Rewarded (6 page)

“Can’t wait for the party to start. I’ve been doing a little digging into your personal affairs, and I found some interesting information.” He smirked. “You’re going to watch as I kill both of the men you care about.”

She laughed at him. “No, they’re going to kill
you
. You’re just a spineless little worm, with no honor.”

Santos backhanded her across the face, snapping her head to the side. And Gray saw red.

Bursting from his hiding place, Gray yelled, “FBI, freeze!”

Petrov leaped behind a table, pulling Anna down as well, and fired. His shot went so wide, Gray couldn’t believe his luck. But there was no time to dwell on that. Santos fired, missing Gray’s head by millimeters. Gray returned fire, but Santos dove to the floor and the tall window behind him shattered, leaving nothing between whoever ventured too close and the pavement fifty-five floors below.

Gray was aware of Delacruz trying to make his way to Anna. So was Santos, who turned and got the man in his sights. Gray ran, leaping at Santos as the bastard fired at Delacruz, and felt the punch in his shoulder. The burn. His gun had fallen from his hand, but he couldn’t stop.

He and Santos rolled together, struggling for the single gun. It was a fight to the death, and if that was the way Santos wanted it, that’s how it would go down. Gray heard Anna scream and realized their fight had carried them to the broken window. They were perilously close to going over, and the idea made him dizzy. Sick.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gray saw Delacruz retrieve Gray’s gun from the floor and point it at Petrov. To his amazement, Petrov raised his hands and yelled, “I’m FBI!”

And in an American accent, no less. Holy crap.

Gray strained to keep Santos from pulling them out the window. The man was out of his mind now, fighting without regard to his own life. He must have sensed he wasn’t going to win.

Suddenly, Delacruz and Petrov were there, helping him. Delacruz wrested the gun from Santos’s grip and flung it far away from them. Petrov was pulling Gray to safety.

And then the unthinkable happened.

Santos got to his knees . . . and shoved Delacruz out the open window. Anna’s bloodcurdling scream was a sound Gray would never forget as he scrambled toward the window. Gray saw Delacruz’s bloodied hands holding on to the lip of the window, but he couldn’t hang on for long. And Santos was trying to dislodge him.

Gray didn’t even think. He simply shoved Santos as hard as possible, and watched him disappear. His scream rode the air, fading as Gray grabbed Joaquin’s wrist.

“Hang on,” he ordered. The other man’s frightened eyes stared up at him. “We’re going to pull you up.”

“You’ll fall,” he shouted. “Just let me go!”

“Not a fucking chance.” His shoulder was killing him.

God, please don’t let me drop him.

Petrov, or whatever the hell his name was, got on the other side of Gray and grabbed Delacruz’s other wrist. They pulled as one, surging backward and yanking Delacruz over the broken glass to safety. The man hissed in pain as the shards ripped at his clothing and skin, but it was better than falling fifty-five stories. For a moment, all of them sat on the floor, panting with residual fear and adrenaline.

Breathing hard, Gray looked at the man he’d thought to be an assassin. “Thanks for the help. So, who the fuck
are
you?”

“Vance Youngblood, FBI. I’ve been working undercover for over a year to gather enough evidence to hang that prick, and you just killed my assignment.” Then he grinned. “Can’t say I’m all broken up about it.”

Gray laughed, and then groaned in pain. Anna’s hand was suddenly there, soothing his brow.

“Are you—Gray, you’re bleeding!” Her hands shoved at his jacket, and she gasped. “You’ve been shot! We need an ambulance.”

“He took that bullet for me,” Delacruz said, moving close. “You saved my life, twice. Thank you, Gray. I won’t forget that.”

Gray. Not Sloane.
The distinction wasn’t lost on him, even through the buzzing in his head.

“You’re welcome, Joaquin.”

He vaguely heard his backup arrive—too late. When he saw Simon’s worried face hovering beside Anna’s, he couldn’t help but snort. “Thanks for the help, asshole.”

“Looks like you had it under control,” his partner deadpanned. But Gray could hear the concern in his voice.

Then everything faded and he heard nothing at all.

***

Gray lost consciousness, and Anna shook him. “Gray? Honey, stay awake!”

“He’ll be okay,” Simon told her. “Shoulder wound won’t be too bad.”

“He’s bleeding and unconscious. That’s
not
okay.”

“I promise he’ll be all right.”

The paramedics arrived and began to work on him, starting an IV. While they worked, Anna looked to Joaquin. “What about you? Let me see your hands.”

“They’re okay.” He tried to hide them, but she pulled them out to inspect his palms. They were a real mess, as was his abdomen, sliced deep and bleeding everywhere. He was going to need stitches, if she had her guess.

“I’m so glad you’re all right. When I thought you’d fallen . . .” She shuddered, never wanting to relive that again.

“I’m glad I am, too. And that you cared.”

“Of course I do. I always will.”

He smiled. “Me too.”

Another pair of paramedics arrived and got busy looking at Joaquin’s hands. The first pair wouldn’t let her ride in the ambulance with Gray, so Simon offered to drive her to the hospital.

She kissed Gray on the forehead. “I love you.” Maybe he heard. She hoped so.

Joaquin left with the second pair. Taking her arm, Simon guided her to where his SUV was waiting next to the curb. They rode in silence, except for when he made a comment here and there. Mostly to repeat that Gray would be fine. And to exclaim that he’d never made “Petrov” as a fellow agent. He speculated aloud that the man would need some mandatory counseling after being deep undercover for so long.

At the hospital, Anna found some chairs, and she and Simon settled in for the wait. Other patients and visitors came and went, but she was hardly aware of their problems when the man she loved was in surgery. Eventually, however, she realized that Joaquin had sat down next to her. He had heavy bandages around both hands and she assumed around his torso as well, from the bulk under his tattered, bloodied shirt. She turned and hugged him.

“Don’t scare me like that again, all right?” She didn’t have to elaborate.

“Don’t worry. I’ve made my last appearance as Spider-Man.”

She and Simon laughed at his terrible joke. It was better than crying over what had almost happened.

It seemed like forever before a doctor in scrubs came out. “Family of Grayson Sloane?”

“That’s us,” Simon told him, taking out his badge. “Or as close as you’ll get, anyway. Agent King, FBI. How’s my partner?”

The doctor hesitated, but in the end the FBI’s clout was enough to sway him. “Agent Sloane came through the surgery just fine.”

Anna almost fainted. Joaquin’s hand on her back kept her from falling.

“I removed the bullet from his shoulder,” the doctor continued. “Nothing but muscle damage, no major organs hit, I’m happy to report. With rest and then some physical therapy on his arm and shoulder, he’ll make a complete recovery.”

“That’s the best fucking news I’ve heard all day.” Simon clapped the doctor on the shoulder. “I hope to hell my partner has used up his quota of being shot.”

Anna winced at the mention of that nightmare, the horrible memories. “When can we see him?”

“He’s in recovery, so not for a while yet. Go rest or get a bite to eat. Come back in a couple of hours and we should have him in a room.”

Happy, Simon sauntered off, muttering about food. Joaquin looked at Anna, and she knew what was coming.

“I’m going to head out, now that I know Gray is going to recover. You’ve got Simon here, and I heard him say your mom is coming to sit with you.”

“You don’t have to leave,” she started, but he shook his head.

“Yes, I do. For my sanity. I’m happy for you, but I can’t help but be reminded that I lost you. I thought I’d found the perfect woman for me. I fell in love with you,” he said, smiling sadly. “We can perhaps be friends one day, but I need to heal.”

“I’d like that. And Joaquin, I—”

“Don’t, sweetheart. Just don’t. You take care, all right? And tell Gray I’ll be back to see him soon.”

“I will.”

He turned, headed out the doors, and was gone. Out of her life, but he’d taken a piece of her heart when he left. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she brushed it off. Straightening her back, she decided it was time to start taking care of her man.

The man she loved with all her soul.

***

Gray knew he made a grumpy patient, but he couldn’t help it. He’d been out of the hospital for a week, and sitting around Anna’s apartment watching TV was starting to get on his nerves. After a couple of days of hovering, he’d convinced her to go back and start putting a few hours in at the restaurant each day.

They were both happier for it. He and Anna were madly in love to the point it nauseated their friends, but they did not do convalescence well. Or at least he didn’t.

The one bright spot was Sterling, who loved to curl up on his lap and purr. Gray liked the little shit, and scratched the kitten’s ears whenever he demanded.

Simon had been in and out, as well as Vance Youngblood. It looked like Vance might join their field office, and that was fine by him and Simon. They really liked him and were more than a little in awe of how the man had posed as a Russian assassin for a year. That was badass.

The key rattled in the doorknob, and Gray smiled at seeing his baby walk through the door. She was all smiles, looking beautiful as she came in and tossed her purse on the table. Then she walked right over and removed Sterling from his warm nest.

“Sorry, kitty. This lap is mine now.”

Carefully, she straddled him and wrapped a hand around him, playing with his hair. Then she gave him a kiss hot enough to awaken his cock from its dormant state and get his blood flowing.

“Mmm. What did I do to deserve that?” he asked, smiling.

“Just being you. Should there be another reason?”

“Judging by the gleam in your eye, I’d say yes. What’s cooking in that sharp brain of yours?”

“Well, I was thinking about something.” She bit her lip, excitement vibrating through her body and doing very nice things to his. “You know, it’s a real pain to have some of our stuff at each other’s places. And we’re always together, anyway.”

His heartbeat quickened. “Yeah. What should we do about that?”

“I . . . I want us to move in together. Either your place or here, I don’t care which. We’d save money, it just makes sense, and—”

“Yes.”

“I—yes?”

“Absolutely. I’d love nothing more than to move in together,” he said, holding her close. Her squeal almost shattered his eardrum, but he laughed. “I guess you’re happy about that?”

“Like you can’t imagine.”

“Oh, I think I can.” He lifted his hips, letting her feel his own excitement.

“What should we do to celebrate?”

“I’d say we’re doing it right now.”

As Anna melted into him, taking his mouth in a slow kiss and the rest of him to heaven, Gray knew he was one lucky man. To have this woman as his, well, the reward was worth every one of the risks they’d taken.

And now they’d face their future together.

Anna had chosen him for forever, and her love was all he would ever need.

Read on for an excerpt of Jo Davis’s latest book in the Sugarland Blue series

HOT PURSUIT

Available now from Signet Eclipse

God help me, I’m only twenty-eight. Too young to die.

Taylor Kayne bolted upright in bed, bathed in sweat, heart beating a sharp, painful rhythm against his sternum. The ghost sensation of cold steel pressed into the back of his head slowly evaporated, bringing him to wakefulness. Once, the real-life incident that spurred the nightmare had been nicely suppressed and compartmentalized in a tight little box in his brain, but lately it descended with alarming frequency.

Delayed PTSD. Wouldn’t that tidbit give the Sugarland PD’s shrink an orgasm?

Shane Ford, Taylor’s partner in Homicide, would be shocked, too. Shane knew the story of what had happened four years ago, but had no idea the past was riding Taylor hard. Driving him to lose sleep, affecting his appetite, costing him focus at work. And nobody could find out, especially Shane.

Why the hell was this happening now, when his life was mostly together?

Pushing from bed, he stood and shook it off, one more time. One more day. He could do this.

Glancing at the clock, he grimaced. Just shy of five-thirty in the morning. Jesus, that sucked. But since he’d skipped his run for the last few days, he might as well take advantage of the extra hour before he had to get ready for work. He knew he’d feel better once he got his blood pumping, but lately it had been damned hard to get motivated.

“Get your ass moving, slacker,” he muttered to himself.

In less than two minutes he was dressed in jogging pants, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes. Sucking in a deep breath he headed downstairs and out the front door, locking it behind him and then hanging the spare key on a cord around his neck. After tucking it under his shirt, he started off.

Settling into a brisk pace, he regulated his breathing, enjoying the feeling of stretching neglected muscles, his soles hitting the pavement. He loved to run. He wasn’t a fitness nut, not even close, but the fresh air was good for him. Helped him clear his head. Especially in the early summer like now, before the weather turned too hot.

As always, he admired the older homes in his neighborhood, with their tidy yards and beds full of flowers. He had a healthy competition going with the neighbors on his street, trying to outdo each other on who could cultivate the best yard. They even held a yearly contest at their block party. Shane liked giving him shit about that. Sue me, I like plants and flowers, and I’m social.

Whatever. Focusing on his home gave him something to do to take his mind off his single, lonely status for a while. Besides, ladies loved that sort of shit, right? When he found The One, she’d admire his botanical handiwork and realize she’d found the perfect man. The idea made him smirk at his own idiocy.

He was so into his thoughts, the steady pounding of his feet on the asphalt, that he didn’t register the whine of an approaching engine. Acceleration.

Not until it was almost too late.

Out of habit, he glanced over his shoulder—and his eyes widened. A black pickup truck was barreling down on him, and swerved in his direction. Twisting his body, he dove for a row of hedges just as the bumper of the truck clipped his left side. The shock of the impact barely had a second to register and then he was flying over the bushes. He hit the ground hard, skidding, one knee and an arm taking the brunt. Coming to a stop, he rolled to sit up, half-expecting the truck to burst right through the hedges and mow him down.

At the sound of the vehicle squealing around the corner, he let out a sigh of relief and sat there, pushing a shaking hand through his hair.

“Shit!”

Sharp pain began to make itself known, and he inspected the damage. His right forearm was scraped, bloody and dirty, but once it was cleaned it wouldn’t be too bad. The laceration across his kneecap might be more problematic. Probing it, he hissed a breath. The cut was nasty, and he was bleeding like a stuck pig. It was a tricky spot for stitches, though, so he’d just have to tend it as best he could.

Getting to his feet was more difficult than he expected. He was already hurting all over, getting stiff. Of course, there was nobody around on this quiet street to help him, and he hadn’t brought his cell phone. He’d jogged about four miles, and he was looking at a painful walk home. He was going to be late to the station.

He started off, wincing with every slow step. His body was throbbing everywhere, so to occupy his mind he tried to focus on what he recalled about the truck.

The vehicle was black. Completely. Tinted windows that were beyond legal. Thinking harder, he realized it was a Ford. Newer model, from the grill and logo. He hadn’t been able to get a glimpse of the driver, or the plates. As for who might hold a big enough grudge to try to run him down? Fuck, he’d been a cop since he was twenty-one. That list would take all day to compile.

That was all he had, and it wasn’t much.

The walk home took over half an hour. By the time he limped up the porch steps, he wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and give the finger to this whole day. Instead, he took a hot shower, paying special attention to getting the dirt out of his scrapes and the cut on his knee. It hurt like shit, and he knew he’d feel worse tomorrow. Joy.

Once out of the shower, he toweled off and gathered some first aid supplies, then sat on the toilet lid. The arm could wait. His knee was still bleeding like a bitch, and he doused it with antiseptic. Several gauze pads later, the bleeding had slowed, and he closed the laceration as best as he could using some wound glue he’d bought at the drug store a while back. It worked okay, and he bandaged and taped it for good measure. He’d have to watch that wound for infection.

There wasn’t much he could do for the scraped-up arm. He hit it with antiseptic as well, downed a couple of ibuprofen, then hobbled into the bedroom and spotted the time. Just after seven. Before getting dressed, he had to make a call. Picking up his cell, he sat on the bed, brought up his contacts, and punched the number.

Shane answered on the second ring. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I’m going to be a little late, half hour or so. I, um, had an incident.”

“What kind of incident? What happened?” He could hear the concern in his partner’s voice.

“Truck tried to turn me into road kill while I was out running this morning.”

“On purpose?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck. You okay?”

“I’m fine, just moving slow. Scraped my arm and cut my knee after he hit me—”

“The bastard actually hit you?” his friend barked. “Why the hell aren’t you in the ER getting checked out?”

“Calm down, partner. Like I said, it’s not that bad. I got clipped by the bumper is all.” He cut Shane off before the man could get started again. “After I get there, I’m going to file a report so the guys on patrol can watch for the truck. Black Ford.”

“The one with the fucking dent in the front.”

He had to smile. “That’ll be the one.”

“I’m already at the station. I’ll give them a heads-up so they can go ahead and start looking,” he said, an angry edge to his words.

“Thanks, man.”

“You need a ride? I can send a squad.”

“No, I’m good.” The last thing he wanted was to call even more attention to his situation.

“All right. Take your time and I’ll see you soon.”

Ending the call, Taylor went to the closet and chose an acceptable pair of jeans that were comfortable. Then he lingered over the shirts. A short-sleeved one would be better because it wouldn’t rub on the scrapes, but then he’d have to field questions all day from people who hadn’t heard about this morning. Debating, he settled on a dark, long-sleeved cotton shirt that would hide the wounds and any dots of blood that might seep through.

Once he was dressed, putting on his shoes was an effort. Amazing how fast the body became bruised and sore. Good thing he was going in to the station—if he sat around here much longer, he might never move again.

Downstairs in the kitchen, he settled on coffee and half a toasted bagel. He needed something in his stomach, and he couldn’t live without his daily jolt of caffeine. Especially today. He carried both with him, and eyed his new Challenger before climbing in.

He loved muscle cars, and this was a really cool one. But he missed his old Chevelle, which had been fucked up a few weeks ago when he and Shane had taken a dip—car and all—into the Cumberland River while in pursuit of a suspect. The car was currently sitting alone and forlorn in Christian Ford’s big garage out back of his house. Chris was Shane’s cousin and a fellow Homicide detective, having recently transferred in from Texas. The three of them tinkered on fixing the Chevelle when they had time and Taylor had the extra cash, which wasn’t often.

God, he missed that car.

The Challenger started with a throaty roar, which he had to admit was pretty butch. Too bad he couldn’t enjoy driving it today, with his knee screaming every time he switched from the gas to the brake. Maybe he should’ve accepted the ride. Too late now.

He made it to the station, and was thankfully able to give his report with little fanfare. Apparently, Shane had told only those who needed to know, their Captain, Austin Rainey, and a couple of uniforms. He had no doubt that the entire department would know within the hour, but at least he was able to have some breathing room. A few minutes later, he limped into his partner’s office and closed the door.

Shane looked up from some papers, giving him a half-smile. “Hey. He must’ve winged you good.”

“For sure. No point in sitting around at home, though.”

“You might reconsider tomorrow, when it’s worse.”

“We’ll see.” He wouldn’t call in sick unless he was on his deathbed and they both knew it. Shane just shook his head.

“Tell me exactly what happened.”

He spent the next few minutes giving his partner the rundown, though there wasn’t much to tell. They went back through some of their most recent cases to try to form a list of who might still carry enough of a grudge to commit attempted murder, but although there were several candidates, none were that strong.

Taylor tried to get comfortable in his chair, wincing as he squirmed. “Most of them are in prison, or dead. And the ones that are out . . . I can come up with a list as long as my arm of who would run me over if they had the chance, but . . .” He frowned.

“What?”

“This had a different feel. Nothing I can put my finger on, just intuition.”

“Like he was waiting for the opportunity?”

“Exactly. I’ve got no proof, though.”

“You and I both know people kill for two main reasons—passion or money.” His partner eyed him. “Which one do you fit?”

Taylor snorted. “Since I’m not loaded, I’m guessing passion. And there’s all kinds of passion-motived killings. Specifically hate, when it comes to cops.”

Unbidden, his nightmare intruded. Viciously, he shoved it into its box.

“Okay. Someone you, or we, arrested, then.”

“Maybe.” Rubbing his eyes, he let out a tired breath. “Can we talk about this later? It might not even happen again.”

“Sure.”

Somehow, he didn’t really believe that. A chill slithered down his spine, telling him this was only the start. Could be his overwrought, stressed mind, but it didn’t seem likely that’s all there was to it.

A knock interrupted his thoughts, and Captain Rainey stepped into Shane’s office. “We’ve got a body in the Sugarland Motel. Caller reported the sound of a gunshot and Jenkins found the guy shot between the eyes.”

Shane stood, groaning. “And let me guess, it’s our turn.”

“Yep.” The captain looked at Taylor. “You up for this?”

“I’m here, aren’t I? If I was going to laze around, I’d stay home.”

Rainey grinned. “That’s the spirit. Now go get fucking busy.” Turning, the captain strolled out, whistling.

“He’s all heart,” Shane said, making a face.

“At least he’s in a good mood today. Wonder what’s up with that?”

Their captain was having serious marital problems—as in going down the tubes, permanently. He’d been tired and haggard the past few months, and they had all been worried about his health. Today, however, he had a spring in his step.

“No clue, but let’s not rock the boat.”

Taylor rose with some difficulty and stiffly followed his partner out the door. Turning down Shane’s offer to drive, he slid behind the wheel and they were off.

On the way, he thought he saw a black truck in traffic, three cars behind. Then it turned and was gone.

* * *

As though nearly being run over wasn’t enough, the corpse with the neat little hole in the center of its forehead turned out to be a harbinger.

A sign of a shitstorm heading his way.

Taylor stood next to Shane as both of them studied the dead man sprawled face-up on the floor. His salt-and-pepper hair was surrounded by a sticky pool of blood congealing on the industrial-grade carpet, and his expression was vaguely surprised.

“Who the hell was the poor bastard?” Taylor muttered. “And why did he get popped here of all places?”

Shane snorted. “He could’ve had the decency to get his ass killed in Nashville, out of our jurisdiction.”

Taylor rolled his eyes at his partner’s crappy joke. “You know what I meant.”

“Yeah.”

Both of them glanced around the small motel room, but there wasn’t much to see. At least on the surface. Carefully stepping around the body, Taylor noted a few clothes hanging in the closet next to the bathroom.

“Another suit, a couple of pairs of jeans and three polo shirts.” He peered into the bathroom. “A shaving kit in there. That’s all.”

“Got a small leather carry-all on the table containing underwear and socks. A plane ticket too, round trip from LAX to Nashville International and back. Looks like he arrived yesterday, was supposed to fly back in three days. Car keys and his wallet beside the bag.” Shane left the leather tri-fold sitting on the dresser and flipped it open with the edge of one latex-covered finger. “Max Griffin, born December 12, 1946. San Diego address.”

Taylor’s heart gave a lurch. He stared at Shane, his friend unaware of his sudden chill. It means nothing. San Diego is not Los Angeles. They’re two different cities 121 miles apart, almost a two-hour drive.