Carved in Darkness (16 page)

He held up his hands. “I’m strapped.” He left one hand in the air while the other reached behind him, slowly. He pulled his piece with two fingers and backed away at a snail’s pace until he was across the room. She watched him with glassy blue eyes that seemed to barely register movement. He set the gun on the dresser beside him.

“We need to talk,” he said, and she nodded. Finally she came toward him on shuffling legs that seemed reluctant to follow directions. “I find it difficult to carry on a conversation while dodging bullets.” He gave her a pointed look and lowered his gaze to the gun she held on him in a bloody, two-fisted grip.

She dropped the gun on the bed behind her as though it weighed fifty pounds instead of two. “What do you want?”

“I saw the bathroom light go out. I got worried.” Telling the truth was turning into a bad habit.

“
Worried
? You’re worried?”

He ignored her attempt at confrontation. “Look, Sabrina … you’re scared. I get it.”

“Scared?” Her eyes snapped blue fire at him. “Of you? Please.” She took a step toward him, a little steadier on her feet now.

That was obviously the wrong thing to say. “No, not of me. Of him. Of what he did to you. I understand why you don’t want to go back, but he’s killing—”

“Shut up.” Her eyes were blazing. There was more, behind the rage and hatred. She was terrified. Her eyes seemed to shift focus between the past and present right in front of him. Like she was unable to tell the difference between what was real and what was in her head.

“PTSD, right?” She didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to. Post-traumatic stress disorder. He knew she’d been diagnosed with the disorder shortly after her recovery. He also knew that she completely ignored it and refused to deal with the symptoms. He’d seen it plenty in the Army. Soldiers who ignored the psychological effects that being surrounded by death and killing had on them were the most affected. Haunted by their own memories, forced to relive, over and over, the thing that nearly destroyed them. Anxiety, paranoia, insomnia, and—when they could sleep—nightmares. The worst was the flashbacks. The actual reliving of the events that were at the root of the disorder. While in the throes of them, the afflicted person was at the mercy of their memories, unable to separate reality from the nightmares inside their head.

She glanced at the gun on the bed behind her. He looked at his own on the dresser, called himself an idiot for putting it down. “You don’t want to do that.”

“I’m not gonna shoot you. I’m gonna beat you stupid.” She closed the distance between them, leading with her knee and he instinctively moved to block. She dropped back at the last second and caught him in the face with a right-cross that gave the gift of stars.

Adrenaline surged, triggered by the blow. Slammed back into the dresser, surprise was fleeting. He circled around, gauging her excellent stance and flawless technique. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, surprised that he actually meant it.

She said nothing, just circled right to cover his dominant hand, surging again, this time to the left. She caught him with a devastating combo, cracking her elbow against his temple before she tattooed her fist into his kidney. Grabbing onto his shirt, she jerked him forward to deliver a flat-palmed jab to his mouth and nose. The stitches holding the fabric of his shirt together gave way under her grip. The shoulder seam separated, and she shoved him away.

“You’re not fighting back.” The fact that he refused to hit her seemed to rile her temper even more.

“I don’t hit girls.” He reached up to massage the feeling back into his jaw. She said nothing, just growled and charged. She was a blur—arms and fists, knees and feet raining down on him. He became not only the catalyst for her rage but its conduit as well.

“Fight back!” she screamed. She was out of control, too far gone to be reasoned with.

“Enough!” He barreled through her defenses and slipped his hands around her throat. He planted a leg behind her and took her to the floor. He straddled her, knees bracketing her chest.

She continued to fight, switching to dirty tactics without batting an eye. She slipped her thumb into his mouth and hooked it around his face before pulling back. He felt the corner of his mouth begin to separate. Her other thumb sought the soft spot of his eye. She was no longer sparring. She was brawling, and she wouldn’t be satisfied until he bled.

With no small amount of relief, he slipped his pointer and middle finger under her jaw, against the nerve that rode high, just under her ear lobe. Pressing ruthlessly, he managed to avoid blindness but couldn’t slip the fish hook in his mouth until he bit down on her thumb with enough force to draw blood. “Stop it!” he yelled, inches from her face, and she gave once final surge, trying to buck him off.

She struggled to get his hands off her throat. “Fuck you!” For a split second he thought the pressure point wouldn’t work. Then her eyes fluttered and slammed shut, the applied pressure finally knocking her out.

He stayed where he was. He had the insane notion that she was faking so he’d let his guard down, but when he eased off her it
was clear there would be no round two—not anytime soon. He had no idea how long the pressure point would last. He’d seen a person come to within seconds; in a few rare cases, he’d seen it last for as long as a few minutes. Eventually she was going to wake up; if he was smart, he’d be gone before she did.

Sitting back on his haunches, he rubbed a hand over his face and listened to the roar of silence that surrounded him now that she was still. He half-expected Valerie or the kids to pound up the stairs, but their bedrooms were on the other side of the house. Chances were the hadn’t heard a thing. He stood, fully intending to just walk away, leave her sprawled out on the floor.

The knuckles on her left hand were cut and swollen. They leaked blood from where they’d tried to break his face, and there was a contusion forming where he’d jammed his fingers into her jaw. Seeing the fresh bruise bloom under the soft skin of her neck, he felt like the biggest asshole that ever lived.

In the bathroom, he flipped the switch. Nothing. He unscrewed the bulb and gave it a shake. Burnt out. He found a pack of bulbs under the sink and screwed one in. Bright light flooded the small space.

All this over a light bulb?
Fucking figures …

He wet a washcloth and opened the medicine cabinet. Rifling through it, he found Neosporin, some Q-tips, and a few Band-Aids. He flipped off the light and shut the bathroom door before settling down beside her.

He applied ointment and bandages to her knuckles, then used the cloth to clean the dried blood from her other hand. Under the blood, he could see the damage. It was a slide bite, where her 9mm cut into her palm.

He knew the instant she woke. Her hand went stiff, her shoulders rigid. He looked down at her. She was staring up at him with those burning blue eyes, a quiet rage simmering in their depths. He met her gaze and said nothing, just held her hand in his lap and waited.

“I don’t want you to take care of me,” she said and tried to pull her hand out of his grasp.

He held on to it. “I know.”

She pulled harder. “I want you to leave.”

“When I’m finished.”

“No—now. Let go.” She pulled again, struggled to sit up. He pushed her back down.

“I’ll just knock you out again. As many times as it takes, so … just relax, let me finish, and then I’ll leave,” he said, surprised when she stopped struggling.

She watched silently while he bandaged her hand. Finished, he stood and before she could protest, bent over and scooped her into his arms. He carried her to the bed and dropped her on top of the covers.

She stared up at him. “Leave.” Her voice was shaking. At first he thought it was from fear, but then he understood. She wasn’t afraid. She was ashamed. Knowing that made him angry for some reason.

“Just go to sleep, I’ll leave in a minute,” he said, throwing the fleece at the end of the bed over her. Incredibly, she gave up, just rolled away from him and buried herself beneath the blanket. She was asleep within a few minutes.

He waited a few minutes before palming her gun. He ejected the clip and racked the slide back, popping the bullet out of the chamber. He caught the bullet, shoving it and the clip into his back pocket. He laid the SIG on the nightstand and just stood next to her bed, staring at her.

He was leaving.

He was walking away.

He watched the dark flutter of lashes against pale cheeks, heard the soft, even noises of her breath. He saw himself slip out the door without a backward glance.

He didn’t need this crazy bitch or her two tons of emotional baggage. He’d find Frankie’s killer on his own.

He was leaving.

He clicked the lamp off and circled the bed. Retrieving the ladder-back chair she kept in the corner, he dragged it across the floor and planted it in front of the window. Sitting down, he stared into middle space, watching the darkness, ready to battle the shadows that came for her.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

TWENTY
-
FIVE

“
M
ORNING,
S
UNSHINE.”
T
HE VOICE
on the other end of the phone was alert and awake.

Lark.

Michael scowled at the cell’s display screen—four a.m. He’d been sitting bedside for three hours now, trying to make himself leave …
Just walk out before she wakes up.

He poked at his swollen cheek. “Dumb bastard … ”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. What do you want? ” He was so not in the mood.

“Man, you called me
—
”

The address for Lucy’s sister. “Did you get it?”

“I’m trying really hard not to be insulted right now,” Lark said. There was nothing Lark couldn’t accomplish with a computer. Finding an address would have taken him all of three seconds.

He got up to find a piece of paper and something to write with. “Okay, give it to me.” He’d call Tom in a few hours. Hopefully he’d be able to get away from the diner long enough to make the trip to Shreveport. They should know by noon whether Lucy was … he didn’t want to think about it. Lark rattled off the address and Michael scribbled it down, eager to get off the phone.

“Thanks—I owe you.” He was up, out of the chair—now was the time to walk out.
Just keep moving
. He was trying to keep his voice down. The last thing he needed was for Sabrina to come up swinging while he was on the phone with Lark. The last eight hours hadn’t really been the definition of
minimal contact
.

“Yeah, whatever. Shaw wants to know when you’re coming back,” Lark said matter-of-factly.

His eyes found Sabrina in the dark.
Just leave—walk out, before things get messy …
but who was he kidding? The situation had passed
messy
a few miles back. He felt the unmistakable weight of another brick being tossed on his back.

“A month off between jobs is company standard.”

“Your last job was North Korea. Six weeks ago. I don’t know how much longer I can hold him off.”

Livingston Shaw, his boss at First Security Solutions, was a jealous man. Long-term distractions were frowned upon, and outside interests were discouraged. For him, neither were allowed. Ever. Lark managed to keep his weekend pop-ins on Lucy under wraps, but this was the longest he’d kept off-grid since he signed his life away to FSS.

“Where does he think I am?” He sat back down.

“I got you high-rollin’ in Vegas, baby, but if you don’t come in soon, the boss man’s gonna send the Pip squad after you,” Lark said. Pips—the nickname Lark gave Livingston Shaw’s private security team—were the last thing he needed right now.

“I need a few more weeks,” he said, even though he knew that asking for a few more
days
was pushing it.

“So you can play stalker,” Lark said. He hadn’t been happy that Michael had agreed to look after Sabrina, and his tone said he thought the whole thing had gone on long enough.

The word
stalker
made him frown. “It’s not like that.” His words were edgy, defensive. He squeezed his eyes shut for a minute. His brain began to throb—talking to Lark was almost always headache inducing.

“Whatever you say.” Lark cleared his throat. “Look, if you don’t surface soon, they’re gonna figure out I’m pulling a
Where’s Waldo
with that chip of yours, and if that happens—”

He didn’t have time for this toeing-the-company-line crap. “If you have a problem—”

“Man, shut up. All I’m saying is that I can’t hide you from him forever.”

Lark was right, and he knew it. His free hand pressed into the small of his back. There, nestled dangerously close to his spine was the choke collar and leash used to keep him in check.