Fair Game (15 page)

It took a couple of vital, disbelieving seconds for Elliot to process—clearly he’d been in the private sector too long—before he threw himself behind a clump of rushes. Not nearly a large enough clump. He automatically reached for his holster before he recalled he wasn’t wearing one.

There was a pistol locked in the glove compartment of the 350Z. He had been paranoid enough to stow a gun in the car that morning, but had automatically rejected the idea of packing heat on campus. The idea of someone actually opening fire on him in broad daylight had not seriously registered.

The tips of the rushes whispered and snapped as another bullet shaved the spiny tops of the stems and ploughed into the mud near his left little finger. He clenched his fist and, heart in overdrive, scrambled back, crawling into the water, flattening himself to the slimy slope, half-in and half-out of the lake. He barely noticed the shocking chill of the water. The cold merely served to numb the pain of his bad knee scraping onto rock.

Where the fuck was this shooter?

Elliot raised his head a fraction, then flattened as the rushes whispered again followed by the inevitable crack of sound reverberating off the water. He was doing his best to keep low behind the ragged vegetation ringing the lake, but there wasn’t much of it. He was effectively pinned down. Even if he could rely on his knee to carry him in a sprint up the muddy slope and across the few feet to his car, he wasn’t sure that this sniper wasn’t positioned to pick him off the minute he cleared the top of the slope.

In fact, he wasn’t sure this sniper wasn’t positioned to pick him off where he was hunkered down right this minute. Given how close the shots were, he—or she—seemed to have a damn good idea where Elliot was hiding.

He felt around for his cell phone and remembered that he’d left it lying in the passenger seat.

He heard the wet whine of a ricochet off the water and swore. The guy was using a rifle. Probably a .22. Most effective under five hundred feet, but still powerful enough to maim or kill within four hundred yards if the shooter was very lucky—or Elliot was
un
lucky.

In his entire life he had never feel quite so powerless. Not even lying in Pioneer Courthouse Square with a bullet in his leg and an automatic-weapon-bearing political extremist headed straight for him.

Unless he could think of something, any minute now this sniper was going to get lucky and Elliot was going to be dead or dying.

He spared a quick look back at the lake. As a last resort could he try swimming? Maybe not the length of the lake, but he could make for that small floating island of reeds to his left. He had to do something, get himself into some kind of strategic position. If this shooter came to the conclusion that Elliot was helpless, he was liable to simply walk across the meadow and pop him.

That alarming thought manifested itself at the same time he heard the swift approach of an engine. He rolled, splashing down into the frigid water and swimming to the thick stand of reeds a few feet away. The bullets continued to stipple the water around him, so whoever was headed his way was not—and then, instinctively, he knew who was headed his way.

Tucker.

It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. They had agreed to meet at the Black Bull.

Elliot risked a look. His heart leapt. Yes. He knew that blue Nissan Xterra.

Maybe Tucker hadn’t trusted his precious former crime scene to Elliot. Maybe Tucker decided to give him the personal tour. Whatever the reason, Tucker was coming in fast, riding to the rescue—whether he knew it or not.

Elliot sank back, treading water. Over the lap of water, the rustle of reeds, he heard the engine whine of the Nissan Xterra, gears grinding, tires churning mud and stones.

Pushing the wall of reeds aside, he saw Tucker spin out in a forward 180, a bootleg turn. The vehicle rocked to a stop and Tucker scrambled out to return fire using the engine block for cover.

The familiar reassuring bang of a standard issue Glock 22 resounded through the clear afternoon air.

The cavalry had most definitely arrived.

There was no return fire. Either the sniper was reloading or he was getting the hell out of Dodge.

Three shots and the Glock’s final blast dissipated into sunlight and wind, the sound of the shot bounced off the faraway walls of the campus buildings. In the distance Elliot heard a car engine retreating fast, and overhead, the lazy raucous jeers of a crow winging past.

Elliot became aware that the icy water was sapping his strength. His teeth chattered, his whole body shaking, but despite the cold, his knee felt charred to the bone with a deep, sick pain. His ear throbbed where the bullet had nicked it. Even so, he’d got off lightly.

There was a shower of pebbles scattering down the muddy berm and Tucker appeared, taking the slope at a slithery run.

“Elliot?”

“Here.” Elliot struck out for the shore, half swimming, half wading as his feet touched mushy ground. When he tried to stand, his knee wouldn’t support him, and he would have collapsed if Tucker hadn’t sloshed out to meet him, hauling him to his feet.

“Are you hurt? Are you okay?”

Elliot croaked, “Groovy.”

Tucker gave a funny laugh. “The hell.” He wrapped an arm around his waist, offering needed support. “Your neck’s bleeding.”

“Ear.” Either way, he’d very nearly got his head blown off.

“Jesus, Elliot.” Tucker’s voice shook. He put his other arm around Elliot and pulled him close.

A million questions were chasing around Elliot’s fogged brain, but none of them seemed important compared to the astonished delight of finding himself alive, mostly unhurt and in Tucker’s arms.

Tucker embraced him with something close to ferocity. Elliot went with it. He hugged Tucker back, resting his face in the damp curve of Tucker’s neck and collar. Tucker was muttering something, but Elliot couldn’t make out the words as he breathed in a combination of scents that seemed to connect with all his memories: leather, faded aftershave, gun smoke. Tucker’s hard, muscular arms were wrapped so tight around him he could barely catch his breath. He could feel Tucker’s heart slamming against his chest—or maybe that was his own heartbeat. Either way, they both sounded winded, stricken.

After a few seconds he realized that the deep muttering sound Tucker was making was wordless, inarticulate fury. Elliot started to laugh.

Tucker was growling.

“What the hell is funny?” Tucker asked with a kind of pained outrage. “What am I missing?”

Elliot shook his head, lifted his face. Tucker’s blue eyes blazed with an intensity of emotion. Elliot couldn’t look away. Their mouths met. It seemed natural, inevitable. Tucker’s lips felt exactly the way Elliot remembered, tasted exactly as he remembered. For such a hard man, Tucker had a sweet, lush mouth. The kiss started out gentle, but in those seconds of shared breath the pressure increased, grew urgent, frantic.

“Elliot,” Tucker moaned, and it sounded like protest, although Elliot would have had to head butt him to break the liplock as their mouths turned rough, biting, bruising. Elliot’s skin tingled as Tucker’s lips traveled to the sensitive skin beneath his jaw, delivering a sharp nip that set Elliot’s already overloaded nervous system clamoring.

Suddenly he wanted—craved—Tucker like he’d wanted nothing in his life before. His hands slid into the softness of Tucker’s hair and he tried to drag his head up to taste his mouth again, he felt famished for the taste of him, like he could never again get enough of him. The hot velvet of Tucker’s lips had fastened on Elliot’s throat and he was sucking him, marking him. His hands fumbled over Elliot’s back, pulling at his wet clothes.

Elliot wrenched Tucker’s leather jacket open as he ground his hips against Tucker’s. In some unlit corner of his brain he knew this was crazy. His knee was killing him, was not going to support him for much longer, but of far greater importance seemed the erection shoving against the constriction of his jeans. Biological imperative. That’s what you called that. He needed Tucker. Needed to fuck and be fucked. Something to do with surviving a very close call, with almost dying, but that didn’t change the fact that it was Tucker finally here in the right place at the right time.

And if that enormous straining hardness thrusting back at him was any indication, Elliot was not alone in this extremity of need.

He groaned. Tucker echoed that groan. “Jesus, Elliot…”

Tucker’s large hands slid down, settling on Elliot’s ass, kneading him through the soft wet denim, encouraging that feverish rubbing motion, gathering Elliot closer still—yielding to Elliot’s own ruthless manhandling.

And then suddenly the world gave a great heave and turned upside down.

Or maybe it was Elliot who turned upside down because all at once he was sitting in the mud and Tucker had his arm around him. His breath was warm against Elliot’s face, and he was saying, “You’re okay.
Are
you okay? Take deep breaths.”

“What the… What happened?” He felt foggy, disconnected. He was grateful for Tucker’s arm around him.

“Take it easy. Take it slowly.”

“That was…some kiss. I think the earth moved.”

“I think you went weak in the knees.”

“Mechanical f-failure,” Elliot said through chattering teeth. He sincerely wished he could manage a good old-fashioned faint because if the pain in his knee didn’t stop soon he was going to be sick. Possibly on the wide, comfortable shoulder Tucker was gallantly offering.

Tucker said, “Let’s get out of here. Let’s go someplace warm.”

Elliot nodded. “How did you know?”

“How’d I know what?”

“That I was under fire?”

“I saw the ducks in a panic, but I couldn’t see you anywhere. Then I thought I saw muzzle flash in the trees.” A shudder rippled through Tucker’s large frame. “For a minute I thought…”

“Me too.” He needed Tucker’s help to stand, to hobble out of the mud and slimy grass. The escalating pain eroded his previous sexual excitement and energy. In fact, he was willing to attribute that astonishing surge of lust to shock. His leg wouldn’t respond properly and his knee felt like someone had jammed a blade under the cartilage and was twisting it. He was terrified he might have damaged the reconstructed joint, set his recovery back. He couldn’t go through that again. Couldn’t go through being helpless and dependent. The fear made it almost impossible to concentrate on anything else.

He remembered the dream where Tucker had ordered him to stop crying, and he bit down on the distress threatening to tear from his throat.

“I didn’t get a look at the guy. Did you?”

Elliot shook his head.

“I only had a glimpse of his vehicle. Black or maybe navy. It could have been a truck or an SUV. I couldn’t tell through the trees.”

“Why are you here?” he gasped. “I thought we were meeting at the Black Bull?”

“I don’t know why. I thought I ought to…walk the crime scene with you.”

Elliot lifted his head to give Tucker a look of disbelief.

“Are you complaining?”

Elliot shook his head.

They reached Tucker’s Xterra. Tucker helped him inside and Elliot collapsed in the seat, hands gripping his thigh, jaw gritted against giving voice to pain and shock.

He was vaguely aware that Tucker was calling it in, summoning aid.

“Ask them if there have been other disappearances. Disappearances not related to the school. Prostitutes. Immigrants. Ask them to check.”

Tucker threw him a keen look. He was back on the phone, talking again, but Elliot tuned it out, taking physical stock, telling himself it wasn’t as bad as it felt. His knee wasn’t bleeding that much. Hardly at all. His ear was bleeding a lot more, and that was from a tiny scratch.

Tucker finished his call, hung up and turned to Elliot. “We’re not sitting around here waiting for them. What do you need? An emergency room or your own doctor?”

What he wanted was the pain in his knee to stop—followed by a good, strong drink and bed. With or without company. He’d prefer company although he wasn’t going to be up to much till he got the pain under control. Tucker’s concern felt good, though. So had Tucker’s arms about him. Very good.

Elliot put his head back against the seat. Squinched his eyes closed. “The health clinic at the college,” he mumbled. “They should be able to fix me up.”

“We’ll have to come back for your car.”

He nodded. Made himself say, “I need my cell. And my backup piece is in the glove compartment.”

Tucker swore. “Hang on.” He got out of the car and Elliot hastily wiped his eyes. He was not about to let Tucker see him in tears because he had a boo-boo.

Tucker was back in seconds. “Anything else is going to have to wait.”

Fine. Elliot didn’t care. Tucker could roll his car in the lake for all it mattered right now. Just get him someplace where they could make the pain stop.

Tucker turned on the engine, switched on the heater. It blasted out in an arctic gust.

“Shit. Hold on.”

Elliot couldn’t stop shivering, but that wasn’t the cold—though, granted, it
was
cold. Where did people get the idea Tacoma wasn’t cold? He jerked out, “It’s okay. Just…please. Drive.” He didn’t want to plead, but even he could hear the pain in his voice.

“Right. Are you—”

There was a note in Tucker’s voice that Elliot had never heard before. He pried open his eyes to stare at Tucker, and saw his jaw clenching and unclenching. He looked like he was in as much pain as Elliot. He looked like he didn’t know what to do. That had to be a first for Tucker.

Witnessing that stripped bare emotion helped. Elliot reached over and gripped Tucker’s thigh. “Hey. I’m okay.”

Tucker threw him a startled look.

Elliot managed a twitch of facial muscles intended as a smile. “Get me to the clinic. I’m a lot better company when I’m heavily medicated.”

Tucker made a sound between a drawn breath and a laugh. He nodded and reached for the clutch.

Elliot closed his eyes again. “I was standing there thinking how stupid it would be to shoot someone in that field, and next thing I know, I’m being shot at.” He caught his breath as the Xterra bounced over rocky ground. “He had to be watching me. Tailing me.”