A Righteous Kill (3 page)

“Thanks.” He ripped open a few bandages and lifted his jacket to press it to the victim’s side. “Put pressure here,” he directed. Wroth gave him a ‘
duh
’ look, but didn’t mouth off to him. He knew he liked her for a reason other than her looking like a smart version of Emilia Clarke.

As soon as Wroth applied pressure to the victim’s wound, the girl’s eyes flew open and her arms flailed. A hoarse scream gurgled to the surface and she tried to grab at his shirt. Once she attempted a grip, she cried out again in pain and pulled her injured hands into the cradle of her body. Panic-filled eyes bounced from face to face and sobs of terror were interrupted by another fit of body-wracking coughs.

“Hey. Hey… shhhhh.” Luca gently grasped her slim wrists. “I know this hurts. But we have to stop the bleeding.” He positioned himself into her line of vision, hoping to block out all the chaos and faces and flashing lights. ”Look at me, sweetheart,” he crooned as her wide green gaze locked on his face.

She blinked rapidly, but stopped sobbing. She just trembled and stared, her tears mingling with the rain. The surrounding chaos immediately receded into darkness. Luca shivered again, but not because of the rain plastering his thin dress shirt to his body. As their eyes locked, some kind of cosmic puzzle piece snapped into place. The sensation that seized his chest with the force of an iron vice had words like
fate
and
destiny
chiseled into it.

And he didn’t even
believe
in that bullshit.

Luca’s brain rejected the feeling like an ingested toxin, heaving it with a violent spasm onto the ground. This girl—woman—was not only a victim, she was a witness. His witness. She’d stared into the eyes of the devil. She’d been crucified, stabbed, drowned, and returned from the brink of death. This alien feeling of epic magnitude could only mean that she could be the key to putting an end to the evil terrorizing the women of his city. At least, that’s how Luca was determined to interpret it.

“You need a blanket,” he noted. “Someone get her a fucking blanket!” he ordered over his shoulder and his ire was somewhat appeased by the frantic movement to comply. It wasn’t often that people questioned him on a good day. But on a night like this, he just
hoped
someone challenged him. He needed a direction for his fury.

When he turned back to her, he saw something in the clear green gaze that he’d not expected in the least. Hope. Relief. Trust?

Wordlessly, she offered him the backs of her injured hands, like a child would show an inconsequential wound to a parent. Silent tears still ran down her cheeks. They wrenched at his insides, but he was just so damned relieved to see her reacting at all.

“I know,” he murmured to her, gently pressing gauze into her palm. “I know. The ambulance is on its way. Can you hold on for me until then?”

She gave him what might have been a watery nod.

“Good girl.” He laid a hand on her hair and looked back over his shoulder. “Goddammit!” he exploded. “It’s like, twenty fucking below out here and not one of you fuck-nuts can find a blanket?
Aye Chingau pendejos!
She was just pulled from the goddamned river! I swear to the
Madre de Dio—
”

A blanket appeared in his hands. One of those coarse wool emergency jobbers that people kept in their trunks and hoped to never use.

What, did they have to
weave
it first before getting it over here?

Whipping it open, Regan helped him settle it over the victim. At least the girl still trembled beneath his hands. If she suffered complications from hypothermia, he would beat O’Reilly to death with his own baton. Hell, if this situation went any further south, that fat fuck would face his wrath—

Luca took a deep, cool breath through his nose and let it hiss through his throat on the exhale. What had he learned in Anger Management? While counting to ten, in English then Spanish, he gently tucked the edges of the blanket around where Wroth still held pressure on her stomach wound.

She said nothing, but raised a chocolate eyebrow at him.

“Was I yelling in Spanish?” He busied himself fussing with the blanket way more than was needed. He’d forced himself to drop all traces of a Hispanic accent in college. It was only when he lost control of his temper that he ever reverted to his first language. He’d been better at that lately. Mostly.

“Uh huh.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, more to the victim than the detective.

She just blinked at him, seeming to focus more on panting and shivering than anything else. A reckless and distressing urge to pull her shivering body into his arms and share his heat with her had Luca clenching his fists at his sides.

Someone yelled that the paramedics had arrived. He couldn’t complain about their timing, but the woman’s pallor was seriously starting to alarm him.

“You look like you’ve had a hell of a day, Ramirez.” Wroth used that silky voice on him, the one that lulled many an unsuspecting criminal into a false sense of security. “Go home and cop a few hours of sleep. I’ll go with her in the ambulance and call you—”

“No!”

They both looked down in surprise.

The victim was frantically trying to roll her body toward him, reaching out to him with her injured hands again, causing the gauze to loosen. The wild look returned to her eyes. “No. No!
You
.” Her head shook wildly.

“Hey. It’s all right. Calm down.” He took hold of her shoulders gently and tried to subdue her thrashing.

She obviously struggled to speak around her chattering teeth. “Don’t. Leave. Me,” she pleaded.

“Okay. I’m going with you to the hospital. I need you to lay still, sweetheart. Your side is starting to bleed again.”

She complied immediately, relaxing beneath his hands.

He snagged gazes with Wroth. She’d just shocked the hell out of them both. Why not go with the kind and pretty, but capable woman detective instead of his vulgar ornery ass?

Secretly, Luca suspected he would have argued the point regardless of what the victim wanted. Hell, it really wouldn’t have been much of an argument. He would have just strong-armed his way into the ambulance. For some ridiculous reason, the thought of leaving her care to anyone else made him crazy. What if something happened on the way to the hospital? Who was going to make sure the paramedics did their job? Or the doctors once they got to the Emergency Room?

It wasn’t because of the lead weight in his belly every time he looked at her. Or due to the unreasonable primitive instincts that seemed to ripple through his blood. It had nothing to do with either of those things. She was his first and only lead on this case. He’d be damned if he let her slip through his fingers for a few hours of sleep.

“Excuse me, sir.” A tiny, honey-colored female paramedic and her blonde male partner shouldered him aside in their hurry to place the stretcher on the ground. They worked efficiently together, and didn’t seem to mind him hovering.

“You can help carry her up the hill while I see to these,” the woman commanded Luca while addressing the open gashes.

Luca liked her right away. Why
didn’t
they have more women in their profession? In his experience, they tended to keep cooler heads in times of crisis and fall apart later. He would rather deal with that then colossal fuck ups like O’Reilly.

Once they were settled into the ambulance and racing for Legacy Emanuel Medical Center, he leaned in close to the victim, trying to keep her from sinking into shock or some shit.

Warming her up would mean more blood flow. Though the paramedic seemed to be doing a good job and the victim’s vitals were stronger than he’d expected, he was still scared shitless she might not make it.

“What’s your name?” he asked her, reaching up to smooth a grimy lock of hair away from her forehead.

She searched his face with unfocused eyes before whispering, “Hero.”

A sad smile tugged on the corner of his mouth. “I’m no hero, girl. Don’t ever mistake me for one.”

Chapter Two

“What's in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other word would smell as sweet.”

~William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

Hero Viola Katrova-Conner. Fucking bizarre name.

Sprawled in the uncomfortable vinyl ICU recliner that farted loudly every time he shifted, Luca zoned while he watched the stable rise and fall of her chest. Along with the steady sounds of the monitoring machines, the rhythmic movement hypnotized him. He’d been staring like this for—he checked his watch—a good half an hour now. Damn. He’d have sworn not 5 minutes had passed since they’d wheeled her into this private room.

She’d freaked out when the ER staff had separated them. He couldn’t get the terror in her eyes out of his mind. She’d begged to let him stay with her. And they had allowed it until she’d been properly sedated. He’d become her security blanket, Luca guessed, but he couldn’t for the life of him understand why. Most people that met him in a professional capacity couldn’t wait to get
away
from him.

His gaze drifted to her hands tucked limply to her sides and wrapped in heavy bandages. It made him want to throw something, so he shut down the impulse and used the moment to really study her. Her nose, now hooked to oxygen, was small and pert and smattered with just a few freckles he hadn’t detected before. Her oval face had a sweet curve to it, lending her a youthful innocence. Her body was compact and generously curved, but sinewy, he remembered, like an athlete.

As a prostitute, she would make a killing.

She’d been in emergency surgery for three excruciating hours. After she’d been wheeled into the ICU, one of the clerical assistants, Barbara, of the cat-like fingernails and Texas bouffant, had recognized her as someone who regularly volunteered at the hospital. Something
else
that didn’t jive with John the Baptist’s
modus operandi
. Salivating over the prospect of a lead, Luca had spent a good hour grilling poor Barbara. By the time he finished, the office assistant didn’t like him either. Big surprise.

He’d gleaned through her tears and redneck accent that the victim was a yoga instructor and popular local artisan. Pottery, it seemed. Barbara had even held up a bright pink coffee mug with yellow swirls that had been bought at a Christmas charity auction the year before. Holding the coffee mug had made her cry harder, which caused her eye makeup to goop and run into the wrinkles and grooves that branched out from her eyes.

No, she didn’t know if Hero was involved with someone.

No, it was inconceivable that she had any enemies.

No, she couldn’t say where Hero lived or what else she did for a living. And Luca was a bastard for even implying she was anything but a right and proper angel.

The woman had been useless after that. Luca dismissed her to go fix her face.

Background checks were being propagated, and Hero’s past was now being compiled by an army of federal office clerks and paralegals. He’d know everything from where she lived, to her medical records, to what kind of nail polish she preferred.

By the time the surgeon emerged to deliver a prognosis, Luca had paced a new path in the well-worn carpet of the waiting room. They’d had to reconstruct some of her large intestine and sew a small laceration to her kidney. A few pints of blood had been replaced and they still worried about infections or parasites from the river water. However, the fact that she’d spent time in the freezing water likely saved her life. Her body was strong and healthier than most, so they expected her to pull through. This seemed to be her lucky night.

If you put aside the whole victim of a psycho killer part.

Luca collapsed with relief into the chair and not moved since. He stared at his Bruno Magli
Palatino
Cap Toe Boots. Studying his shoes always helped him think. The rain and mud had done a number on them. Luca sighed. That’s what he got for wearing four hundred dollar boots to work.

He couldn’t make sense of this one. Thus far, John the Baptist’s victims were hookers. Or in one case, an escort, and if everyone was being completely honest, there wasn’t much of a difference. Maybe in the way they filed taxes. Perhaps Hero prostituted to supplement her artist lifestyle? Hey, if college chicks were doing it nowadays, it wasn’t past the realm of possibility. But still, more and more about this particular victim didn’t add up.

Then there was her family. No Katrova-Conners were listed in the phone book. Oddly enough, he knew of one other person with that distinctive last name and the menacing bastard just
happened
to be a fellow FBI agent. And Hero’s brother. Maybe that meant something?

Because of the public outcry over John the Baptist, it was pretty common knowledge Luca was lead on the case. He’d done a few bullshit press conferences. Was it a possibility this hit was more of a taunt to the FBI? A copy-cat maybe?

While Hero had been in surgery, Luca had called his partner, Vincent Di Petro, to ask what he could about Hero’s brother. He’d seen the guy around, but they’d never really had the opportunity to work together.

His partner was at the scene, coordinating the evidence collection while Luca stayed with the victim, but he was able to give Luca the info he needed on Hero’s brother.

Berowne “Rown” Katrova-Connor worked in the White Collar Division and on the International Crimes Task Force. He was ex-military, a crack shot, fantastic grappler, and some sort of computer whiz. The whole
famn damily
, which he understood to be prolific, was military or law-enforcement.

Except for Hero, looked like. And what the hell was up with their weird ass names? Hero? Berowne?

Luca took a sip of shitty hospital vending machine coffee. It was luke-warm now and tasted like grit and ashes. The grounds at the bottom stuck in his throat and he had to chew a little and force them down. Then, he stood and tossed the Styrofoam cup at the trash can across the room by the door. God, he was sick of bad coffee. But he wasn’t going to wait in line at some uppity, beat-nick coffee house full of stoners and students—not that the two were mutually exclusive—just for a decent cup of joe. He had shit to do.