Safe Harbor (2 page)

"YOU want to tell me how the hell we got into this mess?" Jackson Deveau demanded as he whipped his arm around Jonas Harrington's waist and half dragged him toward the flimsy cover of an industrial garbage container. "We have a nice comfy job on the Mendocino coast and you decide you're bored out of your mind, which is pure bullshit by the way. You'd think getting shot once was enough for you."

If he could have answered, Jonas would have sworn at Jackson, but he only managed a glare as he forced his feet to keep moving. The pain was relentless, stabbing white-hot like a branding iron. He could feel the breath rattling in his lungs, bile rising and reality fading in and out. He had to stay on his feet. He sure as hell wasn't going to let Jackson haul him out on his back—he'd never hear the end of it. Jackson was right. They'd made new lives, lived good, found a home. What the hell had he been thinking?

Why wasn't it ever enough for him? Why did he have to keep going back, over and over, dragging Jackson and other men down into the muck and garbage of the world? He was no noble crusader, yet time and again he found himself with a gun in his hand, going after the bad guys. He was weary to death of his need to save the world. He didn't save anyone, he only got good men killed.

The alley was dark, the shadow of the surrounding buildings rising above the small lane, turning the edges black. They kept the garbage container between them and the street, where it seemed everyone with a gun and a knife was hunting them. Jackson propped him up against a wall that smelled of times Jonas didn't want to remember, where blood, death and urine all mixed together into one potent brew.

Jackson checked their ammo situation. "Can you focus enough to shoot, Jonas?"

That was Jackson, all business. He wanted the hell out of there and was going to make it happen. The men hunting them had no way of knowing they had a tiger by the tail. When Jackson used that particular tone of voice, men died, pure and simple.

They had to get past the entrance of the alley and it was blocked by the Russian mobsters. It had been a recon mission. Nothing more. They weren't supposed to be seen—damn it—they
hadn't
been seen—but it had all gone to hell fast, turning into a bloodbath.

They'd come to film what was supposed to be a few low-level Tarasov soldiers meeting with a couple of Nikitin's soldiers on the docks in San Francisco. An undercover agent had informed Gray and he wanted to know why the two rival families would be meeting. Jonas's first twinge of alarm came when he recognized the Gadiyan brothers among the participants. There was nothing low-level about them. Brothers-in-law to Boris and Petr Tarasov, they were definitely the upper echelon in the murderous crime family, enforcers reputed to be so bloody and violent that even men in the Tarasov family avoided them. And when Boris stepped out of the shadows with his brother, Petr, his nephew, Karl, close behind to ensure his safety, Jonas knew something big was going down. Karl was reputed to be far, far worse than the Gadiyan brothers.

Jonas and Jackson had looked at each other with their guts churning and hearts pounding because they were right in the middle of a hornet's nest with no way out. The group of Russian mobsters stood for a moment, all laughing together, and then Karl had grabbed one of the men they were conversing with and shoved him to his knees in front of his uncle. It looked to Jonas that all of the men were Tarasov soldiers. He couldn't identify the man Karl had singled out. His face was in the shadows and it all happened too fast. Petr calmly pulled out a gun and shot him in the head without a single word. The violence had been swift and ugly, with no warning at all.

Jonas and Jackson had gotten the murder on tape and were looking for a way out when another man walked onto the dock. He obviously was aware of the camera, his face hidden, a long bulky coat covering his body. Keeping his face averted, he talked briefly with the Tarasovs and then everything went to hell fast. Karl Tarasov had reacted instantly, sprinting toward the road, finding their car and driver and executing him without preamble. Bullets were flying as the Russians spread out and began to hunt Jonas and Jackson. Jonas took two hits, neither should have been serious, but he was losing enough blood to make the wounds fatal if he didn't get help fast. Jackson had two knife streaks across his belly and chest, injuries suffered as they fought their way off the docks into the alley. The mobsters wanted the film back.

No way were they getting it.

Jackson slapped a full clip into Jonas's gun and shoved the gun into his hand. "You're good to go." He slammed home a full magazine and shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet. "I'm going up top for a few, Jonas. You put another pressure bandage on the wound in your side, and no matter what, stay on your feet. I'm going to shake things up a bit in a few minutes and you've got to be ready to run."

Jonas nodded. Sweat dripped off his face and beaded on his body. Yeah. He was ready to run—and fall flat on his face—but he'd keep his feet and the gun and back Jackson in whatever crazy scheme he had. Because, in the end, he could always count on Jackson.

Jackson melted into the night soundlessly, the way he always did. He had come home with Jonas when they'd both been sick to death of living in the shadows—when Jonas just flat out missed the hell out of his adopted family. They'd joined the sheriff's department and lived a cushy life until Jonas had gotten himself shot on the job and became restless and edgy recuperating. His old boss, Duncan Gray, from a special ops team buried deep in the defense department, had
come asking. Jackson would have given him a hard look and they would have stayed safe. But no, Duncan had known to come to Jonas, because Jonas fell for the "we need you" line every damn time.

It was a hell of a thing he'd done, pulling Jackson into this mess. And it wasn't the way he'd planned to die, a soft recon on Nikitin's rival mob to see who was coming and going and why. Nothing special, but here they were, shot to hell, and blood leaking out all over the place. Jonas opened the pressure bandage packet with his teeth and spit out the wrapper, slapping it in place before he could think too much about it.

Fire ripped through him, stabbing so deep his body shuddered in reaction. He had to hold himself up by gripping the garbage retainer hard—and wasn't that sanitary? Damn, he was in real trouble this time. He stood swaying, the only thing steady was his gun hand.

Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a photograph, the single one he carried, the one that mattered. He should have destroyed it. He could see his own face, the terrible raw truth caught on film. He was staring down at a woman and the love on his face, the stark hunger, was so evident it was a betrayal, there for everyone—even him—to see. His finger glided over the glossy paper, leaving a smear of blood. Hannah Drake. Supermodel. A woman with extraordinary, magical gifts. A woman so far out of reach he might as well try to pull the moon from the sky.

He heard footsteps and the whisper of clothing sliding against the wall. Ramming the photograph back in the pocket of his shirt, close to his heart, he shook his head to clear it. More sweat dripped into his eyes and he wiped it away. The hard-asses were coming in first, staying to the shadows but definitely advancing. The sweat stung his eyes, and blood ran steadily from his side down his leg, mingling with the rain that had begun to come down in a relentless pour. He steadied the gun and waited.

At the end of the alley, a man dropped and the first shot rang out almost simultaneously. Jackson was hell on wheels at that distance. Lying up on top of the roof, he could just pick them off if they were stupid enough to keep coming—and they were. Jonas took his time, waiting for a muzzle flash as one of them gave his position away by firing up at Jackson. Jonas squeezed and the count was two for them, but the entrance to the alley still looked a long way away when the stabbing fire was spreading through his body and his blood was leaking all over the ground.

Don't be such a pansy ass. You're not going to die in this dirty alley cut down by a few low-life rats
. He spoke sternly to himself, hoping the pep talk would keep him from doing a face plant in the muck. The trouble was, these weren't just low-life rats, they were the real deal, trained in tactics just as he and Jackson had been, and they were going for the rooftop, too. He heard sounds in the building behind him—the building that should have been a warehouse empty of people.

The murder caught on that videotape tonight was worth a lot of lives. Jackson fired again and another body dropped. Jonas waited for the flash of return fire, but not a single bullet was fired. He groaned softly as realization hit him. They knew his position
exactly
. He should have moved the moment he'd fired. He was even further gone than he'd thought. He swallowed hard and stayed low, trying to be a part of the retainer, knowing he had to get out of there, but afraid his legs wouldn't hold. A wave of dizziness hit him hard, nearly putting him on the ground. He hung on grimly, breathing deeply, desperate to stay on his feet. Once he went down, he'd never be able to get back up.

Jackson came out of the shadows, blood dripping from his chest and arm, his face grim, eyes savage. He touched his knife and drew a line across his throat, indicating another kill—and that kill had come between Jackson and Jonas, which meant they were surrounded. He held up four fingers and directed Jonas's attention to two positions close and two behind them. He pointed up.

Jonas felt his heart skip a beat. No friggin' way was he going to climb a fire escape ladder three stories up. He doubted if he could have run the gauntlet, straight down the alley, but it looked a hell of a lot easier—and shorter—than three stories up. He took a breath, ignored the protest as a thousand dull knives sawed into his insides, and nodded his assent. It was their only chance to get away clean.

Jonas took a step away from the receptacle, following behind Jackson. One step and his body went ballistic on him, the pain crushing, robbing him of all ability to breathe. Shit. He was going to die in this damn alley, and worse, he was going to take Jackson with him—because Jackson would never leave him.

Enemies were closing in from every direction and there was just no way he could climb that ladder. They needed a miracle and they needed it fast. There was only one miracle that he could count on, and he knew she was waiting for his call. She always knew when he was in trouble. Jonas spent a lifetime protecting her, wanting her so badly he woke up night after night, sweating, her name echoing through his bedroom, his body hard and tight and so damned uncomfortable he sometimes wasn't sure he'd live through the night. But he refused to give in and claim her when he couldn't stop himself from taking jobs like the one he was on—because he was damned if he'd get her killed.

Still, he had no choice. She was his ace in the hole and he had no other option but to use her, if he wanted to survive. He reached out into the night and connected with a feminine mind. He knew her. He'd always known her. He could picture her in his mind standing on the captain's walk overlooking the sea, her platinum and gold spiral curls cascading down her long back all the way to her luscious butt, her face serious, gaze on the sea—waiting.

Hannah Drake
. If he inhaled, he could breathe her in. She would know he was in trouble. She always knew. And God help him, maybe that was what this was all about. Maybe he had wanted her attention—needed her attention—and this was the only way left to him. Could he be so fucking desperate that he would risk not only his life, but Jackson's as well? He didn't know what he was doing anymore.

Hannah
. He knew he touched her mind, that she touched his. That she had known the moment the trouble had started and she had been waiting, steady as a rock, in her own way as reliable as Jackson. She waited only for a direction before striking. Now that she had one, all hell was really going to break loose. Hannah Drake, one of seven daughters born to the seventh daughter in a line of extraordinary women. Hannah Drake. Born to be his. Every harsh breath he drew into his lungs, every promise to stay on his feet, to stay alive, he gave for Hannah.

Jackson pointed back toward the building and Jonas swore under his breath. He took a tentative step back toward the shadows, bent over, stomach heaving, tossing up every scrap of anything he'd had to eat or drink in the last few hours. The terrible wrenching sent another wave of dizziness sweeping over him and jackhammers did a macabre tap dance, ripping through his skull. Sweat dripped and blood ran and reality retreated just a little more.

Jackson got an arm under his shoulder. "You need me to haul you out?"

They'd need Jackson's gun if they were going to make it. Jonas had to find a way to dig deep and stay on his feet, crossing the distance and climbing for freedom with two bullets in him, and a still-fresh wound from an earlier gunshot. He shook his head and took another step, leaning heavily on Jackson.

Hannah, baby. It's now or never
. He sent the silent prayer into the night, because if there was ever a moment that he truly needed her unusual skills, it was now.

The wind answered, rising fast and furious. It blew down the alley with the force of a hurricane, howling and ripping strips of wood off the buildings. Debris swirled, rose into the air and flew in all directions. Cardboard and other trash hurtled through the air, slamming into anything in its path as the
wind made its way to the back of the alley, where it curved and began to race in a horrifying circle around and around, faster and faster, building more speed and ferocity. The wind' never touched either Jackson or Jonas; rather, it moved around them, creating a cocoon, building a shield where dirt and debris churned to form a barrier between them and the world.

Be safe
. Two little words, wrapped up in silks and satin and soft colors.

"We've got to move," Jackson said.

Jonas forced his feet to keep shuffling, every step wrenching at his insides, the pain grinding through his body until he could only clench his teeth and try to breathe it away. His efforts didn't work.
Hannah. Baby. I don't think I'm going to make it home to you
.