Deathblow

DEATHBLOW

By Dana Marton

Former small-town football hero turned cop, Joe Kessler never met a linebacker, perp, or a woman he couldn't handle. Then a troubled single mom walks into his life, and the only place this hot jock will ever see 'easy' again is in the dictionary.

Hiding out in Broslin, PA was working pretty well for Wendy Belle until
Cop Casanova
took her under his protection. Now she’ll either lose her life to one man, or her heart to another.

Broslin Creek Romantic Suspense Series

DEATHWATCH

DEATHSCAPE
 

DEATHTRAP

DEATHBLOW

My sincere gratitude to Sarah Jordan, Diane Flindt, Amanda Pederick, Kim Killion, my amazing editors, and all my wonderful readers.

DEATHBLOW - Copyright © 2013 by Dana Marton.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author.
http://www.danamarton.com
 

First Edition: 2013

ISBN-13
: 9781940627021
 

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The worst time for a police cruiser to fly off a bridge was when you were handcuffed in the back. Joe Kessler braced as the Hummer crashed into the cruiser from behind for the final time and sent the brand-new Crown Victoria over the railing.

The two Philly cops up front—the driver Irish-looking, the other one black—yelled all the way down, “Hang on! Hang on! Oh hell, dammit!”

Joe and Lil’ Gomez, free-flying in the back, swore more colorfully than that as the car hit the Schuylkill River with a bone-rattling crash. Joe smashed into the metal screen that separated him from the scrambling officers, Lil’ Gomez on top of him, the kid’s pointy elbow slamming into Joe’s cheekbone.

God,
he hated undercover work.

Then the rear end of the car slammed down, and they dropped back into their seat, Lil’ Gomez still swearing, the driver shouting into his radio unit, “Officers in the water! Men in the water! We went off the bridge!”

Joe pushed the scrambling kid aside. “Hey! Let us out!” He kicked hard at the door that didn’t budge. “Let us out, dammit!” But the officers paid no attention to him as the cruiser began sinking.

The river churned in the dark night around them, swollen from the spring rains. The cop in the driver’s seat jabbed at the window button by his side, his partner doing the same, grunting, hurrying to roll the glass down before the water could short out the electrical system.

“Hey!” Joe banged against the back door in vain; everything was controlled from the front in a police cruiser.

He glanced at Lil’ Gomez as the scrawny teenager beat against the glass on his side, cussing at the cops, his brown eyes filled with panic. Then the front windows were down at last, the cops tearing at their seat belts.

Oh hell.

“Undercover officer.” Joe gritted his teeth.
A month of undercover work down the drain.
His gaze met the driver’s in the rearview mirror, and he shouted louder. “I’m an undercover officer!”

But the kid’s yelling and the loud rush of the raging river drowned out everything else.

The ice-cold water was up to their knees in a second, then up to their chests.
Ho-ly fuck.
Joe had to catch his breath as he adjusted to the shock.

He twisted to kick the wire mesh divider to draw the cops’ attention, but the officers were focused on getting out, paying no mind to the panic in the backseat.

The car filled up in seconds, only a two-inch air pocket hanging on stubbornly under the roof where Lil’ Gomez was sucking air, quiet for the moment. Underwater, the headlights’ eerie glow provided maybe a foot or two of visibility; nothing but murky river beyond that.

Joe rattled the door as he watched the driver wiggle out of the car, then kick away, disappearing in the dark water in seconds. The cop on the passenger side was squeezing through his own window inch by inch. He was rounder than his buddy, but he heaved himself through at last, glancing back.

Joe banged his cuffed hands against the rolled-up window in the back, holding the man’s gaze.

Indecision mixed with desperation on the officer’s face. Then he reached back in, his dark hand barely visible against the car’s black interior. He pressed the button and waited three seconds for the glass in the back to slide down most of the way.

Then he pushed away and faded into the roiling water.

Joe grabbed Lil’ Gomez and shoved him out, then drew a deep breath from the air pocket under the roof. He grabbed the window frame and forced himself through, paying no attention to the skin he was scraping off, thinking only about escaping a watery grave.

His lungs were bursting by the time he freed himself, the car shifting as the water rolled it. Zero visibility.
Which way up?
The side mirror dragged against his leg from hip to knee. Okay, the car would be going down. He kicked at it for leverage and tried to move in the opposite direction.

He kept his hands stretched in front of him, palms pressed together, kicking as hard as he could, up and up. And barely made headway. His lungs ached.

He was going to drown.
Shit.
 

The image of a pair of laughing, gray eyes flashed into his oxygen-starved brain, mysteriously beautiful eyes and the hot model who went with them—Wendy.

He
refused
to drown, dammit.

Kick. Kick. Kick.

He toed off his water-filled shoes so they wouldn’t drag him down, wiggled his body for all he was worth, his legs moving, scissoring without break.

His ears rang by the time he breached the surface, but he did reach it, the Schuylkill River filling his mouth with dirty water on his first gulp for air. He choked and tried again. This time, he succeeded in drawing a full breath.

“Help! Hey!”

Unforgiving cold and darkness surrounded him.

He couldn’t swim with his hands cuffed—the best he could do was try to ride the current, angling himself toward shore. But that strategy wasn’t going to be enough. The current was too fast.

“Hey!” he called out again. “Hey! I’m here!”

No response came.

Without being able to use his hands, he’d been slower coming up than the two officers, less able to fight against the river. The current had separated him from the cops.

The lights of the Schuylkill Expressway glowed high above, the bridge now several hundred feet from Joe, the distance growing by the second. The water was rapidly carrying him downriver.

Trying to see, he paddled as hard as he could, his feet growing numb from the cold. But not a single boat ran the river nearby, nothing ahead and nothing behind him.

“Help!” he yelled again anyway, and as he tried to gulp air, he swallowed more water. He coughed it back up, wiggling to stay afloat, twisting and turning.
Where is the kid?
“Yo, Gomez!”

No response reached his ears, only the sound of the rushing river. But something that could have been a body caught around his legs the next second. He reached down and pulled hard. Then Lil’ Gomez broke the surface, limp and unconscious, and Joe whacked him hard on the back.
One. Two
. The fifteen-year-old coughed up water as he revived, clamping on to Joe and trying to climb him.

“Stop!”

But the kid managed to yank him under.

Joe fought his way back up. Coughed. “Hang on, dammit.” He kicked hard in the water to keep both of them afloat. “You’re okay. I’ll hold you up. Stay still.”

Not a chance. Lil’ Gomez couldn’t rein in his panic. He wasn’t nearly the tough gangster he wanted to seem, no matter the clothes or how big a gun he carried. He wanted to be just like his brother, wanted desperately to belong. He wanted and needed protection, the gang the only family he’d ever known.

“Hang on,” Joe told him. “Kick with your feet.”

Moonlight glinted off the kid’s wet cornrows, each held with a different color rubber band at the end. His eyes flashed dark with fear. He gurgled a single word: “Pants.”

Probably down at his ankles.

Joe held on to him. “Kick off your shoes, then kick off your pants.”

The kid struggled but managed after a minute. Joe didn’t let him go. Better not get separated. “Kick and breathe. Don’t panic.”

The cold of the river seeped into their bones. Lil’ Gomez kept flailing.

Might be easier to keep the kid afloat if he was knocked out. But before Joe could act on his desperate idea, he spotted something dark upriver, maybe a hundred feet away and closing the distance rapidly.

By the time he made out the long, bumpy form, the log was nearly within reach. He grabbed after a ragged stump of a branch, but the river rolled the log and the stump smashed into his face, nearly knocking him out. He tasted blood.

“We gonna die!” Lil’ Gomez screamed.

Joe stayed with the log. Like hell he was going to drown now. They’d made it out of the car, up to the surface. They had a flotation device. “Grab on!”

He helped the kid grab hold of a knot at the front of the log first, then looped his own handcuffs around a gnarled root and held on for dear life as they hitched a ride, choking and coughing.

He kicked with all his might to give the log some direction, angling toward shore, toward the lights of the city, balancing his body as best he could. The river ran rough. If the log rolled, they’d go under, get tangled, maybe never come up again.

He tried to hold their raft steady in the water, but the log kept dipping under, couldn’t handle the both of them. Lil’ Gomez scrambled to hold on, sputtering water every time it hit his face.

Joe eased his weight off the gnarled root ball in the back. That helped the log regain some buoyancy. Okay. So one person could catch a ride, but not two.

Making the decision took only one desperate second.

“Keep this thing steady,” he yelled to the kid. “Keep your balance. Kick toward shore. You’ll be all right.” And then he let go completely.

“Don’t leave me, man!”

The kid’s eyes filled with true panic, but the log no longer dipped under. Then the next second he and his raft were nothing but a dark blob on the water, rapidly disappearing downriver as the current sped them away.

Joe pedaled hard as he watched the kid disappear in the darkness. Then he looked back toward the bridge, but no other logs came down the river, not a chunk of driftwood, not so much as a twig, nothing to hang on to, nothing to save him. He filled his lungs, turned on his back, and tried to stay afloat, head angled toward shore as he kicked with his feet.

Okay, that worked. He was swallowing a lot less water. Still, an eternity seemed to pass before he thought he might be gaining ground. Then more endless minutes crawled by before he finally reached the muddy bank. The Schuylkill River had carried him past Philadelphia by then, the city a jumble of lights behind him.

He crawled out of the water and coughed as he flopped over to lie in the mud on his back. His face pulsed with pain as he scanned the barren stretch of land around him, handcuffed and freezing, panting. No sign of life here, not down the riverbank or farther in, just some scraggly bushes and broken reeds. He hoped Lil’ Gomez reached land somewhere where people would find and help him.

The river rushed along in the dark night. And if that wasn’t enough water, rain began to fall—not a serious downpour, but within a couple of minutes the drops were coming down pretty steadily.

Joe shivered and blinked blood out of his eyes, looked past the slope that led to the river, but couldn’t see any buildings up there, no lights or movement.

Just as well. He was wanted by the city police because they thought he was a member of the infamous Brant Street Gang. The rival gang had just tried to kill him—he’d caught glimpse of a Twentyniners bandana hanging from the Hummer’s rearview mirror.

He struggled to sit, wasting no time on worrying about the cops or the Twentyniners. On a night like this, hypothermia would get him first.

* * *

Wendy Belle had a gun, but she didn’t want to use it.
My mother killed my father
wasn’t the kind of legacy she wanted to leave for her baby.

She squirmed as Keith pushed her roughly against the kitchen wall, his breath—giving hints of expensive whiskey—fanning her face. His pale blue eyes watched her with a predatory gleam as rain drummed on the windows of her two-bedroom Wilmington apartment. It’d been raining most of the night and all morning. Miserable weather for a miserable day.

“Keith,” she said. Saying
no
would only make him more determined. “Listen, want to watch the game on TV? I recorded it yesterday.”