Beneath the Surface (25 page)

CHAPTER

30

T
he automatic doors slid open, granting him access to Rocky Mountain Regional. The congealed blood in his boot squished with each step, making a loud sucking sound as he limped across the lobby. It wasn’t the fire in his thigh that bothered him. Hell, he’d been shot before, and a lot more vitally wounded than this. The problem that had him seeking professional medical assistance tonight was the lack of an exit wound. The fucking bullet was imbedded in his thigh, and that damn thing needed to come out. If it wasn’t for his little lead problem, he would have cleaned it out and bandaged it himself.

He’d erred tonight, and he was furious with himself. After his fuckup he deserved a hell of a lot worse than a bullet in the leg. He was damn lucky that was the only damage he’d taken. Using the red light scope had been a serious error in judgment and one that Tate had taken advantage of. Quinn had been alone upstairs, and he’d made the split-moment decision to use the red light on his scope. It made it easier to hit a moving target. He hadn’t expected Tate to go barreling in there, or to reach her before he could get his shot off. But the light had given away his position, and he’d paid dearly for that mistake, hence the 30-caliber bullet in his leg.

“Can I help you?” the nurse behind the desk asked, her eyes dropping to his blood-soaked thigh.

He sure fucking hoped so, and a little more give-a-shit might be nice.

“I got a bullet in my leg. I need someone to take it out.”

“You were shot?”

“Nah . . . it was put there by angel kisses. Of course I was shot. For fuck’s sake, lady, quit asking me stupid questions and get me a goddamn doctor.”

He’d spent the last four hours with his belt tied around his thigh while he drove to Denver for treatment. He needed to go to a Level 1 trauma center, someplace that saw this kind of shit all the time, someplace he’d blend in with all the other bullet wounds of the night. You show up in a small-town ER with a gunshot wound, people remember that shit.

Needless to say, he was short on patience, low on blood supply, and Nancy Drew over here was pissing him the fuck off.

“Step into my triage room.” She indicated the area to her right and he limped over to the room. She slid the curtain closed behind them and sat across from him. “Tell me what happened.” The nurse placed a blood pressure cuff on his arm and pulse oximeter on his finger. After she pressed the start button, the cuff began to inflate and she turned to type his information into her computer. “What’s your name?”

“Collin Anderson.” He rattled off the info on the fake ID he carried in his wallet—name, address, date of birth.

“How were you shot?”

“In the Hunger Games. That Peeta’s a real dick.”

Nurse Ratched gave him an
I’m not amused
scowl and went back to clicking away on the keyboard.

The cuff released on his arm and the machine began to beep—89/60, heart rate 120. Great, he was going into shock. The nurse looked at the machine and a flicker of concern flashed in her eyes. That was more like it. About fucking time . . .

“Are you dizzy? Light-headed?”

“A little bit.”

“How long ago were you shot?”

“Couple of hours.”

“How much blood have you lost?”

“Enough that I’m here instead of at home watching
Dancing with the Stars
.”

She pulled on a pair of gloves before grabbing her trauma shears and slitting the side of his pant leg to get a look at the wound. A slow trickle of blood oozed from the entrance wound, but he’d be willing to bet once that belt was taken off his leg, things were going to change in a big hurry.

“Wait here.” She returned with a wheelchair a moment later and motioned for him to get into it. He didn’t particularly want to, but decided it was probably his best shot at getting back there and in front of a doctor anytime soon. He should probably play nice, sit his ass down, and keep his fucking mouth shut so he could get fixed and get the hell out of there.

CHAPTER

31

Q
uinn rolled over, searching for Asher in her sleep. She startled awake when her hand glided over the cool sheets instead of his warm, muscled chest. Where was he? How long had he been gone? Long enough for his spot to grow cold. Concerned, she lifted her head and glanced at the clock on the nightstand—3:00 a.m.

He’d told her last night that he suffered from insomnia. Were the ghosts of his past haunting him? Or maybe he was keeping vigil in case the killer decided to return. He’d seemed confident that wouldn’t happen, but Asher wasn’t a man to take chances. Either way, she needed to find him. He didn’t speak of it, but she knew the Peterson trial was wearing on him. She hoped now that it was over, the media interest would die down and he could finally let the guilt go.

Unfortunately, as was the case with most things, they always seemed to get worse before they got better. Maybe with her help, he could put this behind him and focus on moving forward. But would that forward include her? She hoped it would—especially after Asher’s confession tonight. He was falling in love with her . . . Just remembering his words sent a burst of warmth spreading through her chest, and then remembering what he did to her in the hours after that made the heat pool lower.

Quinn tossed the covers aside to go find him. She didn’t want him sitting up all alone with nothing but his demons to keep him company. She found his T-shirt balled up on the floor and slipped it on. The air was cool and goose bumps prickled her flesh as her bare foot touched the hardwood floor. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms for heat as she headed for the hallway. From the top of the stairs, she could see the glow of the TV lighting Asher’s profile. He sat on the couch, feet planted on the floor. His elbows were resting on his knees and his face was buried in his hands, fingers threaded into his hair.

She watched him a moment, unsure if she should go to him or back to bed. He didn’t look like he’d appreciate the interruption. But then his dad’s words returned to her mind and were all the encouragement she needed to take that first step. It creaked beneath her weight. He tensed, but didn’t move beyond that subtle shift.

As her foot landed on the bottom step, Quinn’s attention was drawn to the TV and her heart took a nosedive into her stomach. The red word “mute” lit up the top right corner of the screen as the closed caption played across the bottom. CNN was playing footage of a car heading toward a Jeep filled with what appeared to be American soldiers. The camera panned to a woman driving the car. A child not more than eight was sitting in the passenger seat beside her. They were in the middle of a city, a town square maybe. It was difficult to see because whoever was filming didn’t have a very steady hand.

Someone got out of the Jeep and faced off with the car. The camera zoomed in on the man and Quinn’s heart stopped.
Holy shit, that’s Asher . . .
He was yelling something at the car, then turned back at his men and shouted something. Another man got out of the vehicle and stood beside him. Wait . . . was that . . . Jayce? He drew his gun and aimed it at the car. Asher said something to him, and if she had to guess, he was telling him to stand down, because the man lowered his gun, refusing to take his eyes off his target. The car was getting closer. Asher yelled something again, and in the background she could see Iraqi soldiers running toward them from a distance.

Movement in the corner of the screen caught her eye. The camera panned left just as another solider stood up from the Jeep and fired on the car. It exploded. The concussive blast knocked Asher and Jayce to the ground. Smoke and dust filled the screen, and by the time it cleared, they were in a full-blown firefight. The Iraqi soldiers were firing at Asher and his team, and the Americans were returning fire. The bodies of Iraqi soldiers and civilians, caught in the crossfire, were lying in the streets. Blood flowed like a river. Death was everywhere. A pyre of black smoke billowed from the car, skewing the view of the camera as breezy gusts blew smoke past the lens.

Then the camera fell to the ground and Quinn’s hand flew up to cover her mouth, holding back her startled gasp. The camera’s angle now turned to the side, half of the screen filled with the vacant stare of the cameraman, the other half filming the running of feet, stampeding past the dead man until finally the screen turned to static. She’d never seen the footage of the Nisour Square massacre before and wished to God she never would have.

Running across the bottom of the television screen was the headline
Rolland Peterson found guilty in Nisour Square massacre. Sentenced to life without parole . . .
The news footage cut to a man being led down the steps of a courthouse. His legs were shackled and his wrists cuffed. Cameras flashed as reporters swarmed him. His lawyer tried to shield him, waving the media back, but they were stuck to him like a swarm of bees.

Asher was still as a stone statue. Quinn wanted to comfort him, but she didn’t know what to say. Even without volume, that footage said enough—enough to convict a man to life in prison. It made her heart ache to think about what Asher had gone through that day—being caught in the middle of that firefight and bearing witness to all that horror . . .

Quinn sat on the couch beside him and laid her hand on his back. He flinched at the contact—in surprise or rejection of the comfort she offered him, Quinn didn’t know. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he was feeling right now. What he’d been going through these past few months.

“Asher . . .”

“Don’t, Quinn . . .” he cut her off, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Whatever you have to say, I don’t want to hear it. There’s nothing you can say that will ever make this all right.”

“But it wasn’t your fault . . .” She didn’t have to know all the details to be convinced of that.

He hit the power button on the remote and pinned her with a hard stare. “Of course it was my fault. Those were my men, my responsibility. It was a setup. I fucking knew Peterson was a hotheaded son of a bitch who couldn’t follow orders.”

“What do you mean it was a setup?”

He stared at her in silence, as if he wasn’t sure how much he wanted to say. She hoped he’d open up and let her in. She’d trusted him with her secrets. Would he trust her with his? “Please, Asher . . . talk to me,” she encouraged. “I want to be here for you.”

He took her hand in his and studied it, brushing his thumb over the fine bones. His touch wasn’t intended to be sexual, but even this simple contact sent a ripple of warmth spreading through her veins.

He turned her hand over, palm up, and traced the lines as he finally spoke, seeming to need the distraction of something else to focus on rather than the memories that had played out in vivid detail across the TV screen just a few minutes ago. “The Iraqi government started hiring ex-military officers to train their soldiers. Tate Security was given a six-month contract to go over there and work with their new recruits. There were a lot of people who didn’t want us over there. The government wasn’t happy about us taking their contracts, and the insurgents didn’t want the Iraqi military to get stronger. Personally, I believe a terrorist faction staged the assault by putting a woman and her son in that car. What were the chances that a cameraman just happened to be there to catch the whole thing on tape, or that he had ties to al-Qaeda?

“They knew we’d think there was a bomb in that vehicle. I told everyone to stand down, but Peterson fired on it anyway. The car blew up and killed that woman and child. Some Iraqi officers in the square saw what happened and before we knew it we were in the middle of a firefight. By the time it was over, seventeen people were dead. We were deported back to the US and faced criminal charges. Al-Qaeda got what they wanted—us out of there and no one training the soldiers.”

“Did you tell anyone you think it was a setup?”

“I mentioned it during my deposition. But it’s only speculation and nothing that can be proven. And it doesn’t justify what Peterson did. He disobeyed a direct order and a lot of people died.” Asher took a deep breath and cleared his throat before continuing. “Anyway, what does it matter now? What’s done is done.”

He shrugged and stood. Apparently, discussion time was over. Quinn didn’t move. Tipping her head back, she looked at him. “Clearly, it still matters to you.”

He shook his head. Fatigue etched the fine lines of his handsome face.

“When was the last time you slept?” She stood and cupped the hard angle of his jaw, searching his eyes that seemed more predominately blue than she remembered. The day’s growth of stubble abraded her palm.

“I told you, I don’t sleep—two, three hours a night. That’s it.”

“And what do you do with the rest of those hours? Torment yourself with regret?”

“I’ve got a lot to be sorry for . . .”

“And you’ve got a lot to be proud of,” she countered. Rising to her tiptoes, she kissed him softly, letting her lips gently brush over his. “Come on, let’s go back to bed. It’ll be light soon.” He didn’t resist her when she took his hand and led him back up the stairs. She may not be able to stop the demons that tormented him, but she could become the lifeline for him that he now was for her. His dad was right. Asher needed saving just as much as she did, only the enemy he faced was himself.

CHAPTER

32

W
hen you said you were booking us a room, I wasn’t expecting it to be an apartment.” Asher opened the door for Quinn to step inside. She looked around the suite as she slowly made the tour. The kitchen and living room were separated by a long countertop with a row of bar stools tucked beneath the overhang. He followed her into the bedroom and set their bags on the king-size bed.

“I wasn’t sure how long we’d be here and figured a little room to breathe might be nice.” Asher had booked the room on a private floor and had a meeting scheduled with the hotel manager in a half hour to discuss security protocols and operations. The only way to access the top floor was with a passcode entered into the elevator. The room was locked via keycard that changed access codes every twelve hours, which would provide added security if, by some chance in hell, Quinn was found here.

Depending on how savvy her assassin was, his government access, and the technology readily available to him, Asher wouldn’t put anything past him. Hopefully by the time Quinn discovered the connection she was looking for, Asher would have a plan to take the bastard out. The problem was finding him and protecting Quinn at the same time.

It sure would make things a hell of a lot easier if he knew whom he was dealing with. He’d been reluctant to involve anyone in the search before now, because he didn’t want to lead the assassin to them by sending out queries. But now that the killer had found Quinn, that wasn’t an issue anymore, and Asher had lot of DNA in his woods that could give him the answers he was looking for.

Aside from Quinn’s safety, catching this killer was his top priority, and he needed to exhaust his resources because he could be damn sure the bastard was doing the same.

“I need to make a call before my meeting with security. You going to be all right here by yourself for a while?” He couldn’t resist pulling Quinn against him and stealing a kiss. She yielded to the pressure of his lips so sweetly it was tempting to take it further. She felt so perfect, tasted so sweet . . .

Despite all the chaos and stress surrounding them, he never experienced such peace as when Quinn was in his arms. For the first time in his life, all the pieces of his puzzle were in place. She had a way of making the noise inside his head quiet, the guilt that lived inside his heart abate—even if only for a little while. It was a welcomed reprieve.

“I’ll be fine. I’m just going to take a shower and then rest until Nikko and Violet get here.”

But along with the surge of lust flaring inside him, there was also a niggling of guilt. Although beautiful as ever, Quinn looked tired. She wasn’t sleeping well and he certainly hadn’t done anything to help rectify that. She was proving a temptation too strong to resist and he couldn’t seem to get his fill of her. “I’m sorry I kept you up last night. You need your rest.” He pressed a parting kiss on her forehead and took a step back, putting some much-needed space between them so he didn’t miss his meeting.

“I’m not complaining.”

Her teasing grin held a lot of wicked promises, all of which he wanted her to make good on. A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest at the playful light in her eyes. He took another step back, making his way toward the living room. “You’re going to make me late. I’ll be back as soon as I can. My number is on the notepad by the phone. Call me if you need me for anything.”

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

Easier said than done. She gave him a quick kiss before heading for the bathroom and he left before his feet aborted their mission and decided to follow her instead. He pulled his cell from his pocket and scrolled through his contacts as he stepped into the living room and dropped into an overstuffed chair. As the line rang, he contemplated hanging up, but the call connected before he could change his mind.

“Asher . . .”

“Hey, Jax.”

“What’s up?”

Caution laced his brother’s voice. He felt like an asshole for calling, or maybe more aptly, for not calling. He should make a greater effort to close the distance between himself and his brother. It wasn’t Jax’s fault that every time Asher saw his twin, it was like looking in the mirror at a better version of himself. His issues were his own and it was about time he got over them.

“I need a favor. I’m wondering if you can help me.”

“That depends. Knowing you, you’re about to ask me to do something illegal.”

“Only mildly. Can you find out if any of the ERs in the area treated someone for a gunshot wound last night?”

“Oh shit, who did you shoot?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m calling you for. I need a name. Someone unloaded about a dozen rounds into my house and I’m not too happy about it.”

“What the fuck? Why in the hell would someone do that?”

“Don’t ask me questions I can’t answer.”

“Then don’t ask me to put my fucking job on the line. Tell me what’s going on, man.”

Asher exhaled a frustrated sigh and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the headache he felt coming on. He should have known this wasn’t going to be easy. “I can’t. Not yet. Look, Jax, this is important. I just need a name—”

Asher heard the resigned sigh on the other end of the line. “Hold a minute and I’ll see if anything pops up in the department’s database.”

Asher sat in silence waiting for his brother to get back on the line.

“There was only one in the system—slow night, I guess. The report says a Collin Anderson was treated at Rocky Mountain for a gunshot wound to his leg. Police were called by the hospital staff for a mandatory report. By the time the officer arrived the guy was gone. Security footage shows the guy slipping out behind a couple leaving the ER fifteen minutes before the officer arrived.”

The name settled in Asher’s gut like a lead weight. The blast from his past unearthed memories he’d worked long and hard to keep buried. It had to be a coincidence . . . yet he knew it wasn’t.

“Rocky Mountain is four hours from my place. He drove all the way to Denver? What are the chances?”

“Pretty damn good, if this is your man. It’s the closest Level 1 trauma center to you. You walk into a small-town hospital shot up and people are going to talk. Maybe he lives in the area. Who knows . . .”

“You running the name?”

“Of course I am. It’s coming up a fake. Belongs to a dead soldier—died in a firefight in Afghanistan.”

“I know. I was there. Collin Anderson is the first Special Forces officer I lost in my recon unit.”

“You’re fucking kidding me . . .”

“I wish I were.”

“You got a pissed-off soldier coming home from the war who’s got a grudge against you? Blames you for his buddy’s death?”

“There are a lot of people who’ve got grudges against me.”

“Yeah, well, anytime you decide to fill me in, that’d be real fucking swell. I’m not keen on the idea of some bastard running around taking potshots at you.”

It wasn’t him this fucker wanted. But who in the hell was this guy because he sure as shit wasn’t Collin Anderson. Why in the hell was he using the ID of one of Asher’s men? “If you want to help me catch this bastard, his DNA is all over at the bottom of a large oak tree on the east side of my property, two-thirds of the way up my driveway and about twenty paces into the woods.”

“Where are you at right now?”

“I’d rather not say. This cell line is supposed to be secure but I don’t want to take any chances.”

“Was Quinn with you? She all right?”

“Yeah . . . she’s fine.”

“She must be pretty shaken up if someone’s trying to kill you.”

He felt like an ass for misleading his brother, but he wasn’t ready to tell him what was going on yet—not when he wasn’t entirely certain himself. “We’ve both had better days.”

“I’ll try to cut out a little early and head to your place after work. I’m going to have to open a case file to get the blood sample processed. Who knows, maybe your shooter’s got a record and we’ll get lucky with a hit.”

Wouldn’t that be nice? But something told Asher it wasn’t going to be that easy.

“Watch your six,” Asher warned. “If he comes back there and finds you digging around, he’ll be gunning for you. This guy’s no fucking joke.”

Quinn’s heart leapt with excitement when shortly after her shower, she heard a soft, persistent knock on the door. She knew before looking through the peephole that her sister was outside. But just to be safe, she put her eye to the glass and saw Violet’s face grinning back at her as she waved to the hole.

She quickly unlatched the door and pulled it open, then stumbled back when her sister plowed into her, throwing her arms around Quinn and squeezing until she couldn’t breathe. “Quinn! I’ve been a wreck worrying about you! Are you all right?”

“I’m okay . . .” she assured her, returning Vi’s hug with equal vigor. She didn’t realize how much she missed her sister until Violet was standing in front of her and all that emotion inside her came bubbling to the surface. She’d been gone too long, let too much time and distance separate them. When this was over, Quinn vowed things would be different—she’d be a better sister to Violet.

Vi let her go and took a step back, giving her a once-over.

“Really, I’m good,” Quinn promised her. But then Vi’s studious gaze paused on her neck and Quinn’s cheeks flushed with heat as her sister’s eyes grew wide with
Holy crap, is that a hickey on your neck?
Her surprised expression was all excitement and zero judgment—which was a graciousness Quinn was pretty certain her brother-in-law wouldn’t be extending. But the mischievous glint in Vi’s eyes promised they would be having a private talk later on.

Quinn cleared her throat a bit awkwardly and turned her attention to her niece. “Raven!” She grabbed the girl and pulled her into a hug. “You’re even more beautiful than when I saw you last.” Her straight black hair was so dark it almost looked blue in the light. And with her dad’s silver-gray eyes, she was an absolute knockout. “You driving yet?”

She smiled and nodded excitedly. “Got my permit last month.”

“That’s awesome! The next time I come for a visit, we’re going to steal your dad’s car and hit the Vegas strip.”

Raven laughed and the look Nikko gave Quinn promised
Not on your life
. “Oh, quit your scowling,” she teased, heading for her brother-in-law with open arms. “I’m just kidding.” As she gave him a hug, she looked at Raven and shook her head, silently mouthing over his shoulder
I’m not kidding . . .

“Stop putting ideas in her head, Quinn. She’s already a handful.”

Raven let out an unladylike snort and rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Dad . . .” Then to Quinn she said, “You sneak into one cage-fighting after-party and suddenly you’re public enemy number one.”

Quinn bit her lip to hold back her laugh but Nikko didn’t look amused. Turning his full attention to Quinn, he studied her as if he needed to see for himself she was unharmed. She shifted uncomfortably beneath the scrutiny of Nikko’s stare and when those steely silver eyes zeroed in on the mark on her neck, she experienced, for a brief moment, what it must be like for Raven to fall under her father’s disapproving eye. For chrissake, she was an adult and yet she wanted to go crawl under the table.

“Where’s Asher?” His tone was clipped, and Violet must have picked up on the source of his anger because she stepped up to her husband and slipped her arm around his muscular biceps. “Now, Nikko, what goes on between them isn’t any of our concern . . .” she quietly cautioned him.

To her sister’s credit, she seemed to diffuse a great deal of his temper. But Raven knew that tone, and as Quinn moved back, her niece shot her an amused
You’re in trouble
grin.

“The hell it isn’t,” Nikko growled. “I didn’t send my sister-in-law to him so he could take advantage of her.” Then to Quinn he snapped again, “Where is Asher?”

All right, now it was her turn to muscle up to the cranky cage fighter. “Nikko, I love you for caring so much. Really, I do, but no one is taking advantage of me. And Asher is meeting with the head of hotel security right now.” No sooner did she finish speaking than the door chirped as the lock clicked and in walked the man of the hour.

The moment the door closed behind him, it locked all that tension and testosterone inside the room with them.

“Come on,” Violet said, grabbing Raven’s and Quinn’s hands as she led them toward the bedroom. “Let’s give these two some privacy. I’ve got a package I think you’ve been anxious to get your hands on.”