Bait (25 page)

 

Chapter Thirty-One

T
HE
WAIL
OF
sirens heralded the arrival of the police and several ambulances. In minutes, uniforms swarmed the area, slapping handcuffs on the living and marking the dead, rolling out crime scene tape, and treating the injured.

The Urgent Medical Aid Ser­vice eased Christina out of the SUV, settling her onto a yellow-­and-­black gurney and strapping her down as Gabe watched anxiously, hampered by the handcuffs pulling his wrists behind him and the paramedic trying to clean his wound. He shook the man off, hopping off the ambulance and shouldering past him.

A policewoman stepped in front of him, placing a hand on his chest. “Sit back down, sir,” she said.

He took a half step back. “I have to see her.”

As she had the last three times he'd tried this, she shook her head. “Until we figure out what the hell happened here, no one goes anywhere.”

“No one will tell me how she is,” he said, his voice catching. “I just need to know she's okay.”

Something that might have been sympathy flickered in her eyes. “Sit down, and I'll ask,” the woman said. She watched, steely-­eyed, until Gabe plopped back onto the ambulance. He barely noticed when the paramedic cleaned and wrapped his arm.

They hadn't yet put him in the back of a police car, but it wouldn't be long before they did. Aart Jansens was talking to them now, hands flashing as he recounted events.

The medics wheeled Christina to a second ambulance.

“Let me go with her. I promise I'll cooperate,” he pleaded as the policewoman came back.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “We need to interview you.”

“How is she?”

Her expression became shuttered. “The paramedics aren't certain of the extent of her injuries.”

His gut howled to fight his way to her side. “What the hell does that mean?” he snarled. The last thing he wanted was for her to wake, alone and frightened, in a strange hospital.

She gave him an expressionless stare. “Is he done?” she asked the medic.

“He needs stitches, but he's stable.”

She took him by the bicep. He let her take him to a grassy area, where Trevor sat. He settled himself awkwardly to the ground.

“Let's see if Jansens can get us out of these cuffs,” Trevor said. “Worst case, we land in jail overnight until our respective countries can get us sorted.”

He grunted. He watched as Shay, Fedyenka, and the others were zipped into body bags.

“Odds are she just bumped her head,” Trevor said. “The airbags deployed, did you see?”

He couldn't even bring himself to nod. Worry gnawed in his gut.

Finally, after about a year of forevers, a middle-­aged man in a buttoned-­down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows hunkered down in front of them. He wore a trilby on his head and a detective inspector's badge on his belt. The policewoman translated as he spoke.

“Well, now,” he said. “Would one of you like to tell me just what in the hell happened here today?”

 

Chapter Thirty-Two

C
HRISTINA
BECAME
AWARE
of the pain first. Every part of her ached and throbbed. Reluctant to open her eyes, to face reality, she contemplated drifting back into a nice drug-­induced dream.

Rustling sounds nearby pried her eyes open. The grayish-­white walls of the tiny hospital room swam into focus. Her neighbor, an elderly woman who had fallen and broken her arm, struggled to open a bag of potato chips. Gabe bent over to help her, smiling in a way that had the woman beaming and chatting, seeming not to realize that Gabe couldn't understand a word. He squeezed her shoulder and turned away. For a moment, he simply stared out the small, dirty window. She couldn't hazard a guess what was going through his mind, but she'd never seen him look so serious.

“Hi,” she croaked.

He whirled, striding to her bed in an instant. Fatigue rimmed his eyes, but his mouth curled up at both corners when he saw her conscious. He picked up a cup of water, stuck a straw into it, and held it up to her lips. “Welcome back.”

“Was I gone?” She sipped cautiously, then sucked the water down hard as she realized how parched she was. When she hit bottom, Gabe refilled it. She took it from him.

“I'm going to go get the doctor.”

She held out a hand. “Wait. How long was I out?”

He came back and took her hand. “Not long. Do you remember the ambulance?”

She started to nod, felt her muscles seize, and forced herself still. “Sort of. They gave me morphine, I think. Then a doctor examined me here, and took X-­rays? Everything's hazy.”

He squeezed her hand. “I don't know anything. I just got here. We . . . had some things to work out.”

She closed her eyes, tempted to drift back to sleep. She needed to know what was going on, though, and that meant breathing through the pain of her battered body. Her head ached. When she put a hand to it, she found it wrapped in gauze. Memories of Fedyenka's torture, the fight, and the subsequent car wreck beat back the drug-­induced haze. Where was Gabe?

He returned shortly, followed by a doctor, nurse, and a small woman who spoke English. As the doctor spoke, she translated. “They want to do an exploratory knee arthroscopy to see how bad the damage is. The anesthesiologist will be in at seven tomorrow morning. He'll put you to sleep, and when you wake up, they'll know more.”

She must have muttered some assent, because the doctor jotted some notes on her chart, spoke with the nurse, and left again. The nurse took her vitals while Gabe hovered.

“How do you feel?” Gabe asked.

She shrugged. Not well, she could have said. But she was alive, and he was alive, and that was pretty fantastic. “I'm all right.”

“That you are.” He came over to perch gingerly on the side of her bed. “I thought you might appreciate an update.”

Christina tried to force herself to focus. It was harder than it should have been. “Do I have a concussion?”

“I think so. Your head's got a big lump on it. They won't tell me anything.” Frustration burned in his tone. “Are you dizzy? Nauseous?”

She moved her head back and forth across the pillow. No way was she telling him how much she hurt. “I just need some rest.”

“Close your eyes. I'll be here.”

She struggled to sit up, hissing as her muscles seized. Gabe slipped an arm around her shoulders to help. “No, tell me what's going on.”

He left his arm where it was, and she slumped against him gratefully. Blood smeared his face from a cut near his eye, which had been closed with butterfly bandages. His shirt sleeve was ripped and bloody, but a dressing wrapped his forearm. “What happened?

“Shay Boyle. We fought when Osinov crashed the car.”

“Did you kill him?”

“Yeah.”

She tightened her fingers in his. “Good.”

A hand stroked across her hair. “You weren't moving. I was afraid . . .” He stopped, cleared his throat.

“I banged my head against the door frame, I think.” She closed her eyes, fatigue hammering at the edges of her consciousness. “What happened after Fedyenka died?”

Gabe snuggled her closer to his chest. “The cavalry arrived. They arrested everyone. The usual amounts of chaos when local police get involved.”

She screwed up her face, trying to bring blurry images into focus. “Did I imagine seeing our fake assassin there? Aart Jansens?”

Gabe's lips lifted at the corners. “A good guy to have at your back, it turns out. Misguided, and he'll lose his job, but his help today will keep him out of jail. The police chief here promised no charges would be filed against him.”

“Well . . . good.”

An attendant came in to shoo Gabe out. He squeezed her hand and moved back. “Sleep, now. Listen . . .”

“Will you be here when I get back?”

He hesitated. “Yeah.”

But when she woke in the morning, he was gone.

 

Chapter Thirty-Three

Six weeks later—­Silver Spring, Maryland

C
HRISTINA
TOUCHED
HER
toe to the floor, wincing as pain shot up her leg to her knee. The knee brace, a complicated contraption of metal and buckles, kept her knee immobile while she worked on strengthening her quadriceps.

“Again,” Sally said. The physical therapist held tight to Christina's hand, bracing her as she touched her toe again. “Weight bearing will come in stages. Keep in mind you've lost a lot of muscle strength. Don't be worried if you can't put much weight on it yet. It's too soon.”

The orthopedic surgeon told her she'd suffered a comminuted fracture of the patella. Fedyenka had shattered her knee into three pieces. The surgeon had pinned and wired her knee back together, but no one could assure her that she would make a full recovery. She could still be active, the surgeon assured her. Assuming her knee recovered sufficiently, she could still walk and run. But the knee would always be weak, and he'd warned her to avoid squatting or deep-­knee bends. He'd gone so far as to tell her to avoid climbing ladders and steep staircases. When she'd told him she worked in an active job, he'd given her a pitying look and told her not to get her hopes up.

Her parents had flown in to visit her in the hospital, and her mother had stayed to care for her. After the first few weeks, though, it was easier just to manage on her own. The extra effort helped her not to think about Gabe, who had disappeared from the hospital without a word right after she'd been admitted.

“Touch, touch, touch . . . and lift,” Sally said. They'd been working together for nearly an hour, and Christina was sweat-­soaked and exhausted. She adjusted the crutches.

“Enough.”

“Okay,” Sally said. “Time to ice your knee. How's your pain level today?”

Excruciating. “I'm okay.”

A movement near the door caught in her periphery, and she turned her head out of habit. Her breath caught.

Gabe.

He was filthy. Mud streaked his combat uniform, and traces of camouflage paint smeared his ears and neck. Sweat matted his hair, and he smelled . . . really bad.

But he looked fantastic to her.

He scrutinized her for several long moments. She knew what he saw. She balanced on crutches, her leg from thigh to calf encased in a metal-­and-­plastic contraption that immobilized her knee. She was flushed and sweating.

Sally touched her sleeve. “Let's get you on the table, and I'll bring some ice.”

Christina settled her rear onto the edge of the table, then scooted back. She swung her good leg onto the table; and, when she went to swing the brace, Gabe was there, supporting and lifting it carefully. He grabbed her crutches and put them off to one side.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

Instead of answering, Gabe placed a bundle in her arms, then nudged a forefinger under her chin and turned her head toward him, lowered his face to hers, and kissed her. This was no sweet hello. This was a full-­out, tonsil-­touching, I-­want-­to-­screw-­you-­now kiss.

When he finally pulled back, both were breathing heavily.

“Well, o-­kay,” she said. “Hello to you, too.”

He gave her a lopsided grin. She looked down at the bundle he'd placed in her arms, and started to laugh.

It was her leather jacket. The one with the zippers.

“I figured you could use some bad-­ass.”

“I hope you didn't scare Frank the Fink too badly.”

Sally cleared her throat. Christina blushed while the physical therapist secured an ice pack around her knee. She set a timer and left them alone.

Gabe finally spoke. “We just got back.”

Christina smiled, gesturing up and down his body and wrinkling her nose. “So I gather. Didn't even stop to shower, huh?”

He slowly shook his head from side to side, his gaze never leaving hers. “No. I didn't know if anyone told you we deployed.”

No one in Gabe's unit had told her a thing, but Jay Spicer assured her that no-­notice deployments were common. She'd wanted to believe that's what had happened, but doubts had gnawed at her through these long weeks alone. She didn't know if she'd ever see him again.

“I thought . . . I hoped,” she said. “I mean, we never made any promises . . .”

Gabe took her hand in his, twining their fingers together. “Don't doubt my love ever, from now on. I'd've never left your side if Uncle Sam hadn't called me.”

Some tight, frightened part of her inside relaxed and opened. “Can . . . can you stay a while?” she asked.

Gabe smiled tenderly at her. “I can if you tell me you love me back.”

Her breath whooshed out. She loved his sense of honor, his dedication, his courage. Even his stubbornness. But all she managed was a soft, “I do love you, Gabe.”

He kissed her then. Sweet, tender kisses, kisses that promised happiness and a happily-­ever-­after. Kisses that promised dark, carnal nights in sweaty, twisted sheets. Christina loved them all.

When he pulled back, heat and desire mixed with love in his eyes. He cleared his throat and pulled a rolling stool close to her treatment table. “I have two weeks of leave. I know that's not much, but it's all I could get.”

She beamed. “It's more than I hoped for.”

He finally looked down at himself. “Sorry for the funk.”

The fact that he'd come rushing to her side as soon as his mission was over warmed her from the inside out. “I can deal,” she assured him.

He grinned a cute, sloppy grin. “I knew you could. So.” He cleared his throat, looking down at her knee. “What's the prognosis? How soon will you be back to one hundred percent?”

Her smile faltered. It was painful to think about. “Well, maybe two or three months.”

He grew serious. “But?”

“My kneecap was shattered when Fedyenka hit me with a pipe. I will probably be able to run eventually, but the knee will never be a hundred percent again.”

As she explained it to him, she couldn't help the tears that filled her eyes. He pulled her into his arms, cradling her and rocking her as she finally gave in and cried like a baby.

When her tears slowed and stopped, he found her a tissue so she could blow her nose. “So what does that mean for your long-­term health? For your career?”

Christina sniffed and sighed. “Long term, I'll probably get arthritis in my knee. I can't play football anymore, though.” She tried for a smile.

Gabe grimaced. “Fieldwork?”

“I'm done,” she confessed. “The CIA won't clear me for fieldwork. Jay offered me a desk job, though.”

“Desk job.” Horror colored Gabe's voice. Christina could relate, but she'd had weeks to accustom herself to the idea.

“It's a good job,” she said. “I'd be a staff operations officer. It sounds interesting.”

Gabe blew out a breath. “Are you . . . okay with that?” he asked tentatively.

She thought about it. She'd been doing nothing but thinking about it for weeks. Until now, though, it had been with a certain amount of self-­pity. “I am, actually. I'm not saying it won't be rough for a while, till I get used to the new normal, you know? But it's interesting work, and I can still travel. Just as a civilian.” Her voice wobbled a little at the end.

“We'll get you whatever help you need,” Gabe promised fiercely. “You can do anything you want if the desk starts to chafe. Anything you need, okay?

“Well . . . can I have you?” she asked in a small voice.

Gabe exhaled a laugh. “Babe, you already have me. Heart and soul.”

Hope bloomed in her heart. Everything would work out.

“What do you think about the idea of coming back to North Carolina with me?” he asked softly.

She thought about it, frowning unhappily. “If I want to stay with the CIA—­and I do, at least for now—­I have to live in Washington.”

“Okay. We'll figure it out.”

“I would never ask you to quit Delta Force. I know it's your life.”

“You're my life.”

She touched his face. “You know what I mean. I won't let you resign.”

He caught up her hand and brought it to his lips. “Good to know. Okay, so I won't quit the Unit. Not until I'm old and gray and have no choice.” His eyes became anxious. “But it's a hard life. I train all the time. I fly at a moment's notice, and I might not even be able to call you to tell you. Like this deployment. You wouldn't know where I was, or how long I'd be gone. But I'd like to . . . we can try the long-­distance thing.”

She squeezed his fingers. “Lots of ­couples work in different cities. We'll just have to get together as often as possible. For lots of great sex.”

He laughed, as she had hoped he would, but sobered much too quickly. “You're all I've thought about for the past six weeks. I don't want just sex. I want you, lock, stock, and barrel. Christina . . . I want you to marry me.”

She gulped in a lot of air and had to cough to clear her lungs. He couldn't have surprised her more if he'd started doing backflips. But there was only one answer.

“Yes.” Her voice was so faint he had to lean forward to hear her. “Yes,” she said, more strongly. “Yes.”

He beamed, pressing soft kisses onto her fingers one by one. “Thank God,” he said. “I don't know what I'd've done if you said no.”

“I'm finished for the day,” she said. “Want to come home with me and take a shower?”

He pulled a face. “Do I smell that bad? I stopped smelling myself weeks ago.”

Christina smiled. “Well, I was actually thinking . . . I could wash your back for you.”

The flash of heat in his eyes was all the answer she needed.