Worth the Risk (17 page)

But Sam wasn’t giving up that easily. With a wordless yell, he launched himself away from Meredith. Building up a remarkable amount of speed for such a short distance, he tore toward the other man. Then knocked straight into him. Hard enough that Meredith heard the gasp of air tear from the detective’s throat.

The two men landed on the platform, a blurred roll of arms and legs, grunts and curses. Sam was bigger. Taller. Wider. Clearly more dominant in any normal setting. But Sam had also lost a lot of blood. Suffered a head injury. And who knew how long it had been since he slept? Even though his opponent had a fresh wound, Meredith could tell it wasn’t wearing him down the same way Sam’s own injuries were.

Desperate to help but too afraid to look away even for a second, she inched closer, searching for some means of giving him an advantage.

The detective’s gun.

But it sat on the ground on the wrong side of the struggle, and there wasn’t near enough room to get past so she could retrieve it. Unless... The idea that popped into her head was sheer insanity. Totally unreasonable. But Sam let out a stifled cry as Boyd landed a blow, and Meredith knew she was going to have to do it anyway.

She slid toward the railing, took a breath and looked down. Ten to twelve feet, if she had to guess. A sheer drop would mean breaking bones at the very least. Maybe worse. She took another breath. She swallowed her fear. And she swung a leg over the railing.

Chapter 17

F
rom the corner of his eye, Sam spied Meredith, and for a moment, he thought he was seeing things. That the trauma he’d sustained had finally got the better of him. Because her slim body was on the
wrong
side of the railing with nothing to stop her from falling down and cracking her head open on the concrete below. And no way was that possible. Except, when he blinked, she stayed put.

What the hell was she thinking?

She mouthed something at him, then pointed. He had no clue what she meant, and he didn’t have time to figure it out. The man beneath him was gaining ground in the fight. He’d worked a hand free and drawn it back and—holy Lord, that hurt—slammed it into his so-tender wound. Sam bit down to keep from hollering, then fought back. He twisted his own hand into a fist and smashed it into the detective’s chin. He hated the feeling of his knuckles coming in contact with someone else’s face. Conflict resolution, not confrontation. He used his words and his authority.
Those
had been his things as a cop, and they’d carried over just fine into his work as a PI. At least until now.

“Stop!” Meredith’s voice carried through to Sam’s ears, but the clang of metal drowned out everything she said after that one word.

And he didn’t have time to pause and decipher it. The detective bucked up, driving a knee into Sam’s thigh. Pain reverberated up to his hip. The man was damn strong. Sam needed to incapacitate him. Badly. He drew back a fist again. Then stopped short as a shot rang out.

His eyes flew up. Meredith had returned to the right side of the railing, and she stood near the stairs, her feet wide apart, the gun pointed at the ceiling. Drywall rained down on her. It coated her hair with dust, and it pinged against the metal under her Converse sneakers. Her expression looked regretful, and it took Sam a second to figure out why.

The last bullet.

She’d fired it up instead of using it on the detective. Instead of using it as a threat.

But regret was another thing Sam didn’t have time for at that moment. Besides which, the shot had distracted the corrupt cop, too. The man was struggling to look toward the noise. Probably trying to discern where the bang had come from, and wondering if another bullet would be on its way. A perfect opportunity.

With a heave that made his wound burn, Sam pushed himself off Boyd and rolled the man to his back, then snapped the detective’s wrists together and forced them both up. Immediately, the other man lifted a foot and slammed it backward. The kick landed sharply, making Sam stumble. His grip slipped. His knees smacked into the platform and his head swam.

For the love of all that’s holy!
he thought as he grabbed for the railing and fought to regain some stability.
One little break would be nice.

Except luck wasn’t running his way. The other man was already loose, and his attention wasn’t on Sam. Instead, he’d turned his furious gaze toward Meredith—who had pushed herself back against the railing and whose eyes widened with fear—and his feet were quick to follow.

Damn, damn, damn.

Sam flew up and made a hasty attempt to catch up before the other man could reach Meredith. But his efforts turned out to be unnecessary. A split second before the detective reached her, she slid sideways, avoiding the man barreling toward her. And though the cop stuck out his arms and tried to stop himself, his momentum was too great. As Sam watched, the other man’s hips smacked into the railing, bending him in half. He teetered there for a moment, his body a living pendulum. Then his feet skidded against the platform, trying and failing to find purchase, and the frantic movement sent him over the edge. With a distinctly unmanly shriek, the detective toppled to the ground with a sickening thud, just as Sam reached Meredith’s side.

She was staring down at the warehouse floor in horror. Sam put a hand on her elbow and tried to pull her back. She didn’t budge. He reached down and peeled her fingers off the railing, then slid his arms around her shoulders.

“Hey.” He kept his tone gentle. “We need to get moving again.”

She met his eyes, her face ashen. “We need to... Is he... Should we... Oh, God. I couldn’t shoot him. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I wanted something to just happen so I wouldn’t have to, but... Oh, God. Not this. Maybe if I’d just fired. I probably would have missed, but at least...”

“If you’d fired, chances are good that you
would
have missed. But you might’ve hit me, and I’m not exactly eager to experience that again so soon.”

She eased out of his embrace, and Sam held still while her eyes ran over his torn and bloody shirt. He couldn’t feel the wound at the moment, which probably wasn’t a good thing. Trying not to show his worry, he bent to pick up a scrap of fabric—from her bullet-riddled sweatshirt, Sam thought—and used it to bind the bloody mess. When he was done, Meredith lifted her hand, then dropped it again without actually touching him.

“We really do need to go, don’t we?” she asked.

“We do.”

Moments later, they were moving down the stairs. As they hit the bottom, Sam turned to the side, trying to shield Meredith from having to view the man who lay crumpled on the ground. As they walked past, though, a ragged inhale made him stop and turn. Boyd’s eyes were closed, his mouth open, his chest moving—but barely. Meredith pushed past, and her gaze landed on the detective.

Sam recognized the desperation in her look. The concern. It made his heart ache. And he knew how guilty she must feel about her unwanted compassion for the man on the ground. How torn. He’d experienced the same conflicting emotions on the job many times.

“Even though it feels wrong to leave him, it’s what we have to do,” Sam said. “Sticking around to see if there’s a way we can help would just put us in more danger.”

“I know.”

“If it makes you feel better, it’s safe to assume someone’ll be looking for him.”

“The same someone who’s probably looking for us.”

“Yes.”

She shot the detective another regretful glance, and for a second Sam thought she might insist on helping the other man anyway. Then she grabbed his hand and pulled. But they barely made it two steps before another sound, far louder than Boyd’s breaths, stopped them again.

A cell phone.

It came directly from the unconscious detective.

“Answer it,” Meredith said.

Sam didn’t have to be told twice. He strode to the man, flipped open his jacket and snapped up the phone. He smacked the answer button and waited.

The caller issued a greeting without preamble. “Did you take care of our redheaded loose end, Detective? And verify whether or not the Jamison girl’s story about the file being set for release was true?”

Sam made a noncommittal noise in reply, hoping to draw out something else. But the words and their meaning were already enough to disturb Sam. Almost as much as the fact that there was something vaguely familiar about the man’s voice.

“Boyd?” the caller prompted. “Answer me in a way that’s going to make my life easier.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

There was a pause. “Samuel Potter.”

“You have me at a disadvantage.”

The familiar-sounding man let out a chuckle. “Says the man with my number-one guy’s phone in one hand and the girl I need in the other. I don’t suppose you have the file handy, too?”

“Hardly had the time. Been a little busy defending ourselves from your number-one guy. And his dead friend.”

“Can’t blame me for trying to expedite the retrieval.”

“How’s that working out for you?”

“Well. Until you picked up this phone, I thought it was going just fine.”

Sam struggled again to place the voice. Someone from his past? His days on the force? Likely. Who, though?

“Guess you were wrong,” Sam said.

A sigh carried across the line. “Back to our previous arrangement then.”

“Tamara.”

“What about her?”

Sam reached out and pulled Meredith close enough that she’d be able to hear as well. “We want to know she’s alive.”

“She’s alive.”

“We want to know
firsthand
that she’s alive.”

“Fine. You’ve got twenty seconds.”

There was a shuffle, and then—for the first time—Sam got to speak directly to the woman he was trying to save.

“Merri?” Her query sounded breathless and scared.

“She’s safe, Tamara. I’m working with her to get the Hamish file.”

“Did she hire you?”

“No. Your client did.”

“Oh, thank God.”

Sam frowned, thinking it was a strangely enthusiastic reaction. Before he could ask where it came from, though, the other man’s voice burst onto the line.

“Time’s up. I want that file, Potter.”

“And I want you to call off your dogs.”

“I believe you’ve already
put down
most of my dogs.”

Sam glanced toward the fallen detective, who was still breathing shallowly. “You’ve got one alive here, if you’re interested in saving him.”

“I’m not that much of a bleeding heart, I’m afraid.”

“Maybe not. But a dead cop is going to draw the wrong kind of attention.”

There was a long pause. “Just bring me the damned file and keep this phone handy.”

Then the line clicked to a dead silence, and Sam bent to set his hand gently on Boyd’s chest. When he straightened up again, he caught Meredith staring at him, a funny look on her face.

“You did that for me, didn’t you?” she asked. “Told his boss he was alive.”

“He made his own bad choices, and if he does die, it’s not your fault. But the conscience isn’t a logical animal, sweetheart. We already established how misplaced guilt can be. How it can eat away at us.” He shrugged. “This way, Detective Boyd might live and we can say rightly say we gave him a chance.”

“Sam...” She met his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Anytime. Now. Can we get the hell out of here?”

Meredith cast one more look at the detective, then nodded. He could see from her face that whatever was in her head wasn’t over, but she’d pushed it down, and that would have to do. For now.

* * *

As Sam yanked off the cover of the steering column, then dragged out a few wires from inside, Meredith decided in spite of the hard time she’d given him before, she didn’t care where he’d acquired the skill. Only that he had it. They’d found Sam’s wallet in the office, and a jacket that sufficed to cover his wound. Though their own weapons were MIA, they’d snagged another gun, loaded with a single shot. But the car keys were a whole other story. And Meredith had no desire to search either the redhead or the detective to find them. She shivered involuntarily and turned her attention to what Sam was doing to distract herself from thinking about it.

He worked efficiently, stripping wires, then winding them together. The first set lit up the dash. The second kicked the sedan to life.

“One more thing,” Sam said.

He placed the cover back on, then put both hands on the steering wheel. With a grunt, he twisted. And twisted. And twisted some more. Hard enough to make his face turn an alarming shade of red. And just when Meredith was about ready to tell him to stop—not that she had a clue what he was doing—the column snapped loudly. Sam leaned against the driver’s seat and drew in a deep breath.

“Okay,” he said after a very long moment. “Engine’s running. Steering wheel’s unlocked. Let’s get this show back on the road.”

Meredith scrambled around the car and plopped herself in the passenger seat. As she fastened her seat belt, she kept her eyes on the side mirror, watching as the warehouse got smaller. She watched and watched until it was nothing but a dot on the horizon. But the pressure in her chest still didn’t ease. In fact, now that she wasn’t moving, it almost seemed worse.

“It’s okay to breathe, sweetheart. We’re safe.”

At Sam’s soft statement, Meredith jerked her gaze forward. “I’m just... I’m not scared. I’m waiting for it to feel better.”

“Could be waiting awhile.”

“That’s not very helpful.”

“You’re a good person. When bad things happen, you feel bad.”

“I didn’t just feel bad, Sam. I was glad that detective was alive. I
am
glad.” She shook her head. “I shouldn’t be happy about that.”

“It’s okay to be glad someone’s not dead.”

“Even when that someone is a murderous, kidnapping cop?” She meant it to sound funny, or at least sarcastic, but it just came out bitter.

Sam didn’t comment on her tone. Instead, he reached across the center console and squeezed her forearm. “Especially then.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. It’s easy to feel bad for the nice guys. For the innocent ones. It’s much harder to sympathize with the bad ones.” He released her arm. “If that goes away, that’s when you should worry.”

“So I’m normal?”

“Better than normal. You’re you.”

Meredith exhaled, and the squeeze in her chest eased just a little. “Okay.”

“Good. We should probably make a call.”

“Worm?”

“Yep.”

He dug into his pocket, then handed her Detective Boyd’s phone. She shoved down another small stab of guilt as she clasped the device. She focused on Sam’s voice instead, plugging in the number he reeled off. But when she lifted it to her ear, it only rang once before an automated voice came on the line, telling her the number wasn’t in service.

She snapped the phone off. “I think I dialed wrong.”

Sam smiled. “Give it a minute or two.”

Sure enough, just a few clicks of the odometer later, the phone jingled to life. A blocked-call
message flashed across the screen.

Meredith picked up the phone cautiously. “Hello?”

“You!” Worm’s voice snapped.

“Um. Hi.”

“Is Potter dead?”

“What?”

“Because if he’s not dead, then why the hell didn’t you stay at the hotel and why the hell are you calling me on a phone that’s registered to the Bowerville Police Department?”

Meredith’s hand tightened on the phone. “Sam isn’t dead.”

“Got shot, though!” Sam called out a little too gleefully.