Drawn in Blood (23 page)

He flew backward from the impact, crashing to the concrete.

Sloane seized her opportunity. She rushed over, bent down, and snatched up the blade. Turning, she raced back to her car and jumped inside. She floored the gas, swerving around the miserable bastard as he half limped, half crawled toward the woods and escape. Never glancing back, she sped the rest of the way home.

It was only when she was inside the garage, the car ignition turned off, and the garage door safely down that she became aware of the searing pain in her arm. Reflexively, she glanced down—and went rigid as she saw the stream of blood trickling down her arm to her hand, coating her palm and fingers in that sickly shade of red she remembered al too wel .

For one paralyzed instant she just sat there, horrifying memories flashing through her mind, waves of nausea rol ing over her.

Dizzy and lightheaded, she began to gag, then to retch uncontrol ably. Drenched in sweat, she scrambled out of the car and reached for the nearby trash container.

She vomited until there was nothing left inside her.

Derek was in the living room with the hounds. He saw Sloane’s headlights cut the darkness as her car tore down the driveway, taking the curves at a breakneck speed.

By the time the garage door went up, Derek was on his feet, heading for the side entrance. Moe, Larry, and Curly were on his heels, their shril barks tel ing him they could sense something was very wrong.

He yanked open the door. The automatic light over Sloane’s car was on, il uminating the darkened garage. The door on the driver’s side of her car was ajar. And Sloane was bending over the trash can, her shoulders heaving violently as she threw up.

Derek was down the steps in an instant. It wasn’t until he got closer that the sickeningly familiar smel of blood invaded his nostrils. Simultaneously, he saw the thin stream of red dripping down Sloane’s forearm, trickling down her wrist and hand, and sliding off her fingers onto the concrete floor. The splotches quickly increased in number.

His gut clenched.

He was beside Sloane in a heartbeat. She looked up dazedly as he reached for her, not real y seeing him or even being ful y aware of his presence. She was in shock, her face sheet white, her eyes huge and haunted.

Derek knew she was going to pass out even before he caught her.

When Sloane opened her eyes, she was lying supine on the sofa, her head propped up on cushions. The first thing she saw was the three hounds clustered around her, their expressive little faces fil ed with distress.

Recal took an instant.

Shards of pain jolted her memory.

She lurched upward, her gaze darting to her right arm, even as Derek eased her back into a reclining position.

“Sh-h-h, it’s okay,” he said in as soothing a voice as he could muster. “I’ve got it under control.”

Sloane saw that he had. Her arm was elevated, resting on two sofa cushions, and Derek was using towels to apply direct pressure to the wound. The bleeding had definitely slowed down. There was a smal pail with two wash-cloths floating in it sitting on the floor. The water was a nauseating shade of red.

None of it mattered. There was just one thing Sloane cared about.

“My hand?” she asked hoarsely.

“Not even a scratch,” Derek assured her. His tone was soothing, but he looked like hel . “It was just coated with the blood from your arm.” He slid his hand behind her neck and raised her head slightly so she could inspect it herself—just as he had after washing off enough blood to determine the ful extent of her injury. “See for yourself.” She stared at her hand, turning it palm up, bending and flexing each finger, and feeling a surge of relief that defied words. “Thank God,” she whispered. Her gaze flickered briefly over the towels, then lifted back to Derek’s. “How bad is my arm?”

“It looks like a flesh wound. But we’re bandaging it and getting you to the hospital.” He leaned over her, scrutinizing her face. “Are you up to the ride if I carry you to the car?” Sloane gave him a wan smile. “You don’t have to carry me.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“Yes. I’m up for it.” She paused. “Can we take your car? Mine’s got blood on the seat and the steering wheel…”

“We’l take my car,” Derek interjected. He rose, pointing at the towels. “Hold those against your arm while I get bandages.” Waiting until she complied, he turned to leave the room.

“Derek?”

He stopped, giving her a questioning look.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?”

His jaw was set so tightly, it looked like it might snap. “Oh, I’m going to ask you lots of questions. But first I want to make sure you’re al right. Because after that, and after I hear what you have to say, I have a feeling I might want to kil you myself.”

Sloane leaned back weakly. “If the hospital doesn’t give me some hard-core painkil ers, I might just let you.” She removed her left hand from the towels just long enough to scratch the hounds’ ears. “Don’t worry, you three. I’m fine.” She kissed the tops of their little brown heads, then reached across herself again to continue applying pressure to the wound.

Derek finished the bandaging process in record time and scooped Sloane up in his arms, along with the warm fleece blanket he’d wrapped her in. Sloane would never admit it, but the truth was she was very happy to be carried to the car. She was stil dizzy and nauseous, and the trembling wouldn’t stop. From past experience, she recognized the signs of shock, combined with the adrenaline drop fol owing her combat with Xiao’s punk. She leaned back in the passenger’s seat, her head cradled by the headrest, and tried to do some slow, deep breathing to ease the symptoms.

Just as Derek started the car, she remembered something, and her head angled toward him. “The switchblade is in my car. It’s a rubber-handled automatic, maybe eight inches long, with a four-inch blade. I don’t know if the prints are too smudged to make out, other than mine. But C-6 can use it any way they need to.”

“How generous,” Derek said wryly. “And so cooperative, too.”

“Better late than never.”

He shot her a sideways look. “You stopped long enough to retrieve the weapon?”

“I didn’t want him grabbing it. So I did.”

Derek released the emergency brake. “We’l talk later. You look like you’re about to faint again.”

She felt like it.

“Here. Drink this.” Before Derek shifted into reverse, he handed her a can of cranberry juice and a straw he’d grabbed on the way out. “Just sip. It’l help.” She took the can grateful y. “Thank you—for everything.”

“Don’t thank me. I stil might kil you.” He grunted as he backed out of the two-car garage, then headed down the driveway. “I must be crazy to be in love with you.”

“Probably.” Sloane smiled faintly, taking a sip of juice. “But I’m glad you are. I was counting on it tipping the scales in my favor when you decided whether or not to kil me.”

“I wouldn’t get too cocky. I doubt I’l feel so magnanimous once I know you’re okay, and once you’ve told me what happened and why.” Derek shook his head as Sloane opened her mouth to fil him in. “Not now. Just drink your juice and rest. We’l talk later.”

“A reprieve. Thanks.” Sloane leaned back against the headrest again, shock slowly transforming to weariness. “I’m real y beat. If it wasn’t for the pain, I’d be nodding off.” It was the last thing she said before they reached the hospital.

She never felt Derek take the can of juice out of her hand and put it in the cup holder. She was out for the count.

Sloane hated hospitals. Particularly the ER. Nightmarish memories besieged her the minute she inhaled that antiseptic hospital smel . Fortunately, this visit was short.

Derek fil ed out the paperwork, and the wait wasn’t nearly as long as it could have been. The doctor who treated her administered a local anesthetic. Then, he cleaned out the three-inch gash, stitched it up, and bandaged it.

“You were lucky,” he informed her. “It’s a nasty wound, but it only penetrated the flesh. Al blood vessels, muscles, and tendons are intact. I’m going to give you a tetanus shot, just to be on the safe side. I’m also going to prescribe an antibiotic to prevent infection, and Percocet for the pain. Make sure to change the bandage daily, and keep it dry for the first three days. I’l remove the sutures in ten days, so make an appointment. And cal immediately if you have any major bleeding or swel ing.”

“I wil . Thank you, Doctor.” Sloane waited while he administered the shot and wrote the prescription. Then, she slid off the table and onto her feet, so relieved that her hand wasn’t affected that the pain in her forearm seemed insignificant.

“And get some rest,” the doctor added.

“She wil ,” Derek assured him. He guided Sloane out, signed whatever release papers were necessary, and picked up the two prescriptions.

Fifteen minutes later, they were in the car and on their way home.

The silence was more ominous than the impending fight.

“Are we waiting until we get home to get into it?” Sloane asked. “Because we’ve got a twenty-minute drive, and I’d just as soon start the explosion now.”

“You’ve already been through one ordeal tonight,” Derek replied curtly. “I figured the second could wait until morning.”

“That won’t work. By morning, you’l have to file a report and make some decisions. As for me, I’m tired, but I’m fine. The Percocet is starting to work, so the pain is dul ing. But that also means I’l be dul ing along with it. So let me fil you in now, while I’m stil coherent. You can kil me later, after the narcotics kick in.”

“Fine. Go for it.”

Sloane started from the beginning. Her morning visit to her parents. The interviewing of those on their list. The sense that she was being fol owed. The confirmation that she was, and by whom. The way she’d made sure he knew what she was doing, and why.

Final y, with no apology in her voice, she told Derek about the way she’d baited the Red Dragon kid. Her ruse. Her invented role as an insurance investigator. Her talk with the other victims of Xiao’s burglaries, based on the fact that they al had works of art stolen. Her pretense about going to the NYPD with some al eged information that she’d fabricated. And the subsequent knife attack by Xiao’s punk in the deserted section of woods right down the road.

Derek listened to the entire story without interruption.

When he did speak, it was in that low, control ed tone that told Sloane he was beyond furious.

“Professional y, you violated every rule in the book. You overstepped your bounds and abused your role in this investigation. You’re an FBI confidential human source, not a special agent. In addition, you took it upon yourself to act without prior permission from the lead case agent—that would be me—and without even clueing me in until after the fact. You did that because you knew I’d shut you down. You put your life and my investigation in jeopardy—which is precisely why I didn’t want you on this case to begin with. And you nearly got yourself kil ed in the process.”

Sloane wasn’t surprised by any part of Derek’s reprimand. Al of it had merit. Most of it was true. The rest fel into gray territory.

“I pushed the boundaries of my role,” she admitted. “But I didn’t violate them. Part of the reason Tony let me in on this investigation is because my father—and his family—are targets of Xiao Long. I just used that to my advantage.”

“No, you took a potential risk and made it into a certainty. There’s no guarantee that Xiao would have gone after you. Now there’s no way he won’t.”

“Point taken.” Sloane took a minute to gather her strength. “As for the rest, you’re right. I didn’t come to you with my idea. Partly because you would have nixed it, and partly because it struck me on the spur of the moment. The situation presented itself. It was a one-shot opportunity. So I went for it.”

“You have a cel phone. You could have cal ed me.”

“And been overheard by Xiao’s thug? No way.”

“Cut the crap. You could have gone into a ladies’ room. You didn’t want me to know what you were doing. You were nothing more than a loose cannon.”

“But an effective one.” Sloane swal owed her pride and stated the truth. “Look, I’m not going to deny your accusations. I did break the chain of command. You have every right to toss me out on my ass. But before you do, consider one thing—other than the fact that I struck a nerve with Xiao Long, maybe enough to get him to screw up.”

“What is it you want me to consider?”

“You began your diatribe with the word ‘professional y.’ Now let’s talk personal y. Would you have refused any other member of your team if he or she came up with the idea I did? Remember, I had no idea my actions would result in a physical assault. My only goal was to knock Xiao off balance, get him to worry about me and our investigation rather than focusing on my parents, and at the same time, to maybe learn a thing or two about the victims of his other eight break-ins. Which, by the way, I did. But we’l discuss that later. The relevant issue here is that I’ve been both a special agent and a crisis negotiator. I’m a team player. My blowing off my team leader is way out of character. And, yes, I did it because I knew you’d turn me down. But I think the reasons you would have done so would have been personal, not professional. Am I wrong?” A long pause as Derek contemplated her question and mental y ran down the list of her actions. “No. You’re not wrong,” he grudgingly acknowledged. “Your goal today was to question potential accomplices to your parents’ break-in—which you did. Assuming a false identity is fair game for an informant. Ditto for cal ing on your law enforcement contacts, since the Nineteenth is the precinct of record in al Xiao’s break-ins. But not coming to me first,
before
you took every single one of those steps, is a flat-out violation—one I won’t tolerate.” Pausing again, Derek cleared his throat, obviously about to say something he real y didn’t want to. “On the other hand, your point is valid. You knew I’d say no, and that the reasons for my doing so would have been personal.”

“I appreciate your honesty.” Actual y, Sloane was stunned. She hadn’t expected Derek to make that admission, at least not until they’d had an enormous fight and she’d dragged it out of him. Reluctant or not, his acknowledgment that he was subjective, and, yes, vulnerable, when it came to her and this investigation, was a huge deal. She wasn’t sure she could have done it so readily.