Razor's Edge (15 page)

“Go into my bathroom,” she told Tanner. “I have first aid supplies in there.” And there was more room to maneuver. She was still shaken from the explosion and worried she might accidentally bump into him in the smaller bathroom.

Tanner moved to strip off his shirt, but the pained look on his face had her stop him. “I'll cut it off. You won't be wearing it again, anyway.”

He nodded and sat on the edge of the giant tub, facing away from her.

Roxanne had picked the tub, hoping that one day she'd have company in there. The idea of a decadent bubble bath with the hunk of her choice had always been a compelling one—one she'd spent more than a little time fantasizing about.

Now she was sure that every time she got into this tub, she'd be thinking about Tanner and the blood he'd shed to keep her safe.

With a deep breath to steady her hands, Roxanne picked up the scissors and cut the shirt away from him.

He'd bled a lot, but the damage wasn't as bad as she'd feared. With clinical detachment, she made an inventory of the cuts and scrapes. “There're some splinters of wood imbedded along your left side, but that's the worst of it.”

“Good. Pull them out and let's get going.”

“I think you should go see Dr. Vaughn for that. My hands aren't so steady right now.”

He looked over his shoulder, his eyes bright with determination. “Those fuckers tried to kill you. Do you think I'm going to sit around in some waiting room while they get away with it?”

“I don't have anything to numb the pain. She does.”

“Just do it, Roxanne. The trail is getting cold.”

Her stomach heaved at the thought of hurting him, but he was right. The longer they waited, the harder it was going to be to find the men who'd done this—the men who might lead them to Jake.

Roxanne swallowed her unease and picked up the tweezers. “I'll try not to hurt you.”

S
he couldn't hurt him half as much as the mere thought of watching an innocent woman die could. From the instant he'd seen the triggering line, the image of Roxanne's broken, bleeding body had hovered in his mind, circling like a vulture.

He'd seen a lot of fucked-up things in his time serving overseas. He'd seen women and children being treated like animals. He'd seen entire villages wiped out, the bodies left to rot under the sun. The things people would do to one another never ceased to disgust him.

Tanner didn't like to think about those times. He preferred to dwell on the good he'd seen in people. But right now, all he wanted was to find the men responsible for trying to kill Roxanne and take them out. It wasn't rational. It wasn't his job to try, convict, and execute the guilty, but that was what he wanted.

Whoever had done this had also been willing to use a broken soldier to do their dirty work. Tanner couldn't let that stand.

A spark of pain stabbed along his ribs, dragging him out of his bleak thoughts.

“Sorry,” squeaked Roxanne behind him.

“I'm fine. Keep going.”

“Can you turn and lift your arm? I can't quite get that last splinter.”

Tanner moved as she instructed, letting her drape his arm over her shoulder to prop it up. Her focus was completely on the task at hand, giving him the opportunity to stare at her unnoticed.

Her blond hair was mussed, making her seem more real, more human. Her golden eyes were shiny as if she were fighting back tears. All the color had fled her cheeks, leaving her too pale. Dirt smudged her jaw and marred the silky perfection of her blouse, likely from when he'd thrown her down on the garage floor.

He hadn't been gentle, but she hadn't complained. She was too practical for that, it seemed. There was no fuss, no squeamishness, as she pried bits of debris from his skin and disinfected the wounds. The only indication he had that his blood bothered her was her trembling hands and the way she held her bottom lip between her teeth in concentration.

If he'd been a second slower, she wouldn't be standing here now, fussing over him.

That thought was enough to make his blood pressure skyrocket. It had been a close call. The people who'd been here meant business. They weren't playing games. They wanted her dead.

Tanner couldn't let that happen. He also couldn't bring the shit that was following her anywhere near his family. He was going to have to call Karen and cancel. Once she got over being mad, he'd explain to her why he couldn't make it, but he didn't want her worrying about him. She'd already lost a husband. Tanner would much rather have her mad at him for being a flaky asshole than have her worried about his safety. He was already casting enough of a shadow over today's festivities.

“There,” she said, releasing her bottom lip. Her teeth had left a deep dent—one he had the crazy compulsion to kiss away.

Instead, he looked down at her handiwork, seeing only clean, white bandages. “Thanks.”

“I still think you should see Dr. Vaughn.”

“Noted.”

“You mean ignored.”

He shrugged, feeling the tightness in his skin thanks to the abundance of bandages she'd applied. “I'm sure she'd say your work was more than competent. We both know time is running out.”

“Let me grab a change of clothes.”

“I don't want to take your car. It's too easy to spot. We can take my truck.” His black truck looked like a thousand others in the city.

“That's a good idea. Check it for bombs, though. Just in case?”

“Definitely.”

Tanner called his sister-in-law and told her he wasn't going to be able to make Millie's first birthday party. By the time she hung up, he could hear the tears in her voice, making him feel like the biggest asshole on the face of the planet.

There was going to be hell to pay once Reid and Mom got wind of his absence, but that was too bad. He'd take the heat when things were safer and he could talk to them face-to-face. Until then, he'd keep his distance from his family and stick to Roxanne's side.

From what he'd seen so far, she was going to need all the help she could get.

 

 

Clay was losing his mind. The blackouts were getting longer, and this time, there were more than just a few bruises left behind.

His shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch, and his chest felt as if it were on fire. His ribs had to be bruised, if they weren't cracked. His left eye was swollen, and his face ached where he'd taken a hit.

He wished like hell he could remember who or what had hit him—and why.

The ER doctor checked him out and sent him for X-rays. Clay sat on the gurney, dreading what he knew was coming next. Getting his shoulder back into place wasn't going to be any kind of fun, especially with Mira watching over him, chewing her nails in worry.

“Go back to work,” he told her.

“And just leave you here?”

“It'll be hours until they're through with me. I'll call you to come pick me up when they're done.”

Mira's eyes and nose were red, making him guess that she'd been crying while he'd been off getting X-rays. He hated it that he'd made her cry—again. She was like a sister to him, and he'd sooner cut off his own arm with a rusty butter knife than hurt her.

Despite his good intentions, it seemed that all he did lately was cause her worry and pain.

“I'm not leaving,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest in defiance.

“It's sweet of you to abandon your beloved network for me, but I'm fine. Really.”

“Have you seen anyone about the headaches?” she asked.

“Yes,” he lied. “They're just stress-related. No big deal.”

Her mouth flattened in frustration. “If you want to lie to me, that's one thing, but I'm really worried that you're lying to yourself, too.”

“There's nothing to lie about. Everything is fine.” Except for the searing pain in his body, the constant headaches and the blackouts.

“Please, Clay. Go see Dr. Vaughn. Or someone else. Maybe even a psychiatrist.”

“There's nothing wrong with my head,” he snarled.

Mira flinched and shrank back in her chair.

He hadn't meant to snap. She deserved better than that.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to sound calm, even though he was feeling anything but. “I'm sorry, squirt. I didn't mean to act like a dick. Please, just go back to work, and I promise we'll talk about this when I'm done here.” When the pain subsided and he could stay in control better, they would talk. “I hate you having to see me in pain. I know it upsets you.”

She stood and gave him a long stare. “It does more than that. Seeing you like this is killing me. If you're not willing to get help for yourself, please do it for me.”

Clay wasn't making any promises. He knew she'd hold him to them, guilting him into doing something he wasn't sure he could stand. Coming to the ER for treatment was one thing—the service was rushed and impersonal. No one was going to follow up with him and invade his privacy. But if he went to see a shrink, or found a doctor who actually gave a shit about him, he'd be in trouble.

There was something wrong with him, and while he wanted it fixed, he'd find a way to fix it himself, without anyone shoving their nose into his business. He'd been on his own for a long time, and he liked it that way.

 

 

Payton approached the uniformed officer guarding Brad Evans's hospital door. After reading Jake Staite's journal, he had to know the truth. He had to know if the woman he thought he'd killed two decades ago was still alive.

Because if she was, that was a mistake he was going to have to fix. Immediately.

His skills were a bit rusty from disuse, but like riding a bike, the tricks of the trade came back to him whenever the need arose.

Brad Evans was the name of the man who'd attacked Razor at her storage unit. A friend at the police station had given him that much. From there, the rest was going to be easy.

Payton tugged at his cuffs to show off the diamond-and-gold cuff links he'd put on, and gave his Rolex an impatient glance as he neared the door. “I'm here to see my client,” he informed the officer.

“Your client?”

“Brad Evans. I'm his attorney.”

“I'll have to call this in.”

Payton leaned one shoulder against the door. “Make whatever calls you like. I get paid by the hour. And while you're at it, tell the sheriff he left his reading glasses at the reelection fund-raiser I hosted for him last week. He can stop by and get them at his convenience.”

The officer hesitated for a moment, perusing Payton's expensive suit and designer briefcase. “Go on in, but the handcuffs stay on.”

“Of course,” he said, as if the thought of having his client touch him was distasteful.

The officer opened the door to let Payton in and shut it behind them.

The private room was small. The window let in plenty of light, but it did not open to let in any fresh air. Or to allow anyone to escape.

In the good old days, Payton would have been able to read Brad's chart, but in this age of computers, all that useful data was stored behind password protection and encryption software.

He was going to have to get his questions answered the hard way.

“Wake up,” he said, keeping his voice calm but firm.

The man's eyes opened for a moment before shutting again.

He was apparently enjoying the effects of a few narcotics.

Payton neared the side of the bed opposite to where the man's hand was cuffed to the railing. If he made a move, Payton would only need to step back to avoid any ugliness. “Brad,” he said, more loudly, “we need to talk.”

Brad's face was gaunt, the fluorescent lights overhead adding to his sallow complexion. Dark circles hung below his eyes, which he cracked open with obvious effort.

“I know about the journal,” said Payton.

Panic stole over the man's face, and his eyes shot open. “No. I didn't tell you. She told me not to tell anyone.”

“She who?”

He pressed his lips together as if struggling to keep the words inside.

“What did she do to you?”

“Where is it? I have to bring it back.”

“I'll get it for you,” lied Payton. “But first you have to tell me what I want to know.”

“I can't. She'll know if I say anything. She always knows.”

“Who?”

The man said nothing, forcing Payton to go fishing. He searched the young man's face, hoping for no flash of recognition when he whispered the name. “Was it Dr. Stynger?”

Brad scooted back on the bed as if trying to get away from Payton. Fear blanched his face, and sweat broke out along his hairline. “She sent you, didn't she? She said she'd kill me if I failed.”

It couldn't be. She couldn't be alive, and yet twice now he'd witnessed proof that he was wrong.

Payton tamped down his fury, keeping any hint of it from showing through in his expression. The troubled man shying away from him didn't deserve any more pain. Norma Stynger had clearly inflicted enough already.

“I'm not going to hurt you. I'm on your side. I won't let anyone hurt you. All you have to do is tell me what I need to know and I'll stop her.”

“She can't be stopped. If you knew her, you'd know that.”

Maybe Brad was right. The fact that she wasn't roasted to cinders proved that Payton had already made one grave mistake. There could be no more. “I want to help you. Please let me. Tell me where I can find her.”