Defeat the Darkness (25 page)

When D.J. spoke again, he was all business. “No, don't. He's right, Tate. That would only put him in more danger. Where are you now?”

“We're about halfway down the trail to the beach that starts at the back of my yard, right below that sharp switchback. He fell down the hillside, so we're off the trail completely.”

“Are the bastards that did it still around?”

Tate's head whipped around, as if that thought hadn't occurred to her. “No, at least I don't think so. I heard a truck leave right before I came looking for him.”

D.J.'s voice sounded more relaxed. “Okay, that's good. Keep an eye out, though. Can Hunter walk?”

“I don't think so. He's bleeding from a bad cut on his arm and a bullet wound on his side.” Her voice grew calmer the longer she talked.

“What have you done for him?”

“I cut up my shirt with his sword and used it for bandages.”

That last remark set off a string of curses that had Hunter wincing. This was a clusterfuck of monumental proportions, and experience told him it was going to get worse as the cold chill of death crawled up his extremities.

D.J. gave them their marching orders. “Okay, Tate, here's what you do. Stay with him. I'm just pulling up your driveway, so I'll be there with reinforcements in a matter of minutes. Stay put and we'll come get him. Got that?”

She shook her head, as though D.J. could see through the phone. “He's hurt too badly to wait much longer. The authorities can transport him to the hospital for treatment.” Her voice dropped to a low whisper. “Oh, God, D.J., he's lost so much blood.”

D.J.'s voice softened. “Look, Tate, I know it looks bad, and maybe it is. But if he's awake and talking, he'll be fine. The last thing Hunter wants or needs is to end up in a civilian hospital.”

“Civilian? Are you telling me that you two are in the military?”

Skepticism dripped from every word as she stared at the bloodstained sword lying on the ground beside him. Hunter didn't blame her one bit, but all that mattered was that she did as D.J. asked.

“I'll give you ten minutes. Any longer than that, or if he gets worse, I'll do whatever it takes to get him the help he needs. Got
that
?”

D.J. laughed. “Yes, ma'am. Call me if anything changes.”

“I will.” She closed the phone.

“Thanks, Tate,” Hunter whispered.

He tried to touch her hand, hoping to offer her a bit of comfort, but he couldn't move his arm. Poor Tate—while he knew his body would eventually start working its special healing mojo, she didn't. As far as she knew, he was an ordinary man, one who could die and stay that way.

Tate moved away and avoided looking at him, focusing all of her attention on the trail above, as if she could make D.J. appear faster through sheer willpower. She sat with her arms wrapped around her waist, looking so alone and scared. Hunter hated knowing that her fear was because of him. A situation like this was exactly why there could never be anything serious between them. He just hadn't expected that truth to hurt more than being both skewered and shot combined.

“Sorry you got involved in this.”

He wasn't sure if he'd spoken aloud or if he'd only thought the words. Maybe it didn't matter, because if Hunter died in front of Tate, Devlin would be forced to replace him. One way or another, this could be his last night with her. He sucked in as much as air as he could and tried one more time.

“Sorry, Tate.”

This time she looked directly at him, but her silence was nothing more than he deserved.

J
oe signaled and moved over into the fast lane, hoping to get this screwed-up night over with as fast as possible. Knowing the explosion was coming any second, he kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead and counted off the seconds until his employer finally blew his cork.

Mr. White slammed his fist down on the dashboard. “What a fucked-up mess!”

Now wasn't the time to speak up. Better to avoid drawing any attention to himself while the old bastard vented. Mr. White would get around to berating Joe eventually, but later was better than sooner. If there was a God in heaven, they'd be back in Seattle before his name reached the top of the list of things his employer was pissed off about. Unfortunately, Joe's luck ran out only seconds later.

“And what were you thinking, shooting your gun like that? We're lucky no one called the cops before we got away.”
By now, Mr. White's voice lost all its heat and became ice cold.

“That guy was about to kill your business partner. I was thinking that would be a bad thing.” If it wasn't, that made it pretty clear how far professional loyalty would get him with his boss. At the first sign of trouble, Joe would be jettisoned just like that pale-eyed bastard had been.

“I don't pay you to think.”

He was getting damned tired of the insults. “No, you pay me to drive, and you're the one who wanted me to carry a weapon. If you meant it to be just for show, you should've said so.”

Silence. The adrenaline from actually pulling the trigger had left him riled up and ready to fight. Maybe he shouldn't have shot his mouth off, but at that moment he didn't much care. If he got fired, Joe would miss the money. But sometimes cold, hard cash wasn't worth the bullshit you had to put up with to earn it. Maybe he'd calm down long to apologize before the trip back to town was over, but he doubted it.

To his surprise, Mr. White blinked first. “You're right, of course, Joe.”

That was the first time the man had called Joe by his real name. Somehow it didn't leave him feeling all warm and fuzzy. More like chilled to the bone and wishing he had installed an ejector in the passenger seat. He'd be using it right now and celebrating when Mr. White bounced off the highway and into a ditch. If that didn't kill him, then at least Joe would've had a head start on getting out of town.

“Do you think your friend will be all right? Or the one I shot?” It was hard to tell how badly hurt the one man had been since his weird coloring was so pale to begin with. The other one had tumbled down the hillside before Joe had had a chance to see how much damage the bullet had done. He guessed he'd know for sure when he read the morning headlines.

Mr. White shrugged, clearly not concerned. “The one you shot was most likely dead before he hit the bottom of the hill. If not, who's going to believe anything he says anyway? Especially about being stabbed with a sword.”

He laughed and turned his cold eyes in Joe's direction. “As far as my associate, if he received care soon enough, we should hear from him tomorrow or the next day. If so, we'll be returning to the cave again. However, if he doesn't contact me, it may be awhile before I need you again. I'll have to wait for his replacement to make contact.”

Okay, so maybe Joe wouldn't die for shooting the crazy jerk who'd pulled a sword out of nowhere when Mr. White's business associate had gone on the attack. This whole situation just kept getting weirder and weirder. Who goes around carrying a sword in the first place? Well, besides the guy they were up there to meet, that is.

Joe had tried to convince himself from the beginning that the guy was some kind of reenactor, but despite his odd clothing and insistence on wearing his sword, that was clearly not the case. Even in the dead of night it had been easy to see that the two men had known how to swing those swords and had seriously meant to kill each other.

“You're thinking too hard about things that are none of your concern, Mr. Black. Tonight's events have complicated the situation, but we'll deal with it. Wake me when we're at the drop-off.”

They were only about twenty minutes out, but Joe was just as happy to let him doze off. As long as the man was sleeping, Joe could pretend he was alone and everything was under control.

Even if it wasn't.

Tate wished Hunter would say something, anything, especially if he could tell her this was all a bad dream. Not that she'd believe him. It was hard to ignore a bullet wound, not to mention a vicious cut from a sword. Then there was the pungent smell of drying blood in the air.

A bubble of confused laughter threatened to break loose. Here she was, an aspiring romance writer who loved swashbuckling heroes and had a thing for a certain badass gunslinger, yet there was nothing at all romantic about this situation. Unlike the spunky heroine in her book, Tate was scared. Terrified, in fact. It wouldn't take much to shatter her control—a loud sound, a footstep, a leaf falling from overhead.

Gunshot and sword wounds were ugly, bloody messes, even though Hunter wasn't complaining. Actually, other than that last sigh, he'd been totally silent. Oh, God, was he even breathing? She scooted closer and rested her fingertips against his throat, hoping against hope to feel a steady pulse. His skin was cold and clammy. One beat… two, then his chest moved
slightly, enough to reassure her that he was still breathing, though it seemed awfully shallow and irregular.

Where the heck was D.J.? She checked the time. Another two minutes and she'd start dialing whether Hunter and D.J. liked it or not. Then she heard the welcome sound of rapid footsteps on the trail above. At least she hoped they were welcome. She stared up the hillside, grateful for the shadows concealing their location but also wishing she could see more clearly.

Hunter shifted next to her. He rolled slightly to his left and tried to push himself upright before she could stop him.

“Stay still or you'll start bleeding again.”

Ignoring her advice, he continued to struggle to sit up, leaving her no choice but to help him. That didn't mean she had to like it.

“If you bleed to death, don't blame me.”

Hunter winced in pain as he used her support to get to his feet. “Tate, unless you're the jerk who shot me or the one who stabbed me, none of this is your fault.”

She moved to stand beside him so he could lean against her. “Do you know who did this to you?”

“Not by name.”

Okay, she knew he was hurting, but cryptic answers weren't going to cut it. Not when she had his blood on her clothes and hands. Had the attack been directed specifically at him, or had he stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time? She kept her voice low even though she really wanted to rip into him.

“But you did expect something like this could happen, or why else would you be carrying a sword.” She
felt him stiffen, warning her that he was going to choose his words very carefully.

Finally, he sagged back against a tree for support. “Tate, you have to believe that I never meant for you to get drawn into this.”

Which was sort of an answer, she supposed. “Why the sword?”

His words came in stutters and starts. “A friend knew I was having… problems… from my injuries… like the other night in the restaurant… holding the wolf's head helps me focus. The cane… a family heirloom made in the late 1800s.”

That didn't explain how Hunter had come to be stabbed or how he'd managed to draw blood with his own weapon. But right now, she was too tired to care. Once help arrived, they could take over Hunter's care. Personally, she planned on going home, jumping into bed, pulling the blankets up over her head, and doing her best to pretend none of this had happened.

Later, when she was rested and could think more clearly, she'd corner Hunter and demand better answers to her questions. If he refused to respond, or if she didn't like what he had to say, she'd be looking for a new renter.

Yep, that was her plan.

Before she could convince herself that it was a good idea, she asked, “Who exactly is
them,
Hunter?”

“Shhhh!” he hissed, his eyes wild, his mouth grim. “Not now. They're coming.”

Then Hunter grasped his sword with both hands and stood ready to defend their lives.

She studied the top of the ridge, finally spotting the dark figure standing outlined against the horizon. “Tate! Hunter! Where the hell are you?”

Thank God, it was D.J. and company, and Tate could breathe again.

“Here we are!” she called out as she waved the flashlight to catch their attention.

Another figure appeared, pointing in her direction. “Down there.”

She wasn't sure, but she thought it sounded like Larem. “Take it easy coming down. It's slippery and steep.”

Like they couldn't see that for themselves, but she seriously didn't need to deal with any more major injuries right now. It didn't take long before she could make out three men slip-sliding their way down the hillside. D.J. was the first to arrive. As he dusted off his backside, he studied Hunter.

“How bad is it?” He turned his flashlight full on Hunter's face. The stark light emphasized Hunter's pallor.

When he didn't answer D.J., Tate spoke up. “He's lost a lot of blood, but he's still standing—barely.”

“Glad to hear it, because we brought a first-aid kit but forgot the shovel.” That remark came from Penn Sebastian. “Besides, digging a grave on this hillside would be a bitch.”

She did not appreciate the humor. “Listen, you jerk, that's so not funny.”

Penn winced as he set the kit down beside her. “Sorry, Tate.”

She started to rip into him some more, glad to finally have a target for her anger and her fear, when Hunter's
sword dropped from his hands. It hit the ground only a heartbeat before he landed right beside it, facedown in the dirt.

He didn't move, not even a twitch, nor did he make a sound. Before Tate could respond, D.J. dropped to his knees beside Hunter's still form and rolled him over to do a cursory examination. In the darkness, D.J.'s face revealed nothing of what he was thinking, but something in the set of his shoulders gave his thoughts away.

“D.J.? Is he…”

She couldn't give voice to the possibility, but the look D.J. exchanged with Penn spoke volumes.