent Shaw for help was out of the question, too.

Depositing Jack on the couch, she headed for the bathroom to grab whatever medicine and bandages she had on hand. Rummaging around, she nabbed a bottle of alcohol, needle and thread, hydrogen peroxide, and a large bottle of ibuprofen. She tossed every type of bandage she had on top of the pile before scooping it into her arms. Dumping the items on the coffee table, Angie returned for a stack of towels.

Staunching the bleeding was the easy part. Digging a bullet out of his shoulder would take more finesse, cause more pain. Stitching his wound without the benefit of anesthesia? Well, it couldn’t be helped.

Kneeling by his side, Angie stripped the man of his ruined jacket. Her fingers trembled as she unbuttoned his shirt, careful to not brush against his wound or cause him further agony. From what she could see, the bullet had lodged itself into the fleshy part of his shoulder, stopping just shy of shattering a bone. Praying she was doing the right thing, she sanitizing a pair of tweezers with alcohol.

With a silent apology for what she was about to do, Angie held Jack’s arm down with one hand. He groaned but didn’t fight her. A good sign. Probing the wound with the tweezers, she tried to free the bullet from where it had become lodged in the muscle. But the tweezers couldn’t find traction on the mangled metal. Frustrated, she’d abandoned the instrument in favor for a more hands-on approach. Jack cried out when her fingers dug into his flesh, prying the bullet loose. After that, he seemed to lose consciousness, the pain too great to handle. Cleansing the wound as best she could, she set about the difficult task of sewing him up. For over fifteen minutes, she ministered to Jack. By the time she was done, her hands bloodied, Jack’s shoulder had been badly patched, but at least the bleeding had stopped. For now.

Sitting back on her haunches, she eyed her handiwork. Jack needed to be in a hospital. Infection would surely set in if not properly tended to. At a loss, the tears came, blurring her vision until she stumbled into the kitchen and picked up the phone.

Frankie would know what to do. She dialed his phone number, grateful he’d given it to her before she left the pool hall. Just in case, he’d said, as he pressed a slip of paper into her hand.

He answered on the first ring.

“Jack’s been shot.”

Jack flinched as he began to come to. H
is stomach lurched, its contents churning violently. Where the hell was he? Cobwebs had invaded his mind again, making all thought nearly impossible. Around him, he could hear the sounds of people moving, dishes clattering. His head pounded in time to the clashing and clanging of daily life. He tried to sit up, but moving more than a fraction of an inch would take an act of God. He felt like hell. Probably looked it, too.

“Praise the Lord, he lives.”

“Christ, Jack, what the hell were you thinking?”

“He wasn’t. That’s the problem.”

“Do us all a favor, doll face. Ditch the Fed. He’s an albatross we don’t need right now.”

Tuning in to his other senses, the ones that were in working order, he tried to determine the owner of the gruff voices that hovered just above him. Frankie was here. Mo, too. Both sounded concerned, worried, and pissed.

Someone peeled back first one of his eyelids, then the other. The blinding light that intruded into his cocoon of darkness sent a fresh wave of pain throbbing throughout his body.

“Yep, he’ll live. He’s schnockered as all get out, and’ll have a nasty scar, but he’ll live.”

Satisfied, the probing fingers left his face, shutting out the bright lights. Sleep threatened to take him again, tugging him toward a blissful unconscious state.

“Oh, no you don’t,” a voice chastised. “Sit up.” Two hands reached out and forced him upright. His stomach rebelled, but he managed to keep its contents tamped down.

Nearby, a heated debate raged on.

“It was that damn FBI agent. I knew better than to trust him.”

“If she was smart, she’d hogtie him and throw him in that fancy car of his. Drive south until they hit Mexico.”

“Running ain’t gonna solve anything.”

“But it would keep him alive.”

The voices drifted off, until Jack couldn’t make out any of the words.

“Here. Drink this.” A glass was held to his mouth, tipped at an angle until a cool liquid bathed his lips. He drank greedily, not caring about the bitter taste. Anything that would clear away the cotton from his throat would be a welcomed relief.

The roiling in his belly subsided enough for him to sit up without assistance. Compelling his eyelids to open, he took stock of his situation. He wasn’t shackled or handcuffed, so he wasn’t in jail. And the lack of IV’s and medical equipment told him he wasn’t in the hospital. Though based on how he felt, he probably should be.

Carefully moving his head to the left, he saw a kitchen. Counting the number of legs he saw, six in total, there had to be three people responsible for all the clanging of dishes and utensils. Turning to the right, he saw a hallway lined with closed doors. A house. He was in a house. Sinking back into what he presumed was a couch, he relaxed. He wasn’t dead, and wasn’t in jail. For the time being, that was enough.

His eyes flitted closed.

“Don’t quit your day job, girl. You’d make for one hell of a lousy nurse. He should be in a hospital.”

No.

He’d meant to say the word aloud, but no sound came out. Willing his voice to work, he mouthed the word again. “No.”

Barely audible, but enough to silence the voices in the kitchen.

Another glass was brought to him, warm this time. His fingers wrapped around the mug and he sniffed the strong brew. Coffee.

“Drink,” a voice urged.

Finally his senses cleared enough for him to distinguish at least one of the voices he kept hearing.

Angie.

Her subtle perfume wafted to his nose, confirming his suspicions, teasing him with how close she was. All it would take would be for him to pull her close, and she’d be on top of him, her weight like a safety blanket to comfort him. His mind was willing, but his body was not.

Instead, he drank, accepting the mug she offered. Peering into her eyes, he could see the worry that etched her delicate features. So she did care.

The corners of his lips curled at the thought.

“What happened?”

She rocked back, face twisted with concern. “You don’t remember?”

The last thing he remembered was leaving the pool hall.

“Nothing at all?”

He shook his head. It must have been one hell of a fight. He smiled hopefully. “Did I at least win?”

She rewarded him with a smile and a hearty laugh. Mahogany curls bounced when she shook her head no. “You were shot.”

That explained the throbbing pain in his shoulder. One mystery down.

Gentle fingertips brushed the edges of his shoulder, grazing against what he presumed to be a bandage. “You’ll have a scar.”

Raising his good hand, he tucked a strand of her hair behind an ear. He’d never meant to frighten her. For that he was truly sorry. His job, what he did, wasn’t for the faint of heart. It was scary, and dangerous. It was a world she wasn’t meant to live in. She should have listened to him when he told her to leave. He should have made her listen.

Taking her hand in his, he planted a kiss on each fingertip. “Scars are sexy. All the girls say so.”

“Go to sleep, Jack.” The kiss she planted on his forehead was tender, soothing away any pain that lingered. A blanket might have been tucked around him, but he was already drifting off into oblivion again.

In the bleak hours since the shooting, tremors still coursed throu
gh Nick Shaw. Lingering fear, remorse, and disbelief kept him from shaking off the bone-numbing chill that had invaded his body, and no amount of hot coffee, warm jackets, or thick blankets could warm him.

Immediately following the shooting, he’d been interviewed. Repeatedly. He’d watched while the coroner carted Benicio Acevedo’s body away, leaving a sobbing widow in his wake. She’d turned her dark accusing eyes on him, vowing to avenge her husband’s death. But no matter how he examined the events that led to firing his service weapon, turning each motion over as he examined it in the light of hindsight, he could find no alternative to his actions, no way to avoid the inevitable. Death had been the only option. Through it all, the rain had continued to fall, drenching him until it a chill seeped into his bones.

By the time he’d been allowed to return home, he’d been too wound up to sleep. He shed his wet clothing and climbed into bed beside his sleeping wife. Nick wrapped an arm around Sara. In the morning, he’d pour over Trevor’s ledgers to see if there was some connection between Trevor, Jack, and the police department, but for now, soaking up the warmth of his beautiful wife was the only thing on his mind.

In the calm of night, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the day, he began silently weeping, the tears coursing down his face.

“Hey, you okay?” Sara asked, her voice thick with sleep. She rolled onto her side so she could see him and propped her head in her hand.

God, what he wouldn’t give to be able to tell her the truth, to say,
Babe, I killed a man.
But that was out of the question. It was a fact that he’d have to carry with him for now. Alone. “Yeah, it’s just been a crazy day.”

“You missed my doctor’s appointment today,” she whispered, but there was no anger in her voice.

“Oh, babe.” He slid closer to her and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I’m so sorry. What’d the doctor have to say?”