Midnight Hero (8 page)

Con laughed. “Ms. Wizard, I adore you.”

Glowing inside from his open admiration, she handed him the supplies. “When we get upstairs, if we pour the oil into the garbage can and create static, it should ignite the oil. Even the fumes are highly flammable. Linseed oil-soaked rags often spontaneously combust. It might take persistence, and we'll have to be careful. It could flare up suddenly and burn us.”

“Maybe there's a fire extinguisher.” He hurried behind the counter. “Got one!” He rummaged on the shelves beneath. “I wonder if there's any duct tape? We'll need to hang the sheets.”

She folded their SOS banners, and then collected their backpacks and the bats. “Is there?”

“Nope.” He picked up the trash can.

“We can look upstairs. If we don't find any, I have an idea.”

His grin flashed again. “I'll just bet you do.”

When they reached the furniture store's mall entrance, he paused. “Getting up the escalators will be tricky. They're in the central core, visible from all sides, and we'll be vulnerable. Don't silhouette yourself against the horizon, or a doorway—what we call a vertical coffin.” He shouldered his pack. “If it goes to hell, run, and don't look back. I'll make sure nobody follows you. Stick to the plan, summon help and then hide.”

There he went again, preparing her for the worst. Preparing to stand between her and the bad guys. She fought down roiling fear and squared her shoulders. Nothing and no one would separate them. Over her dead body.

She prayed it wouldn't come to that.

The trip up the stilled escalators to the third floor was torturously long, agonizingly slow and the scariest experience of her life. But uneventful.

Con left her in a fabric store while he scouted out the sky bridge. She collected more items for her pack and waited anxiously for his return.

Mere minutes seemed like hours. Finally, he prowled into the store and gave her the
all clear
sign.

She hurried to his side. “Any trouble?”

“Nope. Did you find tape?”

“Only the craft type, and that won't adhere to glass, at least not for long. Not with the temperature difference between outside and inside creating condensation.”

“You mentioned an idea?”

“Silly Putty will stick to both the glass and the sheet. Moisture won't affect it.”

“The way your brain works floors me.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Good.” He winked. “You definitely trip my trigger, baby.”

She batted her lashes at him in mock flirtation. Teasing him
was a good way to relieve the tension. “I'd love to trip the trigger on your big gun, Officer Sexy.”

He laughed. “I thought you didn't like guns.”

“Depends on what kind of ammo they're shooting. And if they're rapid-fire repeaters or not.”

“Whoa! Keep talking and you'll find yourself on the counter over there. Flat on your back and minus your clothes.”

The idea had appeal. She smiled at him. “Maybe later.”

“You want a championship marksman, I'm your guy. You'd better start me an IOU column in that notebook of yours.”

They ventured onto the sky bridge and hung the sheets. The putty worked great. They lit the signs with flashlights. Then Con stashed her in Sears while he went to initiate phase two. She found a large plastic tarp in the automotive department and draped it over two end displays for a makeshift tent. She added more items to her pack, making detailed notations about what she borrowed.

What was taking Con so long? Had he run into one of the robbers? Was he having trouble igniting the oil? Or maybe he hadn't had trouble starting the fire, but with controlling it. Her stomach tightened.
Please, don't let him have been burned!

Seeking distraction from her distress, she started an IOU column. She wrote
trip your trigger
in Con's column.
Kiss any thing, any time any where
was listed as owed to her, plus more inventive ideas about what he could do when she was flat on her back on a counter. Then suddenly the fire alarm clanged, and she jumped.
Success!

Grinning, she sprinted for her shelter and arrived as the sprinkler system hissed on. Water rained everywhere, plopping onto the tarp and bouncing off the linoleum. The space between sprinklers meant that not everything on the shelves got soaked, but close enough. Hoo boy, the floor was a sodden mess.

Sirens wailed in the distance and grew louder.
Yes!
The sirens screamed into the parking lot, and then abruptly died. Had the firefighters seen the banners? She didn't know if the sprinklers were on a timer, set to react to smoke or flames, or if the fire department had a remote shutoff, but after about ten minutes, water stopped pouring out of the ceiling.

“Yo, darlin'.”

At the sound of Con's low hail behind her, she squeaked. “Ack! Cardiac arrest! I didn't hear you come up behind me.”

His clothes were soaked, his short, sleek hair glistening. He hadn't had the luxury of seeking shelter when the sprinklers erupted. Amusement flitted across his handsome face. “You aren't supposed to. Goes double for the bad guys.”

“Did the fire trucks see the message?”

“Ten-four. SWAT should be scrambling as we speak.”

She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. She and Con had bought Letty, Mike and Nan a fighting chance. “Do we hide and wait for the cavalry?”

“No. We load our squirt guns. I don't suppose we could use the linseed oil? It would sting like a mother, too.”

“It's pretty thick. It probably wouldn't shoot very far, and might clog.”

“Okay, so we go after the acetic acid.”

“You'd better change into dry clothes. The temperature is getting chillier by the minute.”

“I want those guns loaded first. And I have to do another recon on the bank to see how the suspects reacted to the alarm and sprinklers. When SWAT gets here, I need up-to-the-minute intel.”

Her relief died a premature death. Back downstairs? Back into the jaws of danger. Another risk to Con's life. Cursing her jangling nerves, she picked up her pack and bat. She forced confidence she didn't feel into her words. “Let's go.”

“Be extra vigilant. Because of the alarm, the robbers are going to wonder who's out here and what we're up to. These guys aren't stupid, they'll be surveilling the area. After the way the fire trucks responded, then took off like bats out of hell, they've got to suspect the cops are on the way and be uptight. Likely to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Great. Got any more good news?”

“Yeah, the floor is slippery as a greased guinea pig. Watch your step.”

“And you'd know how slippery a greased guinea pig is?”

He didn't say anything as they strode toward the front of the store, but his lips twitched.

“Oh, no. You didn't!”

“Aidan and I thought Grady's Mr. Peepers needed a slick hairstyle, like Fonzie's. Neither Mr. Peepers nor Grady was too enthusiastic about the new do.” He chuckled. “Hey, give me a break. We were five and six. The ultra cool Fonz was our hero.”

“It's a miracle your mother doesn't chug antacid directly out of the bottle and toss back ibuprofen like M&Ms.”

“That's why she took up rowing, to work off stress.”

“She must have had to row to the Pacific Ocean and back.”

He hesitated at the entrance to the mall and checked both directions. “Have you ever thought about how many kids you might eventually want?” The question was casual, his tone and body language anything but.

Con's babies. She'd dreamed of them. Thought they were out of her reach. Longing twisted deep inside. “I always hated being an only child. Too lonely. I wouldn't mind three or four.”

He smiled. “Four is a nice, even number. Like my brothers and me.”

“Unleashing more male O'Rourkes on an unsuspecting world…what a terrifying thought!” She wrinkled her nose at him. “I think you'd better hope for four girls.”

“Little girls are a different kind of trouble.” He trailed a callused fingertip along her ear, sending tingles racing down her spine. “So are big girls.”

“Not nearly as much trouble as big boys.”

“That's the fourth time you've mentioned size. Have a fixation, darlin'?”

Warmth surged into her cheeks. “Guess you didn't get the memo. Size doesn't matter.”

“Whew.” He put his hand over his heart and heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Wouldn't want to disappoint.”

She snorted. “Stop fishing for compliments. I've got eyes.”

He arched a brow, and her cheeks blazed. Gad. How did they end up in these impossible discussions? In the midst of sneaking around trying to avoid bank robbers, yet. “Never mind. Let's go.”

As they made their way down the dead escalators, dread inched up her spine. Just like when she'd walked toward the bank, her senses shrieked unease. By the time they arrived at the One Hour Photo booth, every muscle screamed with tension, and the hair on the back of her neck was standing on end.

“Con,” she whispered. “Something's wrong.”

“I know. I feel it, too.”

Were the robbers waiting to ambush them? She peered around the corner into the shadows, but didn't see any movement. She propped her hand on the wall to steady herself and connected with something wet and sticky. The overhanging eaves had protected the booth's vinyl walls from the sprinklers. Whatever she'd planted her palm in wasn't water. Some kid's leftover slushy? Ugh!

She stared at her hand in the murky light. The wet, sticky goo was thick and dark. Chocolate? She took an experimental sniff. The sharp, metallic smell could never be confused with chocolate. Her stomach lurched.

Her palm was covered with blood!

4:00 p.m.

“C
on!” Bailey's frantic whisper jolted Con's thrumming senses into overdrive. “Blood!”

He whipped around. She held up her red-streaked palm, and his lungs constricted. He grabbed her wrist. “What happened?”

“It's not mine.”

The weight lifted from his chest. “Where did it come from?”

“It's all over the side of the kiosk. Look.”

His gaze followed a trail of droplets splattered across the floor. The sprinklers hadn't completely erased the watery red marks from the pale gray fake marble. Where the water hadn't reached, the trail was dark and deadly. “We'd—” Movement registered in his peripheral vision. Someone was out there! He flashed her the hand signal for
silence,
followed by
down.

An armed man wearing camouflage slunk into view. Without taking his gaze off the guy, Con eased his pack to the floor. His jacket followed. The robber hadn't seen them.

Yet.

The photo booth was centrally located in the main hall. The man was searching store by store, Uzi at the ready. They were trapped. Con gripped his bat and formulated a plan. Flight wasn't an option. He had no choice but to fight.

His muscles tensed, ready for combat. Balanced on the balls of his feet, he concentrated on breathing evenly and visually tracking the robber's progress. Learning his enemy's body language. Gauging his experience. Waiting for exactly the right moment.

As he'd told Bailey, timing was everything.

The sucker was at least a head taller than he. And ripped. The second Incredible Hulk of the day. What kind of vitamins were these dudes chugging? Gigantor wore a Kevlar vest, Kevlar hood and carried an Uzi. Con had a baseball bat, determination and the element of surprise.

Behind him, palpable waves of terror rolled off Bailey. She vibrated with fear. He wanted to hold her, reassure her, but couldn't. He didn't blame her for being afraid. If he failed, she'd be on her own. At the robber's mercy.

There was nothing he could do to ease her distress. Still watching the approaching man, his grip on the bat tightened.
Focus.

Failure was not an option.

He ruthlessly shoved everything from his mind except the approaching battle. Bailey's survival, as well as his own, depended on his actions in the next few minutes.

Gigantor skulked closer to their meager cover. Con kept his gaze on the suspect's hands, as he'd been taught. Broad and scarred, with prominent veins. Hand movement nearly always revealed intentions, even in the most disciplined combatants. A mere split-second warning could give him an advantage.

Almost there.
C'mon, big boy. Come to Papa.
Closer. Closer. Con tensed. There was no strap connecting the Uzi to the man's body, a lucky break. The hulk reached the corner of the booth.

Batter up!

Gigantor saw him a heartbeat before Con stepped and swung. The man jerked the Uzi up, and Con slammed the weapon out of his hands. Home run! The Uzi sailed into the air and clattered across the floor. Con swung again, aiming for his opponent's unprotected pelvis. Gigantor pivoted, crouched, and the bat thudded on Kevlar.

Gigantor took advantage of Con's open position to ram his fist into Con's gut. The breath burst from Con's lungs and he reeled. The hulk spun into a roundhouse turn and kicked the bat loose. It too, clattered to the floor.

Great. Gigantor was also trained in martial arts.

A meaty fist rocketed toward his face, and Con feinted left. Attacking fast and low, he tackled Gigantor, head-butting his
stomach. Using the man's bulk and momentum against him, Con bulldozed him up and flipped him over his back. Being a giant had its disadvantages. Con had a much lower center of gravity, and it was harder for the big man to knock him off balance.

The guy hit the floor with a thud that rattled the rafters. Con lunged for the bat, four feet to his right. Steely fingers snagged his ankle, yanked him to the floor, facedown. He rolled onto his back, flexed his legs and used his feet as a battering ram. Both boots connected with Gigantor's knee. Bone crunched and the big man grunted in pain. Con gave him tough-guy points. Most dudes screamed when you broke their kneecaps.

His opponent's massive torso slammed across him, pinning him down, and Con again lost his breath. Gigantor sat on him, and his hands constricted Con's windpipe. Black spots swirled in his vision and the world grayed at the edges. He wedged his forearms between the heavily muscled, strangling arms and tried to loosen the iron grip. When that failed, he used his thumbs to gouge Gigantor's eyes. Bloodied, Gigantor let go. Gasping oxygen into his burning lungs, Con drove the heel of his hand into the man's nose. Another grunt of pain, another gush of blood.

Gigantor reared back in reflex. Con bucked and hammered his knee into the hulk's kidneys, and he collapsed like a pitching net in a windstorm. Con rolled, holding his opponent down. Gigantor wasn't out for the count. His fist smashed into the side of Con's head, and stars exploded in his line of sight. The hulk scissored his legs and twisted. Locked in a deadly embrace, the men rolled across the cold, wet marble, grappling for superior position.

Con threw punches, left, right. A few grazed the target, several landed on the Kevlar, bruising his knuckles. Punches flew toward him. His head snapped back, absorbing a nasty blow to the jaw.
Ouch!
That was gonna leave a mark.

Time to close up the ballpark. He shoved away from his opponent and maneuvered behind him. Crouching, he flung his arm around the man's neck and wedged it in the crook of his elbow. Using his body as a lever against Gigantor's weight, Con pulled back and squeezed, compressing the carotid artery.

Gigantor thrashed, and the battle went into extra innings.
Bruising elbows pummeled Con's ribs, but he hung on. The sleeper hold did its job. Gradually, the fight went out of the hulk. He went limp, and Con lowered the unconscious man to the floor.

Three strikes and you're out, pal.

Panting, sweating, aching from multiple blows, and soaked from rolling on the wet floor, he crawled to the Uzi and scooped it up.

He pushed to his feet and staggered to Bailey. Pale and shaking, she huddled on the floor at the corner of the booth.

He reached to help her up, and she flinched away. “Don't.”

What the hell?
“Don't be afraid. It's me, baby.”

Her blue eyes regarded him warily. “I've never seen anything so brutal.”

He clenched his jaw, ignoring the twinge of pain. “I did what I had to do.”

She swallowed hard. “You gouged that man's eyes. You broke his kneecap. And his nose.”

“Those weren't love taps he dished out. He was playing for keeps. If I hadn't done the same, you'd be answering to him right now.”

“I realize that, and I'm…” She swallowed again. “Grateful. Are you all right? You're not hurt?”

Other than the fact that she seemed to have a major problem with him all of a sudden? “I'm okay.”

“He's not…” She pressed white lips together as if she were struggling not to be sick. “Is he…d-dead?”

“No. I choked him out, he's unconscious.” He tucked the Uzi under his arm and offered her his hand. A challenge.
Believe in me. Accept me.
“We were too far away for the guy to yell for backup, and the fight wasn't overly loud, but in case anyone heard, we need to haul butt.”

Ignoring his hand, she used the kiosk wall for support and clambered unsteadily to her feet. Her expression uncertain, she stared at him like a coiled rattlesnake in her path. As if he were a stranger. A man she didn't know and wasn't sure she could trust.

Hurt seared his insides and his stomach lurched. “Dammit, Bailey don't judge me for saving your life.”

“I'm not.”

At his blatant look of disbelief, she reiterated, “I'm not judging you.”

“The hell you're not. You can't bear for me to touch you.”

“I just…need some time, that's all.” She shuddered. “I've never seen a real fight. The savagery was a shock.”

“Time's in short supply.” No time to banish her apprehension. Soothe her fears. Discuss and overcome her sudden, unexpected aversion to him. Frustrated and upset, Con scrubbed a hand over his sore jaw. He'd had no choice. He had to protect her, whether or not she approved of his methods. Neither of them could afford for him to pussyfoot around and get hurt. To lose.

Now she resented him for it?

He didn't look for trouble, but when trouble arrived, he didn't turn the other cheek and let the bad guys win. Surrender wasn't in his vocabulary. You could not negotiate with evil.

Was this chasm too big for them to bridge? Had he just saved her life and at the same time doomed his chance to spend it with her? Perhaps fate had shoved a blatant message in his face.

Con slammed the door on hurt. Barricaded out doubt and fear. He'd deal with it later. How, he had no idea. He gestured at her pack. “Pull out the other jump ropes and bandanas.”

He stripped off Gigantor's Kevlar hood and vest. Under the gear, the blunt features belonged to a big, tough-faced blonde Con didn't recognize from any wanted bulletins. Still trembling, Bailey handed him several jump ropes.

He scanned her in a fast visual assessment. Pale and withdrawn, her breathing was too fast, her movements uncoordinated. Maybe she was suffering battle shock. It would explain her reaction. Even some combat-trained soldiers shut down when they witnessed brutality, especially the first time. For Bailey, who'd been sheltered all her life, the fight would have been terrifying. He gentled his voice. “Sweetheart, everything will be all right. We
will
get out of here, and save our friends.”

She nodded, but said nothing. Strained silence loomed between them as they tied and gagged their captive. Hefting the behemoth over his shoulder, Con carried him into the men's room.
He popped the outer door lock and filled it with the remaining super glue.

Two down, four—or more—to go.

After the first two didn't return, more would come looking. Guerrilla tactics, picking off the bad guys individually, was his only viable option. Six to one were lousy odds, and storming the bank would only get the hostages killed. Before long, the guy in charge would figure out he wasn't up against just a bookstore clerk. Until then, Con had the advantage.

He exited the bathroom and strode to Bailey's side. He scooped up the vest. “Put this on.”

She bit her lip. “You should wear it. You're most at risk.”

“Don't argue. Do it.”

Her shaky fingers fumbled with unfamiliar straps, but her remote, guarded expression warned him not to help. Instead, he jammed the hood into his pack. He wanted unobstructed vision for now, but the extra protection might come in handy later.

She shifted, having trouble with her balance. “It's heavy.”

“It's an older model. Weighs twenty-five pounds. New ones weigh sixteen.”

“I don't know how you function in one of these things.”

He snorted as he shrugged on his pack, picked up his jacket, and then checked the Uzi's magazine. His baseball bat had shattered under Gigantor's kick, but they still had hers. They also had the vest, hood and a decent amount of ammo. That leveled the rocky odds some. “Add in the other gear, and SWAT officers pack about forty pounds into combat.”

Her uneasy gaze slid away from his, and he fisted his hands. Right. Don't mention combat around the lady. “Let's move.”

She shivered. “You should change into dry clothes. It's getting awfully cold. And you're even wetter now.”

He rolled his taut shoulders. The soggy clothes were uncomfortable, but comfort wasn't a top priority. “I'm plenty warm after all the exercise. First things first. We need to find out who used to own all this blood.”

“You don't think…could it be a hostage?”

He hoped not. Had the alarm spooked the robbers into shoot
ing a hostage? His throat tightened as he slowly followed the splotches along the fake marble. “Way down here, so far from the bank? Unlikely.”

“Maybe someone escaped and was shot in the process. Maybe that's who the robber was looking for.”

He'd rather believe the crooks had a falling out over what to do after the fire alarm sounded and had gone their separate ways. Violently. That scenario would sure make them easier to neutralize. “Maybe. We'll soon see.”

Watching for more gun-toting suspects, he tracked the grisly markers. The watery, yet unmistakable trail meandered into stores and out, seemingly at random. Larger pools showed where the victim had stopped to rest. At one point, the path made a wobbly loop toward the bank, then turned and wove toward the end of the mall.

Finally, the trail stopped at a rock-and-gem shop. Con signaled Bailey to wait in a sheltered alcove inside the entrance while he followed the blood to the back. Her safety was his number-one concern. However, if he had to subdue a suspect, he'd rather she didn't witness it again. He already had enough opponents. He didn't want to fight her disapproval, as well.

Uzi at the ready, he edged around a glass display case. And came face-to-face with a man sitting on the floor, propped against the oak paneling. Con's finger slid to the trigger of his weapon; then the man's identity registered. Syrone! A bloody bullet hole marred the upper left shoulder of his pale blue uniform jacket. More blood soaked the front. Way too much blood.

Syrone raised his fist, wrapped around a huge, sharp chunk of unpolished agate. “Come and get me, jerkwad.” His voice was weak and shaky.

“Whoa!” Con whispered, lowering the Uzi toward the floor. “I'm on your side.”

Syrone dropped his head back against the paneling. “Irish! Am I glad to see you.”

“Can't exactly say likewise. Looks like you're in a jam here.” He half rose. “Bailey,” he called softly. “C'mon back.”