Out Of Her League (28 page)

“Oh, Christ, not you, too.” He ran a hand through his hair, gave a humorless chuckle. “I really made a mess of everything, didn't I? I realize last night wasn't exactly perfect, but I figured at least you knew how I feel about you.” His hazel eyes held hers fast. “You're not a fling. I care about you more than anything.”

The smile began in her heart and spread upward to light her face as the relief filtered through her. “I care about you more than anything, too.” No, more than that. She was totally ga-ga, head over heels in love with him. But she was going to keep that to herself a little longer.

“Well, I'm glad that's out in the open.” He chuckled and lowered his lips to hers.

“Me too.”

The man was positively lethal with his mouth, both in the things he said and in the way he used it. She gave up thinking and kissed him the way she'd been dying to, sliding her arms around his neck and lifting on tiptoes to press against him, her tongue grazing his lower lip, but he made a sound of protest and pulled away.

“What?” The regret in his eyes worried her.

“I... we have to leave now. And if I keep kissing you like that I'm not going to stop and then there's no way we'd make it back by tonight.”

She glanced toward the front door. He'd already packed their bags and set them in the entryway. “Why do we have to go?”

“Work called. There's an emergency, and I told them I'd come in.”

It must be pretty bad if they'd interrupted his vacation. “Do they know you're hours from home?”

“It's an ongoing situation. I'll either be on sniper detail or with the entry team if we have to go in.”

Go in? Fear flashed through her, the dangers of his job kicking her in the diaphragm, more vivid now that they were involved. She'd always worried about him on some level, but the risks had never been this real, this visceral. He could be killed.

“Don't look so worried, darlin',” he soothed as he headed to the door. “I'll be with my team, and we're the best.”

“But— ” She trailed after him. She'd gone into this knowing he was a cop, and she had no right to heap her fear for him onto his shoulders. But how was she going to cope with his life being at risk every time he went to work? Would she be glued to the TV? Listening for any news of a police officer being injured in the line of duty, like Teryl obsessively listened for news about fires? Rayne putting himself in harm's way tied her stomach in knots. And while he was out there saving other lives, where was she supposed to go? “But what about... him?” She still couldn't say his name aloud.

“You'll stay in my condo.”

Panic grabbed her. “But he disarmed my security system, and— ”

“Shhh. I know.” He rubbed her back. “But my building has much better security. And I'll spend as much time at home as I can.”

Did he not realize what had already been done to her in less than an hour? It would take a second for him to slit her throat.

He assessed her with a frown. “Maybe you should stay here with Bryn.”

“No, I'd feel way safer with you.”

“Okay. Me too, until this is over.”

Jake nudged her thigh and she led him by his collar behind Rayne to the car. She had the next six hours or so to worry about being alone in proximity to her stalker, and then God knew how many more worrying about Rayne.

Warm fingers closed about the nape of her neck and she glanced up into his clear eyes.

“It'll be okay, Chris.”

“You'll be careful, right?”

He opened her door for her. “I'm always careful, but even more so now because I've got you to come home to.”

Buckling her seatbelt as he slid behind the wheel, Christa couldn't shake the dread closing in on her.

Rayne crept along, yards separating him from the door of the suspect's house, camouflaged by waist-high weeds and rusted truck parts littering the yard. The shack drooped in disrepair, its frame sagging beneath tarps and plastic bags. Your typical rundown north Surrey residence, complete with a barking pit bull chained to the tangled mass of wire that once served as a fence. But what made Rayne most uneasy were the children's toys strewn across the yard.

The ERT was responding at the scene of a known crystal meth house where a man had taken his son hostage and demanded his wife be brought to him. The suspect had refused to communicate with anyone, even via a telephone link with the police negotiator. With every window blacked out and no one on the sniper team able to see into the building, Rayne was leading the main entry team in to take the suspect out.

The commanding officer had given them the green light to do a full breach if necessary, and lethal force had been authorized. Apparently the suspect was a former Special Forces soldier, well versed in weapons, tactics and explosives, like Rayne's father, so he knew firsthand how paranoid a Special Forces veteran could be. This guy was capable of anything, including rigging the whole place to explode. He would be well armed, stocked with enough provisions to see him through a nuclear holocaust, and highly motivated to achieve his goal— whatever that was.

With a motion of his hand, Rayne signaled his colleagues to ready for the ascent to the second-floor entry. His team was elite and he trusted every man with his life. After checking his weapon one last time he started up the stairs behind his shield man, slinking onto the raised deck, his teammates stacked behind him. Unable to detect any impending surprises, Rayne gave the okay and one of his guys smashed through the door, tossing a distraction device. Rayne ducked his shoulder inside, scanning the empty room, rifle extended. “Clear.”

As point man he led his team inside, on the lookout for tripwires or anything else the crazy bastard might have set up. They stepped cautiously over the rotten floorboards, the neglected planks creaking in the silence. Praying they would hold their weight, he took another hesitant pace, carefully placing his boot. At a faint crack he froze, holding up his fist to signal a stop. His teammates went still, awaiting his instructions, and he shifted gingerly, seeking a better position. His foot sank.

“Shit,” he breathed, trying to pull up. One of his men grabbed his fatigues to haul him out but the floor opened beneath him. Behind him, his teammate cursed and dropped his weapon, straining to hold onto Rayne with both hands, and then they were tumbling between the joists with nothing to break their fall. He slammed into the concrete floor on his side, knocking the wind out of his lungs, his helmet smashing against the ground. Pinholes of light danced in front of his eyes.

Before he could move, hands reached down and snatched his weapon from his grasp, kneed him onto his stomach, ripped open his thigh holster and pressed the barrel of his own automatic pistol to the back of his head.

Rayne lay there, hands on his head, pressed flat to the dirty floor until he was hauled into a kneeling position. The man was as thin as a stick with bruises and needle tracks marking the insides of both forearms. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin sallow and sunken over the bones of his skull. Held in front of him like a shield and crying softly was his son, who couldn't have been more than five or six-years-old, stark terror in the brown eyes staring down at Rayne. A sob found its way out of his chest.

“Shut up,” his father barked, still training both guns on Rayne. The whimpers stopped. “Here, take this,” he ordered, tossing one of the guns to another man, ragged and somewhere around middle age. “Seems we've got you covered, eh boy?”

Rayne glared. Where the hell was the second entry team?

“You wanna know how I caught you, pig? I'll tell you how, you goddamned sonofabitch. I'm ex-Airborne. A trained killer like you, only smarter. You better remember that.” His fingers yanked off Rayne's earpiece then checked him for wires, ripping open a pocket and revealing the military insignia hidden there. “Our hostage has a Navy SEAL trident on him, for Chrissake. Can you believe that?” He whooped. “You expect me to believe this is yours? No SEAL I ever met would be dumb enough to fall through the goddamn ceiling.”

Laugh while you can, you smug bastard
. But he was right. How the hell had he let this happen? He had made the fatal mistake of underestimating his enemy, who threw his dad's trident onto the floor. He barely resisted the urge to grab for it.

Cold sweat gathered under his armpits. Why hadn't the other team come in yet? With two members down they should have performed the breach immediately. Something was wrong.

The boy started to cry again and his father shook him so hard Rayne feared the little neck might snap.

“Goddamn you, I told you to shut up.”

“Hey, the kid's just scared— ” the accomplice protested.

“Shut the hell up.”

Rayne's eyes followed the gunmen. The father of the boy was obviously high on something, probably meth.
Stay calm, stay put or you'll wind up with a bullet through your head
.

The father dumped his son on the floor, the boy shrinking into the corner, drawing his knees up to his chest, wiping his runny nose with a filthy sleeve as he watched his dad with fearful eyes.

The terror Rayne saw there made his heart pound harder. If the kid didn't stay still and quiet, he dreaded to think what the father would do. He gave the boy a reassuring smile and was met with the same wide-eyed gaze. The sniper team outside still had no visibility so all he could do was wait until the entry team regrouped. His teammate beside him still hadn't moved. Was he dead?

His captors prowled around the shack, loading weapons, eyes darting in anticipation of the tactical team at any moment. His muscles began to ache, but still he didn't move, throughout all the taunting about how he would never leave alive, how they would all die if those pigs out there tried anything. He ignored the threats screamed at the police trying to contact the suspects from outside. Cold sweat dripped down his sides under his Kevlar vest, Christa's St. Michael medallion warm against his chest.
May this always keep you safe from any dangers you face
... ?

How much time had passed? The boy shifted against the wall, drawing his father's attention. Rayne held his breath as the eyes snapped to the son.

“You want those pigs out there to shoot me?”

The boy's eyes widened. “No, Daddy. No, I— ”

“Anybody's going to get shot, it's you, little fucker.” He stalked over to tower above the boy. “Your ma'd be real sorry then, wouldn't she? Her poor little son bleeding all over the place. Dead.” The young face crumpled. “Be better off that way. Things were fine until you came along.” He shoved him with his boot, sprawling him face down. The weeping cut into Rayne.

“Shut up,” the father barked, but the boy only cried harder, cowering, gazing at Rayne with such anguish. The kid couldn't seem to get hold of himself after that. Every time he tried to stop crying a sob would tear free from him, each one making Rayne wince.

“I said shut the fuck up, boy. Goddamn you.” He lunged with Rayne's pistol, aiming it at his son.

Rayne nearly stopped breathing. The boy screamed and covered his head with his arms. “Jesus, put that thing down,” the accomplice wheezed. “Kid's scared to death.”

“Shut him up. Make him shut up or I'll kill him.” He hadn't moved his finger from the trigger.

The other man sent the boy a desperate glance. “Be quiet, Danny. Just be quiet, okay? Everything's going to be all right.” He looked at Rayne then, and Rayne recognized the stark fear in the other man's eyes, felt even colder inside. The father was a ticking time bomb, holding a loaded pistol at his own child.

When Daniel cast a pleading glance at him, Rayne saw the idea to run forming in the boy's eyes.
Don't
, he prayed silently.
Don't move. Please God, don't let him move.

But Daniel did move. With all the strength he could muster from his little legs he pushed to his feet.

It all happened in slow motion. Rayne saw Daniel get up, heard the father's warning. Intending to cover the boy's body with his own, praying his Kevlar vest would protect them both, he dove across the room and caught Daniel in a flying tackle just as the pistol shot cracked. He saw the spasm of pain that crossed Daniel's face an instant before they hit the floor, felt the thud of a second bullet in his side as he shielded Daniel's body beneath his. The third bullet hit almost instantaneously, then a fourth. Pain exploded in bright red pulses, blinding him as the entry team finally executed the breach. He dimly heard more shouting, the scramble of feet, the explosion of the flash bangs and more shots before his strength gave out and he collapsed on top of the boy. He smelled the blood, felt the warm stickiness as it pooled around them. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think of anything but Christa.

Suddenly everything was so clear. Everything important seemed to crystallize— his family, Christa. Christa standing over his grave, grieving. The coldness of it seeped into his soul. Why the hell hadn't he told her he loved her?

Christa stood by the picture window in Rayne's apartment, gazing down at Patrick helping Jake into his battered Chevy pickup. He was going to stay with the Flannerys until this situation was resolved one way or another. As they drove away, the loneliness hit her.

The sky was leaden, the bay restless with choppy gray waves under a light drizzle. The weather matched her mood perfectly. Now even her beloved pet had been stripped from her life. Cut off from the outside world while a monster plotted her murder, she was trapped in Rayne's condo alone while he went after some bad guys. So far she'd refrained from watching the news.

She would have cried, but tears wouldn't help the situation so she refused to allow herself to give in. All she had to do was hang in there a few more hours and Rayne would be home, and then she would be okay again.

The phone rang, revealing Nate's number on the call display. “Nate?”

“Hi, Chris. How are you holding up?”

“Pretty well, thanks. It was sweet of you to call and check on— ”

“It's Rayne.”

The blood drained from her face. She'd known. Dammit, she'd known... “What about him?”