More pain followed in a sickening rush. But it made him mad. Furious, in fact. He used the resulting adrenaline to put the other man on his back.
“You just had to cross that line, didn’t you?”
Grabbing the other man’s wrist, Madrid slammed it against the floor. Once. Twice. “Drop it!” he shouted.
The cop’s hand opened and the gun clattered away. Clamping his hand around the cop’s throat, Madrid tugged the handcuffs from his belt with his free hand. He closed one cuff around the man’s wrist, the other around the shelving unit brace.
“That ought to hold you for a while.” Dizziness
assailed him when he rose. Surprised, he leaned against the file cabinet. He glanced down at his arm, saw blood coming through his jacket and cursed.
The cop yanked at the cuff. “You won’t get away, you son of a bitch!”
“I already have,” Madrid said, and walked out the door.
J
ESS HAD NEVER BEEN GOOD
at waiting. But if waiting was torture, then sitting in the car, waiting to see if Madrid would make it out of that building alive, was nothing short of hell.
She couldn’t see the front of the building from where she was parked, but with her window down she’d heard the shots. And the thought of all the things that could be going on inside made her sick.
A glance at the clock on the dash told her six minutes had passed, but it felt as if she’d been waiting an eternity. Was Madrid in trouble? Had the cop shot him? Or had the agent with the dark eyes been forced to do the unthinkable and shoot a cop?
“Come on, Madrid.” Her voice sounded strained in the silence of the car. She tried drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, but they were shaking too much. She couldn’t take her eyes off the stretch of sidewalk leading to the police station….
A strangled yelp escaped her when she heard a tap on the passenger window. Half expecting to see a cop with a gun, she glanced over to see Madrid standing there, looking inside. Weak with relief, she hit the locks.
“What took you so long?” she hissed as she started the engine.
He slid onto the seat. “Drive.”
Jess jammed the car into gear. The tires squealed as she pulled onto the street.
“Easy,” Madrid said. “We don’t want to draw any attention.”
“God forbid someone might think we just burglarized the police department.” Jess figured they would be drawing plenty of attention very soon. The wrong kind. “What happened in there?”
Grimacing, he leaned back in the seat and glanced down. Jess looked over from her driving and followed his stare. “Oh, my God.” Her heart began to pound as she took in the amount of real blood soaking his shirt. “You’ve been shot.”
“That just about sums it up.”
“How bad?”
“Bad enough.”
The blood oozed black in the semidarkness. She couldn’t stop looking at it.
“Watch where you’re going.”
She glanced back at the road just in time to keep the wheels from going off the pavement.
“You need to calm down,” he said. “Slow down. This’ll hold for a little while.”
They were on the coast highway now. Jess glanced at the speedometer, inched it back down to sixty. The last thing they needed was to be pulled over. “Did you get the papers and photos?” she asked.
He scowled, shook his head. “I grabbed what I could, but I lost most of it when the cop jumped me.”
She gaped at him. “A cop jumped you?”
“Long story.”
Jess hoped he had enough of the documents to figure out what the Lighthouse Point PD was into.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Just drive.” Worry crept into her mind when he leaned against the seat and put his head against the rest.
“Are you going to be all right?”
“I’m always all right.” He grinned, but she saw the stress around the edges. He was in pain and bleeding. As far as she knew, the bullet could have broken his arm or perforated a vein.
Using his right hand he eased his cell phone from his pocket. He punched numbers, then put the phone to his ear. “It’s me.” His voice was low and rough. “I need sanctuary. Code one. Level blackjack.”
He listened for a minute, then without speaking closed the phone and shoved it back into his pocket.
“Who was that?” Jess asked.
“Cavalry.” He pointed to a gravel lane. “Turn around. Head north.”
Jess turned into the lane, then backed out and turned the car around. “Where are we going?”
“Church.”
“Back to Father Matthew’s church?”
Madrid shook his head. “I’ve already involved him enough. There’s an old mission an hour to the north. A safe house set up by the MIDNIGHT Agency.”
“I thought you quit.”
He lifted his shoulder as if to shrug, but winced instead. “This is unofficial.”
Jess glanced at him. A sheen of sweat covered his face. His mouth was set in a thin, taut line, his eyes dark and glassy with pain. “I hope they have first aid supplies,” she said.
“We’ll find out when we get there.” Closing his eyes, he leaned against the seat.
I
N THE SIX YEARS
he’d been with the MIDNIGHT Agency Madrid had been forced to function countless times in extremely uncomfortable situations. This time, however, the pain radiating from his shoulder to his fingertips was far worse than mere discomfort.
By the time they pulled into the weed-riddled parking lot of the tiny mission, his tolerance had worn down to a thin veneer. He could feel the pain pulsing through his system with every beat of his heart. He was sweating and irritable and a hell of a lot more shaky than he wanted to admit. He didn’t know if the bullet had gone clean through or if he was going to have to talk Jess into digging it out. The thought sent a wave of nausea washing over him.
Even though the abandoned mission was half a mile from the coast highway, he had Jess park beneath the canopies of a grove of cedar elms so the car couldn’t be spotted via police helicopter.
“You look terrible,” she said as she shut down the engine.
“All the women tell me that.” He tried to smile, but didn’t think he managed. He was too worried about whether or not he could make it inside on his own power.
The clock on the dash read 3:00 a.m. It was too dark
for him to assess the wound, but he could feel the blood beginning to clot, causing his shirt to stick to his skin. Damn, he hoped it wasn’t as bad as it felt.
Grimacing, he reached for the satchel and removed a tiny flashlight. “Let’s go inside and see what accommodations the MIDNIGHT Agency has provided.” He shoved open the door.
“Maybe you ought to let me help you.”
“I’m fine,” he said, and got out of the car.
Madrid wasn’t exactly sure what happened next. One moment he was walking toward the single-level stucco mission. The next he was on his knees, clutching his arm, trying not to throw up.
“Madrid!” Jess rushed to him and knelt at his side.
Vaguely he was aware of her putting her arm around him. She was warm and soft against him. She smelled like sandalwood, only sweeter. Through the pain he was aware of her breast brushing his shoulder. It had been a long time since he’d been this close to a woman, and the feeling was damn nice.
Slowly the nausea subsided and the dizziness leveled off.
“How bad is the wound?” she asked after a moment.
“Anytime a piece of lead penetrates skin, it’s bad,” he growled.
“Can you make it inside?”
“Unless you’re a hell of a lot stronger than you look, I don’t think I have a choice.”
She usurped the flashlight. “I can handle the light.”
A groan escaped him as he heaved himself from the ground. Jess put her arm around his waist and draped
his uninjured arm around her shoulders. He didn’t let himself think about the pain or dizziness as they wobbled toward the mission.
“We go in the back,” Madrid said between gritted teeth.
“Okay.” Jess shoved open a rusty wrought-iron gate and set the beam on a gravel path that led to a courtyard. Madrid barely noticed the defunct fountain that had once been grand. At the rear of the mission she tried the door, found it locked.
“What now?” she asked.
He looked around, spotted a nice-size stone that had once been part of a flower bed, then realized he wasn’t going to be able to bend over to pick it up. “We break the glass.” He motioned toward the rock.
Jess scooped it up.
Madrid took it from her and in a single smooth motion shattered the pane nearest the lock. Shoving his hand inside, he fumbled around for the bolt, flipped it and pushed open the door. The odors of mildew and old wood met his nose as he stepped inside.
“Home sweet home,” he said.
“Please tell me there’s electricity.”
“That would be way too convenient.” He handed her the flashlight. “We’ll be lucky if there are candles.”
They had entered through what had once been a kitchen. A wooden table with peeling paint and four mismatched chairs stood in the center of the room. Madrid pulled out a chair and collapsed into it. Vaguely he was aware of Jess moving around, the beam bobbing off to his left.
“I found supplies!”
He looked up to see Jess approach, her arms full, and smiling as if she’d just won the lotto. Madrid stared at her, taken aback by the hard tug of attraction. Damn, he wished she wasn’t so pretty. He’d always been attracted to pretty things.
She set the supplies on the table. Digging into a box, she removed two candles, lit them, and yellow light illuminated the room.
“Looks like there’s food in here, too,” she said.
“What about a first aid kit?” Every MIDNIGHT Agency safe house would include something for emergencies.
“Check.” She took the red-and-white kit from the box. “There’s also a flashlight, bottled water.” She went still. “A pistol.”
“Must be our lucky day.” But he hoped they weren’t going to need it.
Her gaze met his. “Will we be safe here?”
“For tonight. The Agency is meticulous about choosing its safe houses. You can bet this place isn’t on the map or tax roll.”
“What exactly does this agency do?”
“The things no other agency will touch.”
She thought about that for a moment. “Serious stuff.”
“Yeah.” Because it was best she didn’t know any more than she already did, Madrid changed the subject. “I need to take a look at this wound. Get it cleaned up.” Gingerly he worked the jacket off his shoulders.
“Maybe we ought to get you to a hospital.”
“No can do.”
“Madrid—”
“If you’re not up to it, I can do it myself.”
“I don’t think you’re in any condition to do much of anything.”
As much as he hated to admit it, she was right. “Look, if it’s bad we’ll do what we need to do. For now, let’s get it cleaned up and see what we’re dealing with.”
A sigh of resignation shuddered out of her. “I’m a waitress. I don’t know anything about treating bullet wounds.”
He managed a smile. “Yeah, but you’re a quick study.”
Chapter Nine
Up until two days ago Jess hadn’t so much as seen a bullet wound, let alone get shot at, sustain one herself or administer first aid. Angela’s murder had changed everything. She wasn’t squeamish; she’d treated her own bullet wound just days before. But treating someone else’s was a completely different endeavor.
Next to her, Madrid draped his jacket over the back of his chair and proceeded to remove his shirt. In the yellow glow of the candles she saw wide shoulders and a broad chest covered with a thatch of dark hair. She swallowed hard as his washboard abs came into view. He was muscular, but not overdeveloped. She knew it was silly considering the circumstances, but she’d never seen such a magnificent male body.
She didn’t know if it was the utter maleness of him or the thought of treating a potentially serious wound, but she began to tremble. She could feel the hot zing of nerves running through her body, making her knees weak, her fingers twitchy. Not a good reaction considering what she was about to do.
She picked up the first aid kit, opened it, closed it, then repeated the action. When she ran out of things to do, she turned back to Madrid.
He’d settled into the chair. Leaning against the back, he might have look relaxed, if he hadn’t been cradling his left arm. Jess didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to treat him or look at the wound. But with nowhere to turn, nowhere to go, no one to call for help, she knew she didn’t have a choice.
Pulling up a chair beside his, she sat and peered at the wound. The blood looked black in the candlelight. The surrounding skin was beginning to swell, but there was too much blood for her to assess the wound fully.
“There’s probably alcohol in the kit.”
She started at the sound of Madrid’s voice. She glanced at him to find his eyes already on her. Gathering the jagged remains of her composure, she reached for the kit. Sure enough, a dozen or so alcohol packets were nestled inside next to a roll of sterile gauze and a suture kit.
“Pretty extensive first aid kit,” she muttered.
“Practical for our line of work.”
She tried not to think about that as she opened a package and carefully disinfected her hands.
“Your hands are shaking.”
“Yeah, well, bullet wounds make me nervous.”
With his good arm he reached out and touched her. “We’re safe for now,” he said, misinterpreting the cause of her shakiness. “We’ve got a few hours. Try to relax.”
“That’s only part of it, Madrid.” She motioned toward the wound. “It looks bad, and I’m not very good at this. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’ll let you know when it hurts.”
“If you don’t pass out first.”
“I’m not going to pass out, okay?”
“Like you have any control.”
Grimacing, he turned his arm so he could get a better look. “Did the bullet go in and out?”
She’d been putting off looking at it, but she had no choice. “There’s some swelling. I’ll need to wipe off some of this blood.”
He handed her an alcohol packet. “Do what you can. Don’t worry about hurting me. I’m okay.”
But would he be okay once she started probing the wound? Taking the swab, she took a deep breath and dabbed at the bloody skin.