Crossfire (34 page)

So far, so good.

The surgical floor was nearly deserted, indicating they’d probably pulled all but the most vital hospital staff off the floor, waiting for him to show up.

Like that guy mopping the floor. Were they so stupid they didn’t realize he’d recognize him from when he’d shown up at the crime scene at the academy?

Usually the shooter liked to get away as soon as possible after a hit. But since the captain on the parade ground had been his primary target all along, he’d stuck around, joining the crowd of lookie-loos, to make sure the guy was good and truly dead.

The fake janitor was no Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. That was for damn sure. Whatever he was thinking about, from the scowl on his face, he was so pissed off about something that the shooter could have strolled by carrying his entire damn arsenal and the guy wouldn’t have noticed.

Unlike in so many movies, a gun’s silencer is never actually silent. Which was why the shooter decided against risking detection and pulled out the KA-BAR he’d used on Captain Jack.

As he passed the agent, he shoved it deftly and deeply into his chest, almost tempted to shout out ‘‘Timber’’ as the fat guy slid down to the soapy floor.

There was an open door to the left. The shooter debated dragging the agent into the empty room, then decided he would just end up leaving a trail of blood anyway, so what the hell, he was so close to his target, he might as well just leave him where he lay.

Satisfied with that decision, and still carrying the chart that had listed Valentine Snow’s room number, the shooter strolled on, confident that there was now no one and nothing between him and his objective.

Cait had just about decided that the entire plan was going to prove a wash when she heard a cart being wheeled up to her closed door. At first she thought it must be Angetti with his wheeled bucket, complaining, as he always did, that his prostate wasn’t what it used to be, and by the way, even FBI special agents deserved a piss break more than every three hours.

But when the door slowly opened, the first thing she noticed was that she didn’t smell the cigarette smoke that always surrounded her partner like a noxious cloud.

Holding her breath, confident that Quinn was in the adjoining bathroom, watching through the slit in the barely open door, she felt the man enter the room.

She could hear the squeak of the rubber-soled shoes on the vinyl tile floor.

Then a surprised and very pissed-off voice, saying. ‘‘Fuck! You’re not Valentine Snow!’’

His last mission may have ended up a disaster, but there was no way in hell Quinn was going to allow anything to happen to Cait. He’d been against this idea in the first place, but when he’d realized there was no way to talk her out of setting herself up as a target, he’d reluctantly gone along with the program. So long as he could be the one closest to the action.

Proving yet again that the best battle plan never survived contact with the enemy, he burst out of the bathroom, gun drawn.

And came face-to-face with the familiar former military MP who’d given the speech at Mike’s vet group. The tenth of the twelve steps, about taking personal inventory and admitting you were wrong.

The guy who was dragging Cait out of the bed and holding an ugly black Sig Sauer to her head.

‘‘You come one step closer, McKade,’’ he said, ‘‘and your girlfriend’s toast.’’

‘‘I’m standing right here,’’ Quinn said, his heart, which he’d learned to control so perfectly during his sniper days, pounding so hard and fast in his chest he wouldn’t have been surprised if it had broken right through his rib cage and out of his skin.

‘‘Smart guy.’’ The guy’s eyes were as dead as a shark’s. ‘‘Now, drop the gun.’’

Normally, he knew, he could pull the trigger before this guy got a shot off. But normally the bad guy didn’t have the barrel of a gun pressed against the temple of the woman he loved. Not wanting to risk her life, Quinn did as instructed. The Glock hit the green and white tile floor with a thud, putting it out of reach for the moment.

‘‘Lucky for you, I’m not into killing fellow vets.’’

‘‘Try telling that to Jacob and Davis,’’ Cait said, making Quinn want to wring her neck. He loved her to distraction. He also wished she’d keep her damn mouth shut. ‘‘And Jensen,’’ she tacked on.

‘‘Jacob and Jensen were collateral damage,’’ he revealed.

Like Davis wasn’t? Quinn suddenly had an ugly thought. And from the way Cait’s eyes had widened, he realized she was, once again, thinking the exact same thing.

‘‘We can get you out of this, Sergeant,’’ she said remarkable calm.

Then again, Quinn figured the FBI probably taught hostage negotiation tactics at the academy. Something that hadn’t been necessary in his former line of work.

‘‘Yeah. With me lying on a gurney on some death row with needles stuck in my veins,’’ he said.

‘‘It’s bad,’’ she agreed. ‘‘I’m not going to lie and say you’ll walk out of here a free man if you let McKade and me go. But you’ve still got a card to play. You can tell us about Captain Davis’s wife using you to get rid of her husband.’’

Quinn watched him stiffen. Prepared to jump the guy if he made another move toward Cait.

‘‘I used to talk to her about Valentine Snow,’’ Sergeant Matthew Johnson, former USMC, said. ‘‘How watching her was the only thing that kept me from feeling mad all the time. I told her how I didn’t think it was fair the network got rid of her just because they wanted to put that young blonde in her place.’’

Quinn had had no idea why the newscaster had left the network. But she’d insisted at the time it was her decision and he’d never seen any reason to doubt her.

‘‘So, she suggested a way you could help Valentine get back to the top,’’ Cait said. Her voice remained calm, but her always expressive eyes revealed the pain Quinn knew she was feeling from the loss of all those innocent lives. ‘‘Having her be the top reporter on a serial sniper story.’’

Collateral damage, the shooter had called them.

Yet another example of government-speak, designed to pretty up something ugly.

‘‘It can still work,’’ the shooter suddenly decided.

His shark eyes were no longer flat as the idea struck home.

Reading those eyes, Quinn dived for the Glock.

At the same time, the shooter shoved the blue metal crash cart at Quinn, then dragged Cait out of bed and out of the room.

He was dragging her down the hallway toward the stairs. Even as adrenaline was screaming through her veins like the civil defense sirens all the bases she’d lived on as a child were always testing, Cait’s mind stayed surprisingly calm.

She’d been trained for this. Well, not exactly this, she thought as she felt the gun jammed into her side so hard she figured she could end up with a broken rib. Which, considering the circumstances, sure as hell wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen.

She had a brown belt in karate. And had been taught all sorts of other esoteric defense methods, and although she might not be able to break bricks with her bare hands, surely she could handle one whacked-out guy who had a shitload of problems of his own and undoubtedly couldn’t be thinking all that straight right about now.

And then, of course, she had a fail-safe backup.

Big bad SEAL Quinn McKade, whom she could hear charging right behind them. Having no doubt that he could shoot this bad guy dead without touching a hair on her head—which was currently covered up in a bandage, but still, that didn’t change the concept— Cait nevertheless decided it was time to bring her skills to their partnership.

The shooter was yanking open the metal door to the stairway, which didn’t give him a free hand.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Cait twisted away, landing a kick at the back of his knee, causing it to crumple and sending him tumbling headfirst down the stairs.

‘‘Are you okay?’’ Quinn paused as, now only a second behind, he reached her.

‘‘I’m fine,’’ she panted, assured that she’d be able to breathe again sometime in the next century. ‘‘Just go nail the guy before he kills anyone else.’’

‘‘Roger that,’’ Quinn said.

He’d wanted to stop. To drag her into his arms and kiss her senseless. He’d never been so fucking scared in his life as when he’d seen the shooter holding the gun to her head. And worse yet, dragging her down the hallway, with so much adrenaline pumping through Quinn’s system he hadn’t dared risk getting off a shot because it would only have been the most important shot of his life and he couldn’t have guaranteed his hand would’ve been steady enough to pull it off without hitting Cait.

At which time there wouldn’t have been enough PTSD therapy in the world to fix him because his life would simply have not been worth living.

The fall hadn’t proven fatal. From the clatter on the concrete stairs below, it was obviously the shooter had made it to his feet.

Quinn’s second clue was—pop—the nearly silent shot that came whizzing past his head, hitting the wall behind him, sending plaster flying.

He picked up the pace, clattering down the stairs, ducking as another shot nearly grazed his shoulder.

The shooter was good.

Quinn was better.

Having scoped out the stairway ahead of time, as any good sniper would, he knew that one more twist around the bend and he’d have a view of a straight stretch of stairway leading to the metal door opening to the next floor.

Which just happened to be the pediatrics floor.

Like, yeah, he was going to let the psycho loose on that one.

He stopped at the railing. Lifted the Glock.

Drew in a breath. Exhaled.

And waited.

Inhale. Exhale.

Count it out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Just as the shooter lunged for the door, he glanced back over his shoulder. His gaze locked on Quinn’s.

There was a brief flicker of resignation in the man’s eyes as Quinn eased back on the trigger, then gently pulled the trigger.

One shot.

One kill.

After leaving Angetti in the ER with a tube in his lung and bitching about the rib the damn shooter had broken with the knife, Cait and Quinn showed up at the Davis mansion on Palmetto Drive.

This time Kristin Davis did not faint.

Instead, displaying the same inner steel that had allowed her to use her profession to manipulate a depressed veteran into killing all those innocent people to make her husband look like just another random victim, as soon as Cait had read her the Miranda warning, she’d lawyered up.

‘‘Joe always said murder’s about who benefits,’’ Cait murmured later, as she and Quinn lay in bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, passion temporarily spent.

‘‘And she planned the other shootings as a smoke screen, to take the focus off her husband,’’ Quinn said.

Christ, he’d had dinner with them. Played basketball with Will Davis. Comforted the widow. If he wasn’t feeling so damn good, he might just have felt like a chump.

‘‘I’ve been thinking about that offer Joe made me,’’ she murmured, as she trailed her fingers down his chest. ‘‘About going to work for Phoenix Team.’’

‘‘You’d be one helluva an asset.’’

‘‘That’s what Joe keeps telling me. Meanwhile, I turned in my shield today. Whatever I decide, I think I’d like to take you up on that vacation.’’

‘‘Zach’s already got the boat gassed up. We can leave for Key West, or wherever else you’d like, first thing in the morning.’’

‘‘Key West sounds great. Beachcombing, tropical drinks.’’ She nuzzled closer. ‘‘Celebrating the sunset.’’

He skimmed a palm down her back from her shoulder to her butt. ‘‘Don’t forget the most important thing.’’

‘‘How could I forget that?’’ she said on a rich, throaty laugh Quinn knew would still have the power to make him hard when he was ninety. ‘‘Since I’m already wanting you again.’’

She rolled over on top of his aroused body. Bracketed his chest with her arms on either side and smiled down at him.

‘‘And after we get back from Key West, there’s something else I’d like to do.’’

‘‘You name it.’’

‘‘I understand this is a difficult time of transition for her, and since your house isn’t going to be finished for a while, you’re going to have to stay here, and I’m not exactly the best cook in the world—I mean, to be perfectly honest, nuking frozen Lean Cuisine is usually about the best I can do—but Sabrina and Titania would probably be willing to help out, especially if I agree to go along with the bridesmaid deal at their wedding, so . . .’’

She took a deep breath. It was not often Quinn had seen his Cait nervous. This was one of those few times.

‘‘Since it seems we’ve got this couples thing going, which makes her family, do you think your mother would, just maybe, possibly, be willing to come to dinner?’’

Even as the feel of her, soft and warm, and the piña colada scent of her hair were beginning to cloud his mind, Quinn laughed. Because sometimes life was just so damn perfect.

‘‘I’d like to see you try and stop her.’’