Sandra Brown: Lethal

She gave him a wan smile. “I have.”

Tori’s eyes refused to open, but she received intermittent impressions of motion and light and noise, all of which were magnified to an excruciating level, followed then by a darkness so absolute it swallowed every stimulus until she was jarred into awareness again.

“Ms. Shirah, stay with us. You’ve been seriously injured, but you’re on your way to the trauma center. Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand?”

What a stupid request. But she obliged and was congratulated by a voice that then said, “She’s responding, Doctor. We’re two minutes out.”

She tried to lick her lips, but her tongue felt thick and uncooperative. “Emily.”

“Emily? She’s asking for Emily. Anybody know who Emily is?”

“There was nobody else in the house.”

The blackness descended again, causing the disconnected voices to waft in and out.

“No, Ms. Shirah, don’t try to move. We’ve had to secure you to the gurney. You sustained a gunshot wound to your head.”

Gunshot wound? Doral wearing a stupid ski mask. A fight with him over-

Emily! She had to get to Emily.

She tried to sit up but couldn’t. She tried to remain conscious but couldn’t. Oh, Jesus, here comes that blackness again .

When next she emerged from it, the lights were bright against her closed eyelids and there was a lot of racket and activity surrounding her. Oddly, she had the sensation of floating above it all, watching from a distance.

And was that Bonnell? Why was he wearing that silly bandage on his forehead? And were his ears bloody?

He was clutching her hand. “Sweetheart, whoever hurt you…”

Was he crying? Bonnell Wallace? The Bonnell Wallace she knew was crying ?

“Everything will be all right. I swear to you, I’ll make it all right. You’ll get through this. You have to. I can’t lose you.”

“Mr. Wallace, we have to get her to the OR.”

She felt Bonnell’s lips brush hers. “I love you, honey. I love you.”

“Mr. Wallace, please step aside.”

“Will she survive?”

“We’ll do our best.”

She was being pulled away from him, but he kept hold of her hand until he was forced to let go. “I love you, Tori.”

She tried to outrun the encroaching oblivion, but as it enveloped her, her mind cried out, I love you, too .

Since Coburn was bent on staging a one-man show, Hamilton had to find a way to stop him before he had a total disaster on his hands. Tom VanAllen’s death hadn’t convinced Coburn of the agent’s innocence, so it was more vital than ever that Hamilton talk to his recent widow to gauge what she knew, if anything.

But when he and his team arrived at the VanAllen home, as Hamilton had predicted, there were no other vehicles there. The widow was passing the night alone. But she wasn’t sleeping. Lights were on inside the house.

Hamilton alighted from the Suburban, strode up the walk, rang the doorbell, and waited. When she didn’t respond, he wondered if maybe she was asleep after all. Perhaps, because the son needed around-the-clock care, the lights in the VanAllen household never went out.

He rang the bell again, then knocked. “Mrs. VanAllen? It’s Clint Hamilton,” he called through the wood door. “I know this is an extremely difficult time for you, but it’s important that I speak to you right away.”

Still getting no response, he tried the latch. It was locked. He reached for his cell phone, scrolled through his contacts, and found the house phone number. He called it and heard the phone ringing deep inside the house.

After the fifth ring, he hung up and shouted back to the vehicles parked at the curb. “Bring the ram.”

The S.W.A.T. team joined him on the porch. “This isn’t an assault. Mrs. VanAllen is in a delicate state of mind. There’s also a disabled boy. Take care.”

Within seconds they had busted through the front door. Hamilton barged in, the others fanned out through the rooms behind him.

Hamilton found Lanny’s room at the end of the wide central hall. The room had the sweetly cloying odor unique to the bedridden. But except for the hospital bed and other medical paraphernalia, everything was perfectly normal. The television was on. Lamps provided a soothing ambient light. There were pictures on the walls, a colorful rug in the center of the floor.

However, the tableau of the motionless boy lying on the customized bed was almost gothic. His eyes were open but his stare was blank. Hamilton walked to the side of the bed to assure himself that he was breathing.

“Sir?”

Hamilton turned to the officer who had addressed him from the open doorway. He didn’t say anything, but his aspect conveyed, SITUATION, as he jerked his helmeted head toward another part of the house.

Doral saw the car headlights approaching from the side street. Showtime.

Seated in his borrowed car, he took one last drag on his cigarette, then flicked it through the open window. The cigarette sketched a fiery arc in the darkness before falling to the pavement and burning out.

He activated his phone and called The Bookkeeper. “He’s right on schedule.”

“I’ll be there soon.”

Doral’s heart hitched. “What?”

“You heard me. I can’t afford for you to screw up again.” Then the phone went dead.

It was a slap in the face. But, he supposed, the collaboration with the Mexican cartel hung in the balance, so The Bookkeeper was taking no chances of something else going wrong.

And this wasn’t strictly business anymore. Not like Marset, who’d been gumming up the works. Not like the state trooper who’d balked at carrying out an order. Not like all the others. This was different. The Bookkeeper had a personal score to settle with Lee Coburn.

Coburn had stopped the car about forty yards away, its idling motor an uneven growl in the stillness beneath the football stadium bleachers, where Doral had chosen to do this. This time of year, the place was deserted. It was on the outskirts of town. Ideal location.

Coburn had the headlights on high beam. The car itself looked like little more than a rattletrap, but somehow it seemed menacing, reminding Doral of a Stephen King story about a car that went psycho and killed people. Doral pushed the ridiculous thought aside. Coburn was screwing with his head again.

But the fed also wasn’t going to come any closer until he saw that Doral did indeed have Emily.

Doral had made sure the interior lights wouldn’t come on when he got out of his car. Crouching lower than the roof, he opened the rear door, slid his hands under Emily’s arms, and lifted her out. Her body was limp, her breathing deep, her sleep peaceful as he placed her on his left shoulder.

What kind of man would use thirty-five pounds of sweet little girl to save his own skin?

He would. He was.

Coburn had mind-fucked him into feeling lower than whale shit, into being nervous and unsure of himself. But he couldn’t allow himself to buy into that or he was as good as dead. All he wanted was one crack at Coburn. If he had to use Emily in order to take out Coburn, well, that was just life, and nobody had ever said that life was fair.

He placed his right hand, his gun hand, in the center of Emily’s back so that it could be seen. Then he stood up and walked around the hood of the car, forcing himself to appear in charge, in control, and perfectly relaxed, although in reality his palms were slick with sweat and his heart was knocking.

Coburn’s car began to roll forward at a snail’s pace. Doral’s gut tightened. He squinted against the headlights. The car came to within fifteen feet of him and stopped. He called out, “Turn off the headlights.”

The driver got out, but despite the glare, he made out Honor’s form.