Breaking Away (5 page)

Using a washcloth, he wiped away the dried blood in his hair and attempted to look at the injury. A deep furrow cut across his scalp on the right side of his head to his temple. The coppery scent of blood turned his stomach.

He’d missed being killed by the width of a piece of paper. And there was no doubt he had a concussion because of it.

“Motherfuckers!” he muttered. He had to get dressed and get out of here. Until he knew what was going on, he needed to be wary of everyone who’d been involved in the mission.

He rummaged through the medicine cabinet and found gauze, tape, and antibiotic ointment. He slathered on the ointment, wound the gauze around his head, and, tearing off a piece of tape with his teeth, slapped it on the end of the bandage.

His head throbbed relentlessly. He swallowed two ibuprofen dry, and with a fresh washcloth, wiped away the remnants of blood that tinged his skin pink. He had to get moving. If the FBI had double-crossed him, they’d be coming here any minute to search for him.

He remembered the call he’d received during the buy and jerked his cell phone from his pocket, flipping it open and playing Dobson’s first message. Rick Dobson’s voice said, “There’s something screwy going down, Flash. Don’t go to the meet. Hole up somewhere until you hear from me.”

The call had come in at O-six hundred. By six-ten he’d called again while he was under fire. The only people Rick would have been with at that time were his team. Had the international cartel they were dealing with somehow learned about them? But how? Had they fallen under attack? It had sounded like it.

The cartel would have known to come after Flash because he was the go-between, but they wouldn’t have known about Rick and the team. Unless someone they trusted had burned them.

Rick hadn’t told him any names of the players involved. So he had no idea what had been going on behind the scenes.

Flash returned to his bedroom, dragged a shirt from his closet and another jacket. Two minutes later he walked out of his apartment with a backpack hanging over his shoulders that carried a change of clothes, his laptop, medical supplies, and extra ammunition. A baseball cap hid the bandage around his head. The bags from the drop dangled heavily from each hand.

He was going to do just as Rick told him and hole up somewhere until he heard from him… if he was still alive.

Jesus, he felt weak and nauseous. He walked out the back door just as the scream of police car sirens sounded in the distance. Avoiding his car, he walked down the alley and across the busy street at the corner to a nearby park. He dropped the bags at his feet and looked down the alley as two police cars halted in the apartment building parking lot. Four cops leaped from their vehicles and, drawing their guns, descended on his car.

“Jesus,” he breathed as shock punched him in the gut, taking his breath.

He was fucked
.

CHAPTER 4

Las Vegas, Nevada

T
hough she had only been given Jell-O and broth, the smell of the chicken they’d served for dinner on the rest of the hospital floor lingered in the room, intensifying Samanth’s nausea. The doctor’s voice seemed to drone on and on. Wah-wah-wah, like Charlie Brown’s teacher.

“We believe you have spontaneously expelled the tissue, so you won’t need a D and C. We did give you one unit of blood.”

The doctor looked younger than she’d felt in a long, long time. It was hard to pay attention to what he was saying. Expelled the tissue. Is that what they called it when you lost a child? Had he put it like that to keep from breaking her heart even more? Or was he just trying to keep it clinical? She touched the IV that pumped fluid into her arm. The tape holding the tubing in place pulled at her skin.

“You also have a concussion and a fractured cheekbone. I consulted Dr. Nuñez while you were asleep. He believes that the fracture will heal without any treatment. I’ll want to keep you under close observation for the next couple of days to make certain the vision in your eye returns to normal.”

Sam touched the patch over her eye. At least Will hadn’t blinded her.

But what was normal? Her stomach cramped with anxiety. Would she ever feel
normal
again?

“You have two broken ribs on the left side. Those will probably be the most painful during healing.”

Was he including her psyche in that?

He paused and seemed to be waiting for some kind of response. “Do you understand everything I’ve said, Mrs. Cross?”

She flinched inwardly at hearing the name. Every time someone said it, a rush of bitterness and anger welled up inside her. If she were never called Mrs. Cross again it would be too soon. “I understand.”

“I can arrange for you to talk to a hospital psychologist while you’re here. It will help.”

She shook her head. It wouldn’t help to relive the last four years of her life. She just wanted to forget everything that had happened, every single moment. Shove it into a closet and close it off forever.

“Is she going to stand between me and my husband so he can’t beat me again? Are you?” she asked.

“We have security guards here. He’s not going to hurt you while you’re in the hospital. You’re safe here.”

He was so oblivious to the real world. “You don’t know him. He’ll get in here if he wants to.”

And what about Joy? Could he find her and Gran?

“My daughter. She’s okay?”

“She’s with your grandmother, as you requested. There are two policemen outside who want to speak to you.”

She nodded.

“I’ll send them in.”

Two men came into the room. Both looked younger than the doctor.
Dear God.

The taller of the two introduced himself as Detective Kipler and his stockier partner as Detective Marshall. Both appeared to be early thirties, dark haired, clean cut. “We’ve spoken to the emergency personnel who brought you in, Mrs. Cross.” Kipler said. “They both said you identified your husband as the man who assaulted you.”

“Yes. He killed our baby.”

He cleared his throat and focused on the pad he held. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“The EMTs said you were hemorrhaging and going into shock. Do you remember what you said to them?”

“I told them if I died, that my husband had killed our baby and had threatened to kill our daughter.”

“There have been three other reports of domestic issues at your house ma’am. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“During those issues, did you ever press charges?”

‘Yes.”

He studied her face, his expression carefully blank. “Why didn’t you follow through?”

“I did, but by the time it went to court the charges had been dropped. Once the hearing time was changed and I wasn’t notified. The next two times someone had pulled the paperwork.”

The cops looked at one another. “That isn’t possible, Mrs. Cross.”

“It is if your abusive husband’s father is best buddies with Judge Henry Moreland.” She looked away. “My father-in-law once told me that all I needed to do was be a better wife and Will wouldn’t have to keep me in line. He plays golf with Judge Henry Moreland every Sunday.”

The two detectives eyed her, their expressions carefully controlled.

Will had almost killed her this time. If he ever succeeded, who would take care of Joy? Will’s parents wouldn’t allow their granddaughter to be brought up by her grandmother, the only person Samantha trusted.

The cramping low in her abdomen brought on a bout of nausea, and she closed her eyes against it and swallowed.

“He said he was going to kill me. I believed him. After he rammed my head into a wall. That was the first beating. After he broke my wrist during the second, I believed him. He broke my collarbone the third time. And I believed him today when he hit me in the face with his fist and broke my cheekbone, after he punched me in the stomach and killed my baby. After he knocked me to the floor and kicked me in the ribs.”

“Your husband is saying someone broke into your house and did this, ma’am.”

Was he serious
? Fear rocketed through her, stealing her breath
. Did they believe him?

Sam stared at the young detective with her one good eye until he looked away.

“You don’t have him in custody?” her voice rose in pitch with her fear level.

“No, we’ve only spoken to your husband on the phone to notify him of your condition.”

“Oh dear God! You told him where I am?” For a moment she couldn’t breathe.

“Are you sure it was your husband?”

“There was no one else in our home this afternoon but the monster I’ve lived with the last four years. His name is William Jacob Cross. He was born October seventh, 1983. He’s thirty years old. He is six foot, three inches tall and weighs two hundred and twenty pounds. He has dark hair and green eyes. He has bruised knuckles from beating me, and he had a blood stain on his shirt when he walked out the door and left me to hemorrhage to death on the floor.”

“Do you intend to press charges, Mrs. Cross?”

‘Yes, I do.”

Detective Marshall snapped his notebook closed and said, “You press the charges. We’ll make certain they go through. We’ll put out an APB, and he’ll be picked up.

“Your neighbors have identified your husband as the man who left the house, Mrs Cross. You’ve identified him. We’ll be picking him up, but it will be up to you to stick to your story,” the other detective said, his voice quiet.

“I won’t withdraw the charges. But are you going to check each day and make sure the paperwork isn’t pulled?”

“We’ll be sure to check on your paperwork, Mrs. Cross.” Kipler said. “We’ll file for an emergency protective order on your behalf, but it will be up to you to file for one with a judge so your husband can’t come anywhere near you or your daughter. We can keep him for forty-eight hours, but after that, with his family connections, he’ll probably make bail.”

“How can I do that if I’m still in here?” Her voice shook as her fear ratcheted up again. How could she do it so she could be certain Moreland wouldn’t go right behind her and kick the order out?

“We’ll give you the number of an advocate who can help you fill out the paperwork so it can be issued. It’s very important for you to get right on this so it will go into effect while your husband is in jail.”

A small niggling hope built inside her. “What will you do if the paperwork disappears again?”

“It isn’t going to happen, Mrs. Cross.”

Yes, it would
. Her body started to shake. She gripped the thin blanket that covered her.

The two detectives continued to ask questions, taking her statement and offering her information and advice. The pain in her ribs, despite the medication the nurse had given her, sapped her strength and made it difficult for her to take in everything they were saying.

She needed a lawyer to file for divorce and to see that the police followed through with the protective order. Could her grandmother arrange for that?

“If you have proof he threatened your little girl, that will go a long way to insuring he doesn’t get unsupervised visitation with your child while the protective order is in place,” the soft-spoken detective—Kipler—said.

A knock came at the door and a nurse came in. “I think she’s had enough, fellows.”

Detective Kipler left a list of numbers on the bedside table. “We’ll do all we can, Mrs. Cross.”

Please don’t leave.
The words screamed through her head.
What if he comes here?

After they left, the nurse took her temperature and blood pressure. She frowned at the numbers. “You need to rest. Your body has been through a trauma and you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

Sam studied the woman’s features. She had a wide round face and a pleasant smile. “I need to call my grandmother and check on my daughter.”

Had her grandmother gone back to the house? Had she checked in at a hotel? She had been here earlier with Joy, but Sam had been groggy and weak and couldn’t remember much of the visit.

The nurse handed Sam the receiver. “Push the call button when you’re through, and I’ll be back to hang that up for you. Try not to move around too much, those ribs will be extremely painful. I’ll be back with a spirometer to exercise your lungs. We don’t want you developing pneumonia.”