Unlawful Contact (31 page)

Marc had wanted to slam his fist into Darcangelo’s face.

Except that the bastard
was
being gentle with Megan.

No other officer would have given her time to hold her baby. Or skipped the pat down out of respect for her past trauma. Or cuffed her hands in front instead of behind her back.

Watching him work, Marc had realized that under different circumstances he and Darcangelo might have been friends.

The sound of a woman’s voice drifted through the silence of the trees, bringing Marc’s head around.

Sophie.

The house blocked her from his view, but he knew she was carrying the baby out to the garage. The pastor had agreed to drive Sophie and Emily to the Denver police station, where Sophie would be questioned and Emily would be handed back over to the Mennonite family that had cared for her since birth. And they would all be back where they’d started.

Except that nothing was the same. Megan would be facing murder charges. Sophie’s life was in a shambles. And what lay ahead of him was anyone’s guess. Prison certainly, but for how long? Months? Years?

But something else had changed. He was no longer obsessed with Sophie in the way he’d been before his escape—he was madly and deeply in love with her. Saying good-bye to her was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. He’d realized he might never see her face-to-face again, that he might never have a chance to talk with her or touch her again. And for a moment, he’d thought his heart might actually break through his chest and land on the floor in bloody pieces.

“I love you, Hunt,” she’d said.

Then, ignoring Julian’s warning, she’d hurled herself against him, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him, tears streaming down her cheeks. The kiss had been hot and desperate—and short, thanks to the cop.

Darcangelo had drawn her away. “No contact, Sophie. Do that again, and I’ll put you in handcuffs, got it?”

“Stay safe, sprite,” Hunt had managed to say.

There were so many things he’d needed to tell her, so many things he ought to have said, and now he might never get the chance. God only knew when he’d see her again. He hadn’t even told her he loved her.

They reached the vehicle—an unmarked SUV. It stood, a hulking black shape, amid the shadows of trees.

Marc leaned up against it while Darcangelo helped Megan climb in. The snow had stopped falling, and the sky was beginning to clear. Orion was visible to the west, his belt of stars gleaming cold and white. Marc drew a deep breath, then another, trying to memorize the scent of snow-soaked pine, panic cresting inside him again.

He couldn’t go back there.

Breathe, Hunter. Breathe.

Beside him, Julian had just secured Megan’s seat belt and shut the door.

“Your turn, Hunter.”

Just as Marc turned, something caught his eye.

The gray gleam of gunmetal in starlight.

“Megan, get down!” He slammed into Darcangelo, knocked him to the ground.

“What the—!”

Bam! Bam!

The first shots rang out, striking the side of the vehicle where the two of them had stood only seconds ago. Marc rolled, brought his cuffed wrists beneath his ankles and to the front of his body, then leapt to his feet and took cover behind a tree.

“Son of a bitch!” The cop rolled onto his back and returned a rapid spread of fire.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

Then he scrambled to his feet and ducked behind the tree beside Marc. “That sound like a Glock forty-five to you?”

“Yep. One shooter. I’m guessing eleven shots left—service magazine.”

Two more shots rang out, hitting the vehicle with a metallic
ping ping
.

Inside, Megan screamed.

“Give me a fucking weapon!” Marc wanted blood.

“No can do, Hunter!” Darcangelo watched the trees. “Just stay out of sight!”

“And wait for that fucker to kill my sister? Fire at the flash!” Marc stepped out from behind the tree, saw a shifting shadow, then ducked back just as the shooter squeezed off two more rounds, a bullet whistling past his ear.

Darcangelo fired—and clearly didn’t hit a goddamned thing. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m trying to keep you from wasting ammo.” Marc kept his gaze focused on the trees. “I draw his fire, and you shoot toward the flash. Got it? And aim a bit to the right. He’s circling that direction, trying to flank us.”

Darcangelo got into position. “I
hate
backseat drivers!”

“Tough shit.” Marc took a breath, stepped out.

Bam! Bam!

Double taps.

This time one of the rounds creased his left bicep.

But Darcangelo had been ready and was already returning fire.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

A grunt, followed by a groan indicated that at least one of those rounds had hit its mark.

And then night became day.

Marc looked over to find Megan sitting behind the wheel of the SUV, its headlights blaring. Never mind that they weren’t pointing in the right direction. Their light was enough to show a man writhing in the snow, holding his thigh.

“Get down, Megan!” Marc called to his sister.

Quickly, Darcangelo moved in on the shooter. “Sergeant Gary King—you son of a bitch! And to think I’ve eaten lunch with you, you worthless piece of shit!”

Marc ran over to the driver’s side door and opened it, forgetting until he hugged Megan that he’d been hit.
Shit!
“Are you all right?”

She clung to him, her body shaking. “I-I tried to help. Y-you needed lights, and I—”

“You did great, honey. He’s down. It’s okay.”

She shook her head. “Wh-where is he? There’s one more. The Boss.”

Marc looked over his shoulder to where Darcangelo was rolling in the snow with King, who seemed to be trying to escape despite his wounded leg. “When you’re done fucking around, ask him where Harburg—”

Then Marc heard a single shot and the baby’s terrified wail.

Wrists still cuffed, he ran.

L
ITTLE
E
MILY CLUTCHED
in her arms, Sophie took a shaky step backward, her legs like water, her blood shards of ice. “Y-you
killed
him!”

Ken Harburg glanced down at his handiwork and shrugged. “Collateral damage.”

Pastor John lay still, facedown in the snow, a bullet in his back. He’d heard the shots and had run toward the house to fetch his shotgun, shepherding her and the baby to safety, when Harburg had stepped out from behind the garage and fired.

“Collateral damage?” Sophie took another step, her heart flailing against her ribs, her mind racing for a way out, a way to protect the baby, a way to protect herself.

Time.

What she needed was time. If Hunt or Julian were still alive, they would come. They would help her. They would do all they could to save her and the baby.

And if they’re dead, Alton? What then?

Oh, God!

The panic inside her shot to a higher pitch, made her stomach turn, fear for them coiling with fear for herself and little Emily.

Please please please let them be safe and alive!

“Yeah,
collateral damage
.” Harburg’s gaze flicked nervously toward the cabins. He was obviously wondering what had happened, too. “You know the term. It means I didn’t come here to kill him—I came here to kill you. He just got in the way.”

Sophie’s mouth went dry. She took another step backward, pulling words out of the air, trying to keep him talking. “Y-you’re supposed to be one of the good guys.”

“I
am
one of the good guys.” He glared at her as if she’d just said something idiotic.

Her fear flared to white-hot rage. “Good guys don’t steal drugs from the evidence room! They don’t rape! They don’t commit murder!”

“Those girls got what they asked for! They flaunted themselves at us, tried to manipulate us, wanted extra privileges. But damned if they didn’t learn their lesson. You play with fire, you get burned.”

Sophie shook her head, unable to believe what she was hearing. “You had no right—”

“We had
every
right!” His shout echoed through the eerie, snowy silence. “They
owed
us. This whole damn city owes us! For fifteen fucking years I’ve earned shit pay working to keep the streets safe. I’ve watched scum work their way through a court system that gives crooks more rights than the rest of us. If I want to steal some pussy or earn some extra cash by selling drugs to a bunch of loser addicts, I can. The good I’ve done outweighs all the rest!”

Please—Hunt, Julian, hurry!

“Do you really think you’re some kind of
hero
?” She laughed—a high-pitched, manic sound. “You just killed an elderly preacher who spent his life helping people. You killed Charlotte Martin and Kristina Brody. Did you kill John Addison, too?”

His head jerked as if in surprise, his reaction betraying him. “Addison’s death was ruled a suicide, and the girls overdosed—”

“On fefe you and your buddies gave them! The same fefe you all put in my car and Megan’s room at the halfway house! Did you hold them down and force it into them, or did you give it to them and just not warn them it was laced?”

“All we did was offer it to them. Well, I think Addison made sure the balloon had a hole in it, but the little whore swallowed it all on her own. King even managed to get a blow job out of it.” He seemed to find this amusing, his indifference so cold that it turned Sophie’s stomach. “Unfortunately, I’m going to have to kill you outright. Not that I regret it entirely. You might be a hot piece of ass, but like every other reporter you’re a bleeding heart, wasting your time on trash like the Rawlings girl.”

“She was fifteen!”

“She’s a thief and a drug user!”

“She has the same right to respect and dignity as the rest of us!”

“Enough of this bullshit.” Harburg’s gaze twitched toward the cabins again, and he slowly raised the gun. “Think I can kill both of you with one shot?”

The breath left Sophie’s lungs on a sob, her knees about to buckle, terror buzzing like white noise in her brain. “P-please, the baby! Y-you can’t hurt the baby! She’s innocent!”

“Just you, then.” Harburg adjusted his aim. “Don’t worry. A clean shot to the head, and you won’t feel a thing.”

And Sophie knew she was dead.

BAM!

She heard her own scream and the baby’s terrified shriek—and saw Harburg spin to his left, grabbing at his side.

“Goddamn it!” He looked toward the house.

Stunned to be alive, it took Sophie a moment to realize what had happened.

Connie!

The preacher’s wife stood in the shadows of the house beneath the iced-over eaves, holding a shotgun, struggling to reload.

“You should have used something bigger than bird shot, stupid bitch!” Harburg shifted his aim toward Connie, his free hand still pressed against his side.

“No!” Sophie’s muscles tensed, some thought of kicking him and knocking him off balance half formed in her mind. If only she could—

“You fucking son of a bitch!”

Hunt!

He lunged out from behind the garage, charging out of the darkness straight at Harburg, his wrists still cuffed, murderous fury on his face.

But his shout had given him away.

Harburg spun toward him, gun in hand, finger on the trigger.

“Hunt, watch out!”

Marc heard Sophie’s shouted warning, but this was exactly what he’d wanted—to draw Harburg’s attention away from the women to himself. And he was more than ready, seven years of pent-up hatred mixed with pure adrenaline. He jumped, pivoted, kicked—and felt the heel of his boot connect with Harburg’s temple in a bone-jarring moment of satisfaction.

With a grunt, Harburg sprawled sideways in the snow, the gun falling from his grasp and disappearing into fresh powder.

Marc might have been able to finish him off right then, but the snow was slick and his hands were still cuffed. He landed off balance, slipped, and fell flat on his back.

Way to kick your own ass, dumbshit!

By the time he was on his feet again, Harburg was on his hands and knees, fingers closing around the handle of the pistol.

“You want it, don’t you, asshole?” Marc leapt forward and drove his boot into Harburg’s jaw. “Sorry. Can’t have it.”

Harburg gave a stifled shriek, his head snapping back, his jaw obviously broken. A kick to the gut, and he toppled over in the snow, dead or unconscious, weapon in his limp hand.

Marc took the gun, retrieved its twin from the shoulder holster inside Harburg’s jacket and tucked the pair—a couple of Glock 37 .45 G.A.Ps—into the front of his jeans, his gaze seeking Sophie. “You all right?”

His heart still slamming, he did his best to keep his voice calm, though he’d never felt less calm in his life. He’d run as fast as he could, afraid he was already too late. He’d planned to sneak up behind Harburg, but then he’d seen that bastard pointing a gun at Sophie, heard the shot fire and—
Jesus Christ!
—his heart had nearly crashed through his chest. If it hadn’t been for the old lady and her shotgun…

It had been so close—too goddamned close.

Sophie gave a wooden nod, rocked the crying baby almost absentmindedly in her arms, and he could tell she was in shock. “I-I thought you were dead.”

“I’m fine—Darcangelo and Megan, too.” He didn’t want to take his eyes off her, needed more than anything to hold her, to comfort her, to feel her alive in his arms. But there were other priorities. He hurried over to the preacher. “Looks like he took a round in the back.”

“Harburg came up behind us.”

Marc knelt down beside Pastor John, pressed his fingers against the old man’s carotid—and felt a thready pulse. “He’s alive.”

But he wouldn’t be for long if they didn’t get him to the hospital.

Knowing he needed to work quickly, Marc reached down to pull off the pastor’s coat, then remembered he was still in handcuffs.
Goddamn it!
He’d need a crowbar to get the damned things off thanks to Darcangelo, who had double locked them. He glanced over his shoulder to Connie, who shuffled toward them, dragging the shotgun in the snow, her face pinched with grief and shock. “Your husband’s alive, Connie. Can you help me?”

She nodded, sank to her knees in the snow beside them. “What do I need to do?”

“Help me get his coat off.”

The round had penetrated just beneath the pastor’s right scapula, leaving a bleeding wound that bubbled with each shallow breath. The bullet had clearly torn up his lung and God knew what else—but it hadn’t left an exit wound.

Anti-personnel round. Hollow-point. Made for one purpose—to kill.

Marc wadded up the old man’s scarf and pressed it hard against the wound, trying to seal it off. “He needs direct pressure.”

“How do I do it?”

“Like this.” Marc guided Connie’s hands, showed her the kind of pressure that was needed, sure she would cope better if she were able to do something to help her husband. “We need to slow the bleeding and keep him from drawing more air in through the wound. You’re doing great. Just keep that up.”

She muttered the words of a prayer, her voice a whisper.

Marc got to his feet and glanced over to where Sophie stood, crooning to Emily, a dazed look on her face. He knew he ought to go see what was keeping Darcangelo, but he didn’t want to leave the women alone. He stepped over the pastor, walked toward Sophie, unable to keep himself away from her one moment longer. “You should go inside. It’s cold out here, and it will take a while before…”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement.

He turned and found Harburg propped up on one elbow, slack-jawed and bleeding, another gun in his hand, its barrel pointed straight at him.

And he’d thought the fucker was out cold.

Marc’s hands itched to pull one of the Glocks from his jeans, but he knew he’d only provoke Harburg into shooting. And since Harburg’s weapon was already clear—where in the
hell
had that come from?—that meant Harburg would get his shot off first.

You should’ve done a better job patting him down, dumbass.

He met Harburg’s gaze. “Shoot me if you want, but it won’t do you a damned bit of good. The truth is out. Whether I’m dead or alive, they’re going to throw your ass in a cage.”

One side of Harburg’s mustached mouth turned up in a twisted smile, then he shifted his aim, pointed the gun at Sophie, his gaze darting back to Marc, his unspoken message as clear as if he’d said it aloud.

I might go down tonight, but I’ll hurt you by killing her first.

With no time to do anything but react, Marc threw himself into the line of fire, drew the gun from his jeans, and pulled the trigger.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

He saw a round hit its mark, felt something punch into his chest, driving the breath from his lungs and throwing him onto his back. He lay still for a moment, tried to breathe, but couldn’t, blinding pain and pressure hitting him all at once. And he knew he’d been shot.

Shit!

But Harburg was down.

Sophie was safe. She was safe.

Better you than her, Hunter.

Yes, better him.

Time seemed to stop. Or maybe he blacked out.

The next thing he knew, Sophie was there beside him, tears streaming down her cheeks, her hands pressing something against the entry wound. “Please, Hunt, stay with me!”

He drew a labored breath, the pain and pressure excruciating, his heart pounding erratically in his chest. Unable to move his right arm, he tried to reach for her with his left, but his wrists were still cuffed. “Please…get them off…Get them…off.”

He didn’t want to die in chains.

He felt someone fiddling with his wrists, felt the steel slide away, and the cop’s head swam into view. “Hang in there, Hunter. Flight for Life’s on its way—ETA seven minutes.”

But Marc didn’t need a doctor to tell him that his chances of lasting till the chopper arrived were slim to none. He’d seen enough death to know what it looked like, how it felt. He reached for Sophie, wanting to feel her, needing to tell her what he ought to have told her twelve years ago. “Sophie…I…”

But he was drifting again.

“God, no!” Sophie watched Hunt’s eyes close, fear twisting slick and dark in her belly, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I love you, Marc Hunter! I love you! Please wake up!”

“Let me.” Julian knelt beside her, nudged her hands aside, pressed the blood-saturated cloth she’d torn from Hunt’s T-shirt against the terrible wound in Hunt’s chest. “Six minutes, thirty seconds.”

Hunt’s blood on her hands, Sophie scooted around a weeping Megan to Hunt’s left side, looking to Julian for some sign that he believed Hunt would make it that long. Instead, she saw only worry.

“It wasn’t supposed to be him.” She took Hunt’s cold fingers in hers, tried to rub life into them. “It wasn’t supposed to be him.”

“He knew what he was doing, Sophie. He’s a Special Forces veteran, a former federal agent. He made a choice. Don’t blame yourself.”

Julian was trying to comfort her, she knew, but it didn’t work.

One minute she’d thought the ordeal was finally over. The next, Hunt had thrown himself in front of her, gun drawn and blazing. She hadn’t seen the danger, hadn’t known anything was wrong until that moment. And then it had been too late.

He’d taken a bullet for her, saved her life.

And if he didn’t get help soon, he would die.

If they catch me, they’ll probably bring me back in a body bag.

“Six minutes.”

As Julian counted down the longest few minutes of Sophie’s life, she held Hunt’s hand, spoke to him, caressed his face. She could tell he was in pain even when he was unconscious, his forehead furrowed, cold sweat trickling down his temples, his jaw clenched. His respiration was uneven, the muscles of his bare chest straining with each labored breath, his body shivering.