Page 42

42

J uliana drew back, but Simon’s grip on her hand tightened, keeping her from moving. Her gaze darted among the three men. Gregor’s weapon pointed at Polinsky, Lowery’s at Gregor, and Polinsky’s at Lowery—like a scene from a Tarantino film. She had no love for any of the men, but she didn’t want anyone to die. And she really didn’t want to witness anyone get killed. She’d never seen a dead body in her life and wanted to keep that streak up as long as possible.

“What the hell, Dean,” Lowery snapped. “We agreed on a plan. Gregor is the one who started all this. We need to get rid of him, then clean up the rest of this mess.” There was no mistaking his intent. They’d agreed to kill her and Simon.

Not a surprise, but still Simon set an arm across her belly and nudged her behind him. Her instinct had her resisting, but Griswold fixed her with a hard stare. She stepped quietly behind Simon rather than risk drawing attention to them. It felt a bit demure to acquiesce to the men in the room, but it wasn’t as if she had any expertise in this kind of situation. Not like they did. She didn’t think the thrillers she read counted.

“Plans change,” Gregor said. A beat passed, then he shifted and his aim landed on Lowery, too.

“What the fuck, Brian?” Lowery demanded.

Simon’s body stiffened as the tension crept up in the room. He held very still, but she had the good fortune of being mostly hidden from view. Slowly, she pulled the gun tucked into his waistband out. His skin jumped when her fingers glided over his back, but by the time she lowered the weapon, his hand waited for it. He eased it gently from her fingers but didn’t otherwise move.

“Dean and I decided that your services are no longer needed and he likes the money,” Gregor said.

Lowery’s eyes grew wild as they darted between his two former accomplices. Fear, anger, hatred, and finally, resignation flashed across his face. He could get one shot off, but not two. Not in the time it would take the others to fire back. Lowery was looking death in the face and he knew it.

He smiled. Then an eerie laugh filled the empty space. “If I kill Brian, your revenue source dries up, Dean. Not to mention, you don’t have it in you to kill everyone else in this room. If I’m going out, I’m taking the head of the snake with me and leaving you to blow untethered in the wind.”

Juliana didn’t know what instincts had Simon turning, but in the next second, his body covered hers as the cold concrete floor pressed against her side.

Four shots rang out, and Juliana flinched at each, pulling herself into as small a space as possible. Simon’s hold on her tightened with each small explosion.

The gunfire echoed in the cavernous space, then faded away. A deathly and final silence followed.

“Griswold, clear Polinsky,” an unfamiliar voice said from somewhere above them.

Simon shifted but didn’t let her go as the sound of something—presumably Polinsky’s weapon—sliding across the concrete traveled through the air. She wondered if that meant the man was still alive. And if so, did the lack of a similar command regarding Gregor and Lowery mean they weren’t?

“He’s clear,” Griswold said as a single moan rose from the floor.

Simon lifted enough to look around, then rose. “You don’t want to see it,” he said, turning her away from the scene as he helped her stand.

He wasn’t wrong, but when the room flooded with the sound of the HICC operatives banging down a set of metal stairs that she couldn’t see and five FBI agents burst through the open door, she startled and spun. And saw it all.

Lowery and Gregor were most definitely dead. A hole in the head for one and a hole in the chest for the other left no doubts. Polinsky, on the other hand, lay twitching on the ground, his left hand holding his right shoulder, a pool of blood underneath him. The hatred in his eyes chilled her, as did his silent pain.

Her curiosity about the operatives entering the room and what they’d do next kept her from turning entirely away from the gruesome scene. Although she steadfastly pretended that two dead bodies weren’t lying within thirty feet of her.

“Well, that’s one way to handle it,” Agent Parks said, holstering her weapon. She and the other agents fanned out in a sea of bulletproof vests.

“We could have prevented this,” one of the HICC operatives said.

“I know they’re HICC, but do you know who they are?” She stood so close to Simon, practically plastered to his body, that she only needed to whisper the question.

“That’s Ethan Warwick,” he said, nodding to the one who’d spoken. “One of Charley’s brothers. The other two are Tucker and Teague.”

“Brothers?” she asked. The two men shared the same build—which Juliana would classify as ginormous—and general facial features. Enough to look related, but not be mistaken for twins.

He nodded.

“Not without risking the others,” Parks replied to Ethan’s comment, her eyes sweeping over the scene. “Sure, you could have winged the three before they fired,” she continued, walking over to Gregor and inspecting the man. Juliana kept her gaze on Ethan. “But if you had, who knows where their shots would have gone? Also, this way, you don’t have as much paperwork.”

Juliana wasn’t entirely sure if the comment was gallows humor or a statement of fact.

“But there were four shots,” Juliana said. The distinct sound of four rounds going off was something she’d remember for longer than she wished.

“Polinsky’s shot went wide,” one of the brothers said. Ten sets of eyes looked to the wall behind Lowery’s body. Sure enough, Juliana spotted the bullet hole.

“Anyone else think it ironic that the only bad shot in the room was the cop?” Juliana muttered. Ethan chuckled, and the brothers grinned. The FBI agents were too busy to respond. Two were studying the scene, one was tending to a scowling Polinsky, and the fourth was on the phone. Parks stood watch over her team.

“I winged him after he fired,” Ethan said. “I didn’t want to give him a chance to realize he missed, then turn his weapon on you two.”

“Cheers for that,” Simon said before pulling her into his arms. “The FBI has the feed from these devices,” he said, letting go of her long enough to unhook the necklace HICC had given her—the one with the tiny camera and microphone. After handing it to Ethan, he stripped off his T-shirt and passed that over, too, leaving him in a thin, body-hugging undershirt.

“Thanks for letting us test that,” Ethan said, taking the shirt and handing it to one of the brothers. It contained new technology that HICC asked him to trial—a tiny camera stitched into the logo of a popular brand.

“Can we go now?” Simon asked Agent Parks.

A shout, then scuffle, sounded before she could answer. Everyone turned toward it as Simon once again shoved her behind him.

Then everything seemed to slow down. To her left, the agent who had been tending to Polinsky stumbled back, landing on his ass a few feet from the lieutenant. Polinsky raised a gun that she didn’t have the time to wonder where it came from. Weapons were being pulled all around her. And Griswold was lunging toward the injured, but very much alive, man.

A single shot rang out as Griswold lifted his foot to kick the weapon from Polinsky’s bloody hand. Simon spun, once again covering her body with his, forcing her into a crouch. A heartbeat later, Griswold let out a roar as the sound of metal clattering across the floor echoed around them.

“What the ever-loving hell,” he shouted. “What kind of agents do you have on your team, Parks? Why the hell wasn’t Polinsky secured before you started treatment? At the very least, why wasn’t your agent’s weapon secured? That’s not even Training 101!”

Spinning and pinning the young, terrified man with a look, he added, “You better hope your boss is more lenient than I am if you plan to have a career in law enforcement.” Then turning away, he began muttering all sorts of things Juliana couldn’t hear.

She might not be able to hear, but she could see just fine. “Professor?” He looked over. “You’re bleeding.”

He crossed his arms. “Of course I’m bleeding. He fucking shot me.”

“Technically, he fired the weapon, and your leg got in the way when you kicked out,” Ethan said.

Griswold’s gaze narrowed. “You are lucky you work in the private sector, son.”

Ethan grinned.

“Should we tend to that?” Juliana suggested, pointing at the blood seeping through his cargos, turning the khaki material a deep brown.

“Paramedics are on their way,” one of the agents said.

Griswold didn’t just roll his eyes, he rolled his head. “Are we sure the scene is secure enough to let them in?”

“It’s secure. He’s secure,” the agent who’d been tending to Polinsky stuttered. The look Griswold shot him had the young man looking longingly for the gun Polinsky had lifted from him. It lay twenty feet away.

“It’s evidence now, Streeter,” Parks barked. “Leave it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, testing the tightness of the handcuffs Polinsky now wore. Although, his hands were in front of him, rather than behind him like in books and movies. Juliana wondered if they would stop him from using a weapon again if he could get his hands on one.

“Parks,” Griswold barked.

She sighed. “Get his ankles, too,” she directed the agent, then turning to the professor, she added, “Once he’s on the stretcher, he’ll be properly secured.”

“You should have fucking shot me,” Polinsky said through gritted teeth.

“Ah, he speaks,” Griswold said.

“Suicide by cop—or FBI—isn’t a good look for you, Polinsky,” Ethan said. “Besides, we’re too smart for that. Once the professor kicked the gun from your hand, you were no longer a threat. Why waste our ammo on someone like you?”

Polinsky began spewing in earnest—cursing all of them for not finishing the job. No one seemed to care, and they went about their business, ignoring his rants. But the casualness with which everyone seemed to talk and contemplate violence suddenly hit Juliana, leaving her feeling as if caught in a whirlpool.

“Hey, you okay?” Simon asked, turning and taking her in his arms.

She took a few deep breaths, hoping to ease the nausea, but the smell of blood and, she imagined, death filled her nostrils.

“Whoa, hey, I’m going to get you out of here,” Simon said, laying an arm across her shoulders. “We’re going for some fresh air,” he announced to the room. As if sensing her struggle, everyone parted without a word. Less than a minute later, she stood with her face to the sun, gulping in the familiar scents of dirt, asphalt, and a lingering hint of diesel.

Simon kept his hand on her neck, rubbing her muscles. As the sun warmed her body and the air cleansed her mind, exhaustion took over.

“I’m having an adrenaline crash, I think,” she said. Without a word, he gathered her in his arms again and rubbed her back. Her head fell against his shoulder, and she wondered if she could sleep standing up. “Can we go home?” she asked. “Wait, I want to pick Sherman up from the clubhouse first and then go home. And sleep the rest of the day,” she added. She didn’t care that she referred to Simon’s place as home—or, more to the point, she didn’t give it a second thought. She was too tired, but more importantly, she knew beyond a doubt that it was home.

He brushed his fingers through her hair, then pressed his lips to her temple.

“Nothing, and I mean nothing, would make me happier,” he whispered.