The floor beneath Cassie buckled and groaned. Tony screamed as it gave way around him and he fell, pulling the metal railing from her grasp.
Cassie backed away from the flames and heat, trying to find the stairway. The air grew hot very fast. Too hot to breathe. She covered her mouth and nose in the crook of her elbow. Don't stop. If you stop, you die.
She reached the steps and settled her knees on the first one when the landing collapsed. Throwing her weight to the other side, the side protected by the wall, she managed to keep from falling. But her vision was darkening and every breath was a struggle.
Crawling backwards, she made it down two more steps before she slumped forward, gasping for air and finding none.
Her body slid towards the void on her right, mere inches away. She felt herself going, but was powerless to stop. Her mind filled with Drake's face. The way he'd looked last night when proposing, they way he'd looked this morning when they woke together.
Live a fool, die a fool. That's what Rosa would say. Should've told him she loved him, her last thought floated through her oxygen-starved brain.
Then she was falling…
CHAPTER 36
As soon as Drake jumped out of the minivan, the Rippers began firing. Good thing none of them ever bothered with target practice.
Drake hunched low to the ground, zigzagging across the sidewalk that separated him from the nearest cover, while the Ripper's modified automatic weapons pulled high, showering the air above him with bullets but leaving him unscathed.
He reached cover, a narrow brick doorway in the building beside the Stackhouse, and returned fire, dropping three of them with six shots and scattering the rest. Hopefully he bought King some time, he thought as he rushed across the alley and up the steps into the Stackhouse.
More gunfire came from behind him. He flattened against the wall and looked out. From the other end of the street came the growl of engines and shouts of angry men. The Gangstas had arrived to the party.
In the other direction, Denise's van was surrounded by Rippers intent on toppling it. They swarmed against the side, trying to rock it off its wheels, when one, then two, of them dropped. King's work. Nice to know the asshole had his back.
A thunderous crash stole Drake's attention. The landing above caved in, showering flames down over the foyer.
A man screamed and fell past him, crashing through the first floor and into the basement. Drake ran over, weapon at the ready. It was Spanos. Fiery debris covered his legs, but his face was clear and his shrieks of pain ear splitting.
Then Drake saw the cause: he was impaled on a broken wall stud. The jagged wood emerged from Spanos' abdomen.
Drake jumped back as more debris fell from above. Black, oily smoke rolled out in waves from the second floor. When he looked back down, Spanos had stopped screaming.
Hell with Spanos, where was Hart? He holstered his weapon and used both hands to climb through the smoke filling the stairway. One hand to keep hold of the wall, the other searching the space before him.
He tripped over her just as her body slid into the empty space. He knew he shouted something but as soon as he said the words, they vanished from his mind. All he could think about was getting Hart out of here.
They made it to the stoop before gunfire pushed them back inside the foyer. The fire found the stairs but a lot of the flames were taking a short cut down the walls, devouring the wallboard and leaping onto the carpet and furniture strewn around the foyer.
Drake hauled Hart over one shoulder, drew his weapon, ducked and ran. Before he got two steps a body crashed into him, pushing him against the Stackhouse's wall. Bullets whizzed past the empty space where he and Hart had been standing.
He looked up, aiming his gun, but then lowering it. Their savior was Athena.
The girl met his gaze, said nothing, but put her arm around his back, stabilizing Hart's weight and steering him back onto the street.
"Thanks," Drake gasped.
A car sped by going the opposite direction, a Ripper standing up through the sunroof, firing his gun at the roof of a building down the street. The fight seemed to have moved past them, at least for the time being.
The minivan was riddled with bullet holes but the Rippers had left it upright. They managed to yank the side door off its track, so it hung half open, one edge scraping the pavement. He threw Hart in back and ran around to the driver's side.
Shell casings littered the ground. He found King face down in the gutter where the Rippers had dragged him. His skull was caved in, brain matter showing. One of his arms was twisted backwards, obviously dislocated. Drake rolled him over to check for signs of life. The other hand still held the Glock, its magazine emptied.
No pulse. He'd gone down fighting. Giving Drake the time he needed to save Hart.
Athena helped Drake drag King's body to the van—it really didn't take more than an extra second or two, and he couldn't just leave the man there. No matter how much of a jerk he'd been in life, Hart had once loved him, and that meant something.
"Get in," he shouted over the roar of sirens and gunshots. Athena shook her head.
"I've got to see that Lucien gets what's coming to him. Once and for all." She took off running before he could stop her.
Drake jumped into the driver's seat and started the engine. It protested and whined but perked up once he shoved it in reverse and hit the accelerator.
Time to get the hell out of Dodge.
<><><>
Thankfully Ed Castro was on duty at Three Rivers. The ER was swamped with casualties from the fires and gang war, but when Drake carried Hart in, everyone dropped what they were doing to rush her into a treatment room.
Then they shoved Drake out. Into the hallway. To wait. Like any other victim's family.
Damn, he hated waiting.
Finally Ed emerged from the treatment room. Drake got to his feet, surprised by a sudden rush of light-headedness.
"I know Cassie misses us, but she really doesn't have to keep bringing us all this business," Ed said. But his smile didn't reach his eyes.
"So, she's going to be okay?"
"Too early to say. We treated her for cyanide toxicity. She didn't suffer any severe burns, but there are two things to worry about."
"What?"
"Her lungs. She has swelling around her airway and we had to intubate her. But I suspect, given it's not progressing and the way her gases look, that with a little time, that will improve and she'll start breathing on her own."
"She's not breathing?"
"We've taken over the work of breathing and put her on a special ventilator to protect her lungs from any edema. Usually in two to three days, if the swelling improves, the lungs will heal."
Okay. Two to three days. Knowing Hart, she'd go for a record and be off the damn machine in one day. "What's the other thing to worry about?"
"Her brain. We're prepping the hyperbaric chamber to treat her for carbon monoxide poisoning but her levels are pretty high. Nowhere near lethal," he hastened to add when Drake rocked forward, "but high enough her brain might have been oxygen deprived for too long."
"Like Richard King's was after his overdose."
Hart ending up like her ex—could she bear to be disabled, at the mercy of others attending to her needs? Hell, she wouldn't even let him hold the damn car door open for her. And what if it wasn't just physical? What if she lost cognitive function or parts of her memory?
Drake felt for the wall behind him, not sure he could keep standing on his own. Ed placed a hand on his elbow and guided him to a chair, then sat down beside him.
"Don't start rushing to think the worst," Ed said. "We're getting to her early. And you know Cassie. If anyone can beat the odds, it's her."
Drake nodded, unable to form a coherent sentence. He jerked his gaze up as the nurses wheeled Hart from the treatment room. "Where are they taking her?"
"Hyperbaric. She's going to need several treatments over the next few days."
"You mean that glass torpedo thing in the basement?" Hart had showed him the hyperbaric chamber once while giving him a tour of the hospital. "No way. You can't lock her in there."
"She's sedated, she won't know what's going on."
"Are you sure? Can you 100% guarantee that?" Drake stared down the older man. "Ed, she has claustrophobia. She'll go nuts in there."
"Claustrophobia? She can't—she goes up in that damn helicopter all the time…" Ed trailed off as Drake nodded. "You mean, she, shit, Drake, why didn't she say anything?"
"She hated the thought of letting you down. So she took it. Every single time she took off in that helicopter she thought she was going to die."
"Jesus. I never knew."
"Please. Ed. Let me stay with her. Hold her hand, talk to her. It doesn't matter if she can't hear me, but if there's the slightest chance that she can—" Drake hated to beg, but it did the trick.
"It's totally against the rules, but to hell with them. Least I can do. For both of you."
<><><>
Cassie was swimming but there was no water. Instead she was floating in air, as graceful as a ballerina. Drake was there, too. She couldn't see him, but she heard his voice, felt his hand in hers. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she should be scared, wanted to fight, started to panic, but then he'd start talking again and peace would descend.
He was there again when she woke, struggling against the tube down her throat and the machine forcing her lungs to expand. He bent close, his breath soft against her face, his lips on her cheeks, and she slept some more. He whispered that everything was all right and she believed him.
CHAPTER 37
It was six days before they let Cassie leave the hospital. She'd even missed Richard's funeral—not that Alan and his family would have wanted her there. They wanted her to do another round of pulmonary function and psychometric testing, but other than feeling sore and hoarse, she was fine.
Finally, she threatened to walk out on her own and backed up her threat by making it all the way to the front lobby, patient gown flapping behind her.
Drake brokered a peace of sorts, setting up outpatient appointments for her and getting a bag full of inhalers, inspirometers, and other shit she vowed not to need or use. Then he drove her to the Liberty Center.
"Athena turned herself in this morning," he told her.
She vaguely remembered him telling her that Lucien, the leader of the Rippers, had been killed in the gang war. "Did she kill him?"
"No. Car he was in did a head on against a cement pole and he was ejected. Nothing to do with her. She's in the clear."
"So she can get her baby back?"
"Given time. Natalie is working with Children and Youth." He gave a mock frown. "Also conned me into teaching a painting class to Tagger's class. That's gonna go over real good with the guys at work."
She knew he expected her to laugh, but it took all her strength to sit up straight. They arrived at the Liberty Center and he practically had to carry her up the steps after she refused to take the elevator and ran out of steam after half a flight.
But he was patient. Didn't chide or scold or even yell. She wasn't sure what the hell was wrong with him but hoped he got over it fast.
He led her inside and across the living room to the bedroom door.
"Close your eyes," he insisted, holding the door closed.
She sighed. All she wanted to do was to crawl into bed with his arms around her, sleep about a thousand years. "Drake, I just want to go to bed. Any bed, I don't care—yours, the guest room, hell, I'd settle for the recliner in your studio. Can't we do this later?"
The boyish grin on his face slipped a bit and she regretted her harsh words. "All right," she said. "My eyes are closed."
He guided her inside the room, then his hands left her. "Okay," his voice was tight with anticipation, "now open them."
What had he done? she wondered before complying. She envisioned a large basket of flowers, a box of McIntyre's chocolate. Maybe a new painting to replace the one she lost in the fire.
She inhaled. No flowers, just the faint scent of lavender mingled with Liquid Gold and fresh sawdust.
Sawdust?
Her eyes fluttered open. To a sight she never dreamed of. Padraic's bed—a bit battered with a new dark scar running down the middle, but the singed wood only made the intricate carvings stand out more dramatically. Rosa's quilt, clean as new, spread out over top the mattress, inviting Cassie to dive under it, to wrap herself in its warm memories. Hennessey lay in the center, her expression regal and possessive as if she'd always lived here.
Cassie traced her fingers over the headboard, coming away with the oily tinge of furniture polish. "How did you? When did you?"
Drake stood beside her, his face as eager as a boy's on Christmas morning. "Jimmy and I rescued the headboard. Working on it the last few days kept me sane."
In between his shifts watching over her in the hospital. She looked at him again, this time with the eye of a clinician. Dark circles ringed his eyes and beneath the stubble of his beard, his complexion was pale. He was as physically and emotionally exhausted as she was.
Yet still, he had done all this. For her.
"I was hoping," he said, "you'd make this your new home. With me."
She sank onto the bed, her hand automatically stroking the soothing velvets of Rosa's quilt, then ruffling the cat's fur. To her surprise, he sat beside her, took her left hand in his.
"I know how you feel about marriage," his said, his voice uncertain, but his hand firm as he slid the sapphire onto her ring finger. Another treasure resurrected from the ashes. "But I'd like you to wear this—not as a commitment or a promise—just because it's important to me that you always have something of mine..." He trailed off, obviously at a loss for words.
Cassie looked from the gleaming gemstone to his eyes, both the same color, both glistening. Were those tears in his eyes? A pang speared through her. He'd given her, offered her so much—and what had she returned his love with? Fear, apprehension, specters of her past failures.