Passionate Vengeance (11 page)

He froze when he discovered he didn’t just care about Abigail, he also loved her deeply.

Knowing he would need to think more upon this epiphany later, Lucas put it away and focused on the task at hand. When Lucas had paused Tristan had also, silently querying what had stopped him. Lucas shook his head and signalled with a thumbs up that he was fine. They continued to the doorway leading into the basement.

It stood open, but no sound issued from the lower level. Slower now, inching their way down the stairs, Lucas found his mind full of questions, computing everything at an enormously fast pace. He wondered if this was a setup, if perhaps the nurse had called Harper to inform him that he would be having visitors soon and the doctor waited below ready to ambush them and blow them away the instant they showed their faces.

Or perhaps Harper was long gone, all their caution and checks useless and for nothing. Lucas closed his thoughts off when he almost began to worry how drawing this search out over days or weeks might affect Abby. Again, he couldn’t think like that, he needed to remain focused.

Never had his attention been so easily diverted by anyone, let alone a woman. His focus had always been on the mission at hand. It felt unusual to have his focus split, his mind distracted all the time by thoughts of Abigail.

Tristan moved, fluidly pressing his back against the wall on the third last step. Immediately Lucas mimicked his motion, his brain snapping back into the game.

“You ready?” Tristan murmured softly.

Nodding, Lucas clung to the image of Abigail, then packed it away to the darkest corner of his brain. He wouldn’t be able to do this with his attention split, and he needed to learn how to love his woman but still keep her out of his conscious mind while he worked. Tristan’s life—and just as importantly, Lucas’ own life—depended on it.

Taking a steadying breath, Lucas met his partner’s eyes. Tristan searched his gaze for a moment, seeming to find whatever he looked for. He nodded and indicated Lucas should move out five feet to the other side when they entered, that Tristan would take the right-hand side in the sweep.

After conveying this message, Tristan lowered his hand.

Lucas made a circle with his thumb and forefinger in the classic ‘okay’ sign to show he understood and accepted his partner’s suggestion. Tristan nodded, then lifted up three fingers, counted down to two, then one—and quick as a blink, one directly after the other, they raced down the remaining stairs and into the basement.

Gun held steady, Lucas scanned the room in one smooth, brief motion. Part of his brain assimilated the fact a man sat at a long bench in a stained white coat, seeming engrossed in whatever he was doing. Knowing from past experience that an easily spotted focus could prove to be a decoy, he continued his search. Exclusive focus on a single target often resulted in missing other, hidden, problems. The simple, understandable mistake could prove deadly. Lucas made a complete visual sweep of the basement, taking it all in for a few seconds. The bulk of the space was filled up by a large, long wooden bench. Beakers and glass bottles were lined up side by side. A small laboratory grade oven sat over in one corner with a metal cabinet next to it, covered by a lot of hazard stickers warning of explosive danger, fire hazards and biochemical threats encased within.

The room had been converted into a small, but perfectly professional, working laboratory to Lucas’ untrained eye. He didn’t linger over his assessment, doing as he was trained to, glancing over everything quickly and returning his attention and weapon back on the man.

“Paul Harper, let’s see your hands,” Tristan called out in a commanding, firm tone.

Harper looked up from his work. He held his hand steady, the pipette he used still aloft. He wore a white laboratory coat over a blue oxford shirt, the top few buttons undone. Harper’s dark hair was heavily salted with iron grey, and he had a neatly trimmed beard that showed almost completely white with age.

Lucas’ gaze registered that beneath the shirt, however, was an athletic man only barely past his prime. Should Harper choose to make this difficult he would not be an easy target to physically subdue. Lucas bet himself silently ten pounds the doctor still regularly worked out, even though he had to be in his early sixties.

“Drop it,” Lucas cautioned Harper, both he and Tristan in a classic fighting stance, neither of their weapons wavering for an instant.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Harper insisted indignantly. “I am in the middle of some critical experiments here. You idiots can’t just come barging in here and—”

“Lower the pipette slowly, Dr Harper,” Tristan backed him up in a tone that brooked no argument. “And keep your hands visible to us, or else I will come over there and make you lower them.”

“Don’t shoot!” Harper shouted, his voice high and shrill. “My work is critical for—”

“I said now, Doctor,” Tristan insisted.

Lucas took a step forward menacingly and Tristan followed.

Harper scooted from his chair and knelt behind the bench, hidden now all except for the top of his head.

“Stand up, Harper!” Lucas shouted, coming forward another step, his gun raised and ready to shoot. “Harper!”

Paul Harper half stood then, lifting the large barrels of a shotgun up and resting his elbows onto the smoothly polished wood of the large bench.

“Fuck!” Lucas swore.

Both he and Tristan dived for cover as an enormous explosion rent through the room. Glass shattered and particles went flying, shrapnel cutting through the air as the boom echoed for a few seconds. Both Lucas and Tristan were almost prone on the floor, covering their heads for protection. Lucas looked wildly behind him and noticed a large chunk of the concrete wall had been blown out by the shell.

If either he or Tristan caught one of those bullets they’d lose a limb—or far worse.

Lucas knelt on the cool slab of the basement floor to give himself some height and held his gun in a double-handed grip for extra support. He squeezed off two quick shots at the doctor, forcing him to cower back behind the bench before Tristan yelled at him.

“Sloan, no! These solvents are flammable.”

Lucas paused and frowned.

“We can’t leave,” he insisted.

“Don’t shoot him, you’ll blow the place up!” Tristan snapped. “Think of something else.”

Tristan turned and crawled around the edge of the laboratory wall. Lucas strained his neck to follow the path his partner had taken, worried Tristan might be putting himself at risk so Lucas could do something insane to take out Harper, like rush him.

It only took a moment, but Lucas realised both the bench and the steep angle downward that Harper would have to aim the shotgun would be enough cover to protect Tristan’s body from Harper’s range.

Lucas internally debated the chances of a stray bullet really causing an explosion or not. He sniffed the air and could smell the acrid bitterness of evaporating solvent. Maybe Tristan was right. But honestly, what was he supposed to do to subdue Harper? Use his iron will? Bribe him? Use harsh language?

Harper took their distraction to his own advantage and squeezed off another round from the shotgun. The explosion came far too close to Lucas’ head for his comfort, concrete dust and small pellets raining down on him from the new hole in the wall.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” Lucas yelled back to Tristan, incensed. “Training didn’t exactly cover this!”

Lucas crawled on his belly towards the centre of the room, hoping that by keeping low it would force Harper either to stand up fully and give Tristan a clear shot at him, or just dissuade Harper from shooting at him altogether.

“Come on out and fight me. You wanted me badly enough to break into my home, to threaten me and try to carry me off to prison,” Harper screamed, clearly pushed beyond some inner limit.

Lucas could no longer see Tristan or work out what he planned, and decided the entire situation had already gone to hell. He, for one, was willing to risk shooting the bastard and hope for the best. Heaven knew Harper was all too trigger-happy right now. Lucas decided he had to shoot, his only other option was to do nothing and risk sooner or later Harper blasting a shotgun pellet sized hole in him.

Comparatively speaking, Lucas’ small weapon should not be as destructive, or as likely to set off an explosion. Neither did he have the least desire to stop a round from that shotgun. Using his own weapon would be the lesser evil, he figured.

Ducking his head around the corner of the bench, Lucas saw Harper crouched. The doctor still leaned on the thick wood, shotgun swerving madly as he sought a clear shot. Glass beakers and bottles had been knocked all over, some of them broken on the ground, some merely tumbled around the bench. Lucas squatted, hunched on the back of his heels so he could pivot around the corner but move back just as quickly should Harper shoot at him again.

“Give it up, Harper!” Lucas shouted, hoping beyond everything Tristan would use the opportunity to do something. “I’ve had enough of this shit. Put the shotgun down and I won’t bloody well shoot you.”

Harper swivelled his head around and stared wildly at Lucas. Lucas held his gun steady, leaning back ready, at Harper’s slightest twitch, to duck again for cover behind the safety of the bench. Harper’s arms shook and Lucas raised his gun to aim at the man’s chest.

“Just put the gun down,” Lucas spoke calmly, though his heart thundered so loudly it nearly deafened him. He scrambled mentally to continue talking, to keep Harper’s attention on him so Tristan could do whatever he could.

 “We can talk about this outside, or down at the office. No one needs to get hurt. Just think about this.”

In the space of a single heartbeat Lucas saw Tristan come up behind Harper. His partner had turned his gun around, clearly intending to use the butt end to take Harper out without having to discharge his weapon. Harper seemed to almost sense him.

The elderly man whirled backwards, catching Tristan in the jaw with the base of the shotgun. Blood gushed from somewhere on or near Tristan’s face—Lucas couldn’t see exactly where as Tristan immediately dropped like a stone to the floor.

Lucas sprang up to protect his partner, placing his body between where Tristan had fallen and where Harper stood.

Lucas shot Harper in the thigh and reached out with his other hand to grapple for the shotgun. Harper collapsed against the bench, roaring with the pain. Blood sprang from the bullet wound. Lucas wrenched the shotgun out of Harper’s grip and threw it as far across the room as he could manage.

“You can’t steal my work! I’ve spent decades of my life on this. I won’t let you ruin me like this.” Harper screamed.

Satisfied he now wouldn’t be hit in the back by Harper, Lucas stumbled to where Tristan had fallen. He was relieved to see that the blood that trickled down his face was from a nasty gash at the side of his mouth, not some deeper, more dangerous head wound that would need immediate attention. Lucas sagged, glad. Tristan hadn’t suffered a broken nose or something more devastating.

Whoosh.

A harsh shout of laughter echoed around the concrete room. Lucas turned, his gun raised again as he fully expected Harper to have pulled another weapon out from who knew where. Harper brandished an automatic lighter.

“What the fuck?” Lucas gasped.

A flash of searing heat ignited before his very eyes. Most of the broken bottles of spilled solvents lit up instantly, the overpowering smell of burning chemicals hitting Lucas like a physical blow. The papers scattered across the bench quickly smoked and caught fire, fuelling the flames further.

Tristan groaned as he held his head and struggled to find his feet.

“Mate, get up,” Lucas ordered urgently as he stepped forward carefully, trying to get a tight grip on Harper.

Harper fought him furiously. For a man twice Lucas’ age he had a lot of strength and determination on his side.

Harper landed a solid blow on Lucas’ jaw. Lucas grunted and saw dots cross his vision as he let Harper go and closed his eyes. Forcing himself through the pain Lucas sucked in a deep breath, opened his eyes again and continued to grapple with the older man. Almost appearing as if he enjoyed himself Harper didn’t let up, still punching out at him. Lucas dodged a few of the swings, but again was caught unawares as a second blow landed.

This time Lucas stumbled back, dazed but not out of the fight yet.

Harper took the opportunity to feed his notebook into the flames, throwing more of his paperwork into the fire and feeding its voracious appetite. Lucas wondered if Harper had simply given up hope, or whether he was being savvy and tried to get rid of the evidence they could have used against him.

Lucas tried to snatch some of the papers away, but Harper splashed solvent onto Lucas’ arm. He could feel the searing heat of the fire and took a step back. He didn’t really know what kind of evidence might be in the papers Harper burnt, but Lucas wasn’t willing to turn into a human fireball to try to find out.

“Harper, let it go. We have to leave before this whole place goes up in flames,” Lucas insisted, coughing as the chemicals entered his lungs.

Harper shouted, “No—” and seemed about to say more, but instead began wheezing. Thick smoke rose to the ceiling, clouds of it rolled across the concrete. Lucas wondered if the kitchen above them had floorboards or some insulation that might act as temporary protection.

The small room quickly began to fill not only with smoke, but also with fumes from the solvents. Lucas noticed Harper’s jeans were soaked dark with blood. He knew he couldn’t have hit an artery—Harper would have been unconscious if not dead by now if he had—but the man would need medical attention in minutes or else he could die.

“Harper, let’s go, you need help. Tristan, get the fuck up.”

Tristan groaned, clearly not quite with it yet. Harper continued to throw papers into the fire. Lucas made a split-second decision, choosing to crouch beside his partner and pull him into a half-seated position. Harper was hampered by the shot in his leg, but should he have chosen he would have been perfectly capable of hobbling across the room and up the stairs. At that moment, Tristan didn’t seem conscious of anything except for a splitting jaw ache and a seriously throbbing head.