Midnight Man (16 page)

His arm lifted and she heard two loud noises, so close together it took her a second to realize there were two reports, so loud they deafened her. She was dazed, pinned against the wall, unable to see past him. She realized with a sense of shock that John had fired into a building. She peered around him, following the direction of his arm. He’d fired into the St. Regis. He’d fired a shot—no, two shots—into a hotel! Good God, he might have killed someone!

“John!” Bud shouted as he came toward them at a dead run. He reached beneath his coat and pulled out a gun as he ran. “What the hell’s the matter with you, man! That’s a hotel! Have you gone crazy?”

John grabbed her arm and pulled her forward, keeping himself between her and the wall. All three of them looked up at the sound of shattered glass and cracking wood. A body leaned out of the broken window frame of a second story room in the St. Regis. It moved slowly at first, then gathered speed as it tumbled to the ground. For a second, a man had been silhouetted against the porch lights and the long deadly rifle in the man’s hand was clearly visible. As was the shattered head, a mass of blood and brains.

Suzanne stood, shocked, and uttered a little cry.

“Come on.” John’s hand pulled at her, hard. He moved quickly and she was forced to keep pace. She slid a little on a patch of ice and he half-lifted her as he steadied her. “That was the second shooter, Bud!” he shouted over his shoulder, running and pulling her along. “Dig the bullet out of the wall if you don’t believe me. You goddamned find out what’s going on, you hear me, man? Until you do, you’re not seeing her again!”

“Wait!” Bud yelled, his voice echoing in the empty street. “Where are you taking her?”

But John had rounded the corner at a run. Suzanne had to work at keeping up, dragging her suitcase. Shocked, shaken, she tripped. Without breaking his stride, John bent and lifted her into his arms, suitcase and all, and continued running. A block down Singer Street she could see the Yukon. He had his remote out, unlocking the doors as he ran. In just a few seconds, he’d shoved her into the passenger seat, rounded the vehicle and taken off with the sound of rubber burning.

Suzanne sobbed once, then with a shudder controlled herself. The last thing John needed at this moment was a hysterical woman. He was driving dangerously fast down the dark streets. His hands were strong on the wheel, but they were going at a speed which would be fatal if they came across another car. His eyes flicked continuously to the rear view and side view mirrors.

“Fasten your seat belt,” he said, his voice calm, remote. Hands trembling, Suzanne did what he said, tucking her suitcase in the footwell so it wouldn’t bounce around.

He gunned through an intersection.

“Hold on tight,” he said coolly, hitting the brakes and twisting the steering wheel. Suzanne was thrown violently to the right, held in place only by the seat belt. She bit her lip to keep from screaming as they went into a long skid. She braced herself for the crash, which never came. The squeal of the tires was loud in the silence of the night and the smell of burning rubber drifted into the cab. It was clear, however, that John was in perfect control of the vehicle as he fought the wheel, pumping the brakes in a smooth rhythmic progression. He brought the SUV around facing the direction they’d come in, executing a 180° turn in a matter of seconds, and accelerated back down the street.

She’d never seen driving like that before, where the driver was an extension of the vehicle. John’s gaze went from the street ahead, to the rear view mirror to the side mirror, in regular sweeps. She had to brace herself against the door as he raced through the streets, taking corners in tight turns.

“Is anyone following us?” Suzanne was proud that her voice was steady.

“No, we’re clear,” John replied, eyes searching the road ahead. His deep voice was remote, dispassionate. He could have been reporting on the weather—it’s stopped raining now, instead of no killers are following us.

He had slowed down a little, driving steadily toward the outskirts of the city, finally passing the city limits. There were no streetlights this far from town and his face was illuminated only by the lights on the dashboard. They highlighted the rigid line of the jaw, the brutal slash of cheekbones, the strong brow.

He’d killed two men tonight. He’d done it defending her, but he had two deaths on his hands, nonetheless. He was a warrior, it was part of what he did. Suzanne had no idea how many other men he’d killed, but something about the lethal air he carried with him like an aura told her that there had been others.

She was alone in a car with a man who could kill. Who had killed. Who—if her reading of his vigilance was correct—was perfectly prepared to kill again. She had only the faintest glimmerings of who and what he was, but he was something so far outside her normal life he might as well have been a Martian who had landed in a space ship.

Yet as removed from her as he was, he was the person she’d instinctively turned to in trouble. It was as if the sex they’d had—fast and furious and rough—had somehow forged a bond that was bone deep.

Modern-day sex was supposed to be light-hearted, with no consequences if you took precautions, though she winced at the thought that they hadn’t taken precautions. Still, this was the twenty-first century, and two unattached adults should have been able to have sex casually. Casual, mutually pleasing sex.

Sex with John had been nothing at all like that. It had been earth shattering, so intense she thought she would faint while climaxing. She’d barely slept since then and had hardly eaten. That wasn’t at all what modern sex was about. Modern sex was about flirting and keeping it cool.

Not something so primitive it seemed to have come from the dawn of mankind, where men clubbed women and dragged them to their lair, then protected them with bared teeth and claws.

Some primitive instinct told her that in calling John to come to her aid, she’d crossed a dangerous, invisible line. She’d given herself over to his care. She’d given herself over to him.

Something important had changed, some turning point in her life had come. She was too shocked, too scared to follow through the ramifications of everything that had happened, but one thing was clear. She was now in John Huntington’s hands. In the hands of a man she knew nothing about, save that he could kill. Easily and without remorse.

Suzanne looked at his hard profile and shivered.

A few seconds later, he pulled to the side of the road.

They had been traveling down it for over half an hour. It was deserted and unfamiliar. The last car they passed had been five minutes ago. John got out, bent briefly over the front fender and then the back fender. In a minute or two, he was back behind the wheel, folding a soft beige blanket around her.

“There you go,” he said. The deep voice was low, almost gentle. Suzanne stared into his dark fathomless eyes for a long moment. Holding her gaze, he wiped her cheek with a clean handkerchief he took out of his pocket. It came away stained with blood. With a start of surprise, she realized that she’d been cut. By a shard spinning away from the wall, propelled by the force of the bullet. She hadn’t felt it up until now, probably shock had dulled her senses, but now her cheek stung.

Wonderful. If she could feel the sting of pain, it meant she was alive.

“Thank you,” she whispered, meaning more than for the blanket and the handkerchief. He nodded and started the engine. The heat was on full blast, but she huddled gratefully in the blanket, chilled to the bone from shock and sleeplessness. They drove on, endlessly.

Suzanne was quiet, lulled by the dark empty road. They started climbing and she stirred in the darkness.

“Where are we going?” she asked quietly.

John looked at her briefly then turned his attention back to the road.

“Where no one will ever find you,” he said.