Midnight Hero (16 page)

“Thanks, but no thanks.” She rested her cheek on the soft cotton of his sweatshirt, drawing strength from the steadfast thud of his heartbeat. “Nobody ever died from reading a book.”

“Nobody is going to die tonight, either.”

She sent up a fast, fervent prayer that he was right.

Con released Bailey and stepped back. The store was quiet. Too quiet. He should be able to sense the subliminal vibe that
accompanied another living presence. Should feel the weight of Syrone's interest focused on them. Instead, the atmosphere felt as sterile and empty as a morgue. Dead. Hair prickled on his neck. Every instinct Con possessed screamed to hurry to his friend.

He battled the urge and accessed the red walkie-talkie. First things first. Subjugate his feelings. Stick to procedure. Adherence to training would tip the odds toward everyone's survival. “Command, this is Nutcracker. Suspects demand a chopper. Thirty minutes, that's three-o minutes. Do you copy? Over.”

“Ten-four,” Aidan replied. “Stand by.”

Con watched Bailey as he waited for his brother to discuss options with the team. Her strawberry-blond curls were rumpled, her complexion rosy from exertion. She'd tied the silver hummingbird charm he'd given her around the outside of her turtleneck. Her intelligent blue eyes held his, as if she could discern his thoughts, hear what Command relayed to him.

Hell, sometimes he thought she
could
read his mind. She always knew what he needed. When to talk and when to remain quiet. When to provide companionship and when to leave him in solitude. When to comfort and when to confront. Her moods and his were almost always in sync, a police officer's dream. A man who dealt with constant conflict on the job needed peace and understanding at home. Bailey was the calm eye in the center of his storm.

Admiration and respect arrowed into him. She'd handled the negotiations well. Proven her mettle under fire again and again. She'd stood her ground, even when Tony had threatened her, and insulted her with crude innuendo.
Satisfaction.
No matter what warped credo he followed, the slimebag better not get anywhere near Bailey. Con's hands tightened into fists. Even if he didn't already owe Tony for Pop, Con would kill him if he put his hands on his woman. He'd give the bastard satisfaction. An AK-47 enema.

“Nutcracker, about that chopper.” Uh-oh. The edge in Aidan's voice made Con's shoulders stiffen. While Con had struggled to learn to control a volatile temper, he could count on one hand the
number of times his roll-with-the-punches brother had lost his cool. Whatever Aidan was about to relay, he didn't sound happy. “The ice storm has grounded all aircraft. Can you stall? Over.”

Con swore. “Maybe. We've got—” he glanced at his watch “—twenty-eight minutes. We might be able to bluff. I'll be in touch. Over.”

He looked at Bailey. He didn't have to say anything.

Her eyes widened. “No chopper?”

“The bad weather has everything grounded.”

“Tony sounds ruthless and edgy. He might go off the deep end.”

“We won't let him.” He strode to the store's entrance and executed a fast scan. Dark. Quiet. Empty. Maybe now that the bad guys thought escape was imminent, they'd get busy transporting their money and stop the hunt. He wouldn't count on it.

“Let's check on Syrone.” Syrone hadn't made a sound during their communication with the robbers. A former Marine would know better. Man, he hoped that was it, and not the worst-case scenario torturing his mind.

“Syrone? It's Con and Bailey,” Con warned in a low, but distinct hail. He wasn't keen on getting shot. No answer. With Bailey beside him, he strode to the makeshift barricade at the rear, and then shoved aside the dresser.

“Oh, no!” Bailey gasped.

Con's gut tightened. The big man had slid from his semi-sitting position, leaving a bloody streak on the wall. His eyes were closed, and he lay slumped on the mattress. The machine gun sat askew across his lap, and his hands hung at his sides. He appeared limp and lifeless.

Con cleared the thickness from his throat. No stranger to death, he would never get used to it. Especially if the Grim Reaper had claimed another friend. He glanced at Bailey, her face white and strained in the gloom. She'd been shocked and horrified by a fight. If Syrone were dead, the discovery would devastate her. “You'd better wait over there, sweetheart.”

“He's my friend, too. I'm not going anywhere. We have to help him, Con.”

Hoping Syrone wasn't beyond help, Con knelt and eased the
Kevlar hood off him. He pressed two fingers to Syrone's neck. His ebony skin was cool. Too cool. Con didn't feel a pulse. His spirits sank, sorrow and dread hovering over him in a heavy, smothering cloud. “C'mon, big guy. Don't do this. Those rug rats of yours need their daddy.”

Bailey stifled a sob. “Is he—?”

He shifted his hand, pressed harder. Ah, there! Weak, thready, barely palpable. “He's alive!”

“Thank God!”

Con briskly patted Syrone's cheek. “Syrone. Hey, wake up.”

Syrone stirred. Moaned.

Con patted him again. “
Syrone.
C'mon, buddy.”

“Wha—?” Syrone mumbled.

“Open those big brown peepers and talk to me.”

Syrone's eyelids eased open. “Irish? Why did you hit me?”

Relief weakened Con's limbs. “Sleeping on the job, man.”

“Oh, crap.”

“My sentiments exactly.” He unwrapped the quilts and unbuttoned Syrone's shirt. “Let's have a look at the damages.” Blood had soaked through, and the sodden bandages had loosened. He reapplied a thicker, tighter dressing.

Syrone shivered. “I'm cold clear to my bones.”

“I know.” Frustrated, Con turned to Bailey. There wasn't much they could do. Shock would kill their friend. He required surgery, and probably a transfusion. And he needed warmth. Perhaps the two of them could bundle up with him and share body heat. They couldn't afford the time, but couldn't leave Syrone to die, either. “He's fading fast. We need more quilts.”

“I've got something better.” Bailey dug in her backpack and tugged out a box of disposable hand warmers. She passed a handful to Con. “From the camping store…they'll last six hours. I have foot-warmer heating pads and a Polarshield blanket, too.”

Wonder surged through him. Untrained, scared, she'd risen to the occasion and come to his aid countless times tonight. Her quick thinking and unquenchable spirit awed him. “Baby, what would we do without you?” He kneaded the packets to activate them, tucked the already-warming pads under Syrone's armpits
and against his chest, and buttoned him up. He applied the foot warmers to Syrone's socks and then put his boots back on. Finally, he wrapped him in the crinkly Polarshield blanket and two quilts. “Okay, big guy, that's about as personal as I care to get with you.”

“Likewise, Irish.” Syrone sighed. “Damn, that feels fine.”

Con again turned to Bailey. Worry shadowed her delicate features, but she gave him an encouraging smile. Outwardly frail and sensitive, his girl possessed innate strength and fortitude. For years his job had been his first and only love. Now, he wasn't ashamed to admit she was the center of his universe. What would happen to her, to the hostages when the chopper didn't arrive? How would he protect them? From here on, the scenario could unravel at warp speed and spiral out of control. People could die.

He shook his head.
Focus.
One crisis at a time. “Do you have any more of that candy syrup from the toy store?”

“Yes, but I thought he couldn't have anything by mouth.”

He whispered in her ear. “If we don't get him stabilized, he won't live long enough for it to matter.”

Clearly shaken, she passed him the small wax containers shaped like cartoon characters.

He twisted the ears off the wascally wabbit and poured the thick, grape-scented liquid into Syrone's mouth.

Syrone coughed. “What are you feeding me, Irish? Poison to put me out of my misery?”

“Super-secret healing elixir, brewed by celibate Tibetan monks under a full moon.” He urged his friend to swallow the contents of the second container. A duck, cherry, unless he missed his guess.

“Ugh! Those monks need to go low-carb. This stuff would strip the paint off my SUV.”

Con laughed. “Probably. But as my darlin' explained to me earlier, it's instant glucose.” He encircled Syrone's beefy wrist and took his pulse. “Not bad. Much better than when we found you.”

“I owe you my life, Irish. Times two. You, too, Bailey. You're both due for major payback.”

Bailey shook her head. “You'd do the same for us.”

“Hey.” Syrone blinked. “How come you're still here? Weren't you supposed to escape out the access door?”

Con fed Syrone another dose of cherry syrup. “The suspects C-4ed the vault, and the concussion took down Santa's workshop. The access door is blocked. They claim they've wired all the exits.”

“Has SWAT been able to contact them? See what they want?”

“They wouldn't accept the throw phone, but I made contact. Oh, if you need to reach me…” Con handed Syrone the extra red walkie-talkie. “My handle is Nutcracker. SWAT's patched in, too, just in case.” He didn't elaborate. Didn't need to. Syrone's lowered brows told him the ex-Marine knew Con was providing backup. If the bad guys took Con out, Syrone would know when to call in the cavalry. “Have you seen any action back here?”

“Quiet as the grave, Irish. So, what'd the perps want? Are we gonna blow this gig anytime soon?”

“They've asked for a chopper in the multiplex parking lot in thirty minutes.” Frowning, he opened the last wax container—a martian—and administered the odious green lemon-lime liquid. “Not going to happen, because of the ice storm.”

Syrone swallowed, shuddered. “What's the plan?”

“Bluff like hell.” Con took Syrone's pulse. Stronger and more regular. He'd be okay—for a while. If they didn't get him to a doctor, the hand and foot warmers would outlast him. “I'll check in every thirty minutes. If you don't hear from me, call in SWAT.” Again, he didn't elaborate. Syrone read him loud and clear. If Con missed a radio check, he would be either unconscious or dead.

He squeezed Syrone's hand. “My gut says the crap's about to hit the fan. It'll go down fast. Hang in there, Marine.”

Syrone nodded. “You may be a wimpy SWAT boy, but you're
semper fi,
Irish.”

Bailey kissed Syrone's cheek. “We'll see you soon.” Her voice was thick with unshed tears.

Con helped Syrone put on the Kevlar hood. Then, for the second time, they left their wounded friend in his makeshift fortress.

“Always faithful,”
Bailey said softly as they stood just inside the store entrance. “I agree.”

“I try, sweetheart.” His wary gaze swept the corridor. He had to be doubly vigilant. If the situation went FUBAR, it would happen during the risky transitional phase. Even if they managed to scramble a chopper, no way would SWAT allow the suspects to board. Especially with hostages. Taking an incident site mobile endangered more lives, both civilians and officers. It was never allowed. At any cost. That was the part that had him worried. “I want to hit the multiplex, do a recon before the suspects move.”

The multiplex sat at the back of the mall, eight theaters branching off a central main lobby. There was one mall entrance and one parking lot entrance.

He left Bailey hidden next door while he took a fast visual inside the lobby. Red running lights along the walls outlined the walkways and concession area, with decent visibility about six feet up. The far corners and vast, echoing ceiling were pitch black. The buttery scent of stale popcorn lingered in the air.

Squirt gun at the ready, he swept inside and performed a swift, thorough search. The theater doors were all locked. So far, so good. Limited lobby access would facilitate containment.

He examined the outer glass doors, and swore. Wires snaked the perimeter, and a chunk of C-4 was lodged in the lower corner beside a detonation device. The SOBs
had
wired the exits. He didn't have time to mess with it and didn't dare. If he screwed up and went boom, Bailey
might
escape, but the hostages would be on their own. Outside, glittering freezing rain pounded the darkness in a heavy, drumming rhythm. Visibility was limited to a few feet.

Con determined the site was secure and radioed the intel to SWAT so they could get the bomb squad on it. He went back for Bailey. Inside the theater, her glance traveled over the thick, geometric-patterned carpet, dark, menacing nooks and crannies, and then upward. A wistful smile blossomed on her sweet mouth.

He followed her gaze to the board behind the ticket counter, listing shows and times. They'd been here often, but he knew from her dreamy expression she was remembering their last movie date, to see the final installment of
Lord of the Rings.
The books had been Bailey's favorites for years, and she owned every
DVD version and every soundtrack CD. She had a thing for Aragorn, the sword hunk who would be king. She'd even talked Con into dressing up like the guy to her Eowyn for the precinct's Halloween party. It could have been worse. At least he hadn't had to wear tights. Or heaven forbid, be a Scotchgarded-at-birth elf. “A fond memory. Even if you did go through a package of tissues
and
soak the front of my shirt.”

“I get choked up all over again just thinking about it,” she whispered. “So poignant. Ordinary people, fighting great evil. Never giving up, no matter the odds. No matter the cost. Courageous, noble. What a triumph.”

Yeah, except in the movies, the good guys always won. Real life wasn't as neat and tidy. He tugged her into his arms. He needed to prepare her for what would happen next. “You've been a huge asset. I don't know what I would have done without you.”