Kate Hoffmann - Conor

He’d almost made it into the car when he felt a searing heat in his side, like someone had shoved a red hot poker between his ribs. The pain took his breath away and brought a wave of nausea.

Don’t lose it now, his brain screamed. Just get her out of here.

Wincing with the pain, he yanked his door shut and shoved the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life and he threw it into reverse and backed out, pushing Olivia down in the seat with his right arm. Thankfully, Carlyle and Sampson kept Keenan’s men pinned down. They managed to target the tires of the black sedan parked near the entrance to the parking lot so there would be no way for the gunmen to give chase.

When they were well out of range, Conor glanced over at Olivia. Her eyes were closed and her lips moved silently, as if she were praying. Tommy stared up at him with luminous eyes, content to stay clutched in Olivia’s arms.

“We’re good,” he said.

Olivia gradually straightened in her seat, but didn’t loosen her hold on her cat. “How did they find us?” she asked.

“Someone in the department,” he replied. He turned and gave her an encouraging smile. “I guess we’re on our own now.” Another wave of nausea rolled over him and, for a moment, Conor had to fight to stay conscious. After nearly getting killed, the last thing he wanted was to run the car off the road. He pulled over onto the next side street and parked the car, then pressed his hand to his side. In the dim light from a streetlamp near the car, he saw the blood covering his fingers.

“I think you better drive,” Conor murmured, suddenly exhausted by the effort that it took to move. He was going into shock and he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to keep his eyes open.

“Me? But why?”

“Just slide over,” he ordered, pushing open the car door and stepping outside. It took every ounce of his effort to walk around the front of the car without keeling over. His legs felt like rubber and he was suddenly shivering for no reason. When he got back inside the car, he closed his eyes and focused on getting through a spasm of pain.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“We need to get back to Hull,” Conor replied, his voice tight. “To Brendan and The Mighty Quinn . Can you remember how to get there?”

Olivia nodded. “I think so. Are you all right? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “Just get us there.” She reached for the ignition and Conor closed his eyes, confident that she’d get them back to the boat, back to safety. He felt himself growing tired and his eyes fluttered shut. But no matter how hard he tried to open them, the effort was too much. Blackness engulfed him and he finally lost his grip on consciousness.

OLIVIA BIT her bottom lip as she turned the ignition, sending up a silent prayer she wouldn’t do anything stupid, like hit a parked car or run a red light. But when she reached for the gearshift between the seats, she realized prayers wouldn’t do any good. A driving instructor might. “There’s no pernundul , ” she murmured. No P, no R, no N or D. The car had a manual transmission and she’d never driven a stick shift before.

“I can’t do this,” she said. She glanced over at Conor. His head was tipped back and his eyes were closed. She knew he’d been working hard, but this was no time to take a nap! Olivia reached over and shook his arm. His hand fell between the seats, wet and sticky. She swallowed hard. Blood. “Conor? Conor, are you all right?”

Panic rose in her mouth like bile as Olivia shook him. He opened his eyes halfway and at first didn’t seem to recognize her. “Are we there?”

Olivia leaned over and frantically examined his arm, then pulled his leather jacket open and found the source of the blood. All along his left rib cage, his shirt was seeped through. She felt faint and took a moment to draw a deep breath. “Oh, no, oh, no.” She reached for the gearshift and studied the little diagram on the knob, then pushed in the clutch. “Oh, no, no.” She knew the basics of a standard transmission, but she’d have to learn the finer points on the fly. “Hang on,” she said. “Just don’t die on me. Don’t you dare die. I’m going to get you to a hospital.”

“No,” he muttered. “No hospital. Just get to Brendan. He’ll know what to do.”

She jammed the car into first, the gears grinding, then slowly let out the clutch. The car jerked and shuddered, but to her relief it started forward. By the time she’d circled the block, she had managed to try three of the four gears without stalling the engine. Olivia glanced both ways before pulling out on the highway, afraid to stop for fear she wouldn’t get started again.

As she drove, she tried to contain a tremor that shook her body. “Stay calm,” she murmured, searching the road for signs pointing to a hospital or for a pay phone to call an ambulance. She didn’t want to obey his orders! He’d been shot protecting her and now it was her responsibility to save his life. “I’m going to call an ambulance,” she said. “Give me your cell phone.”

His hand shot out and clutched her wrist. “No,” Conor insisted. “Do as I say.”

“But the boat is at least ten minutes away. You could die before then.”

“I’m not going to die,” he replied. “I promise.” He reached up and stroked her hair, the movement causing him to groan with the pain. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Olivia glanced over at him, overwhelmed with concern and torn by indecision. “All right,” she said. “We’ll go to the boat as long as you keep talking. If you pass out, I’m stopping to call an ambulance. Deal?”

“Deal,” he murmured, his hand flopping back to his side.

She drew a ragged breath. “Fine. So what should we talk about? Let’s talk about you. Tell me about your family. Tell me about Brendan and Dylan.”

He moaned softly as he shifted in his seat. “Why do you want to know about them?”

“Just tell me,” Olivia insisted. “Or tell me about your parents. Or your childhood in Ireland. Tell me where you were born. Just talk so I know you’re still alive.”

“I was born in a stone cottage that overlooked Bantry Bay,” Conor began. “On the south coast in County Cork. My da was a fisherman. And my ma was…well, she was beautiful.”

“When did you come to America?” Olivia asked, her mind jumping ahead, thinking of questions to keep him talking yet not really listening to the answers. She recognized the turn to Hull and said another quick prayer. They were only a few miles away. Now her only worry was finding the boat.

“She died,” Conor continued.

Olivia glanced over at him. “What? Who died?”

“Or my da says she died. I don’t think she did, because I would have known. But if she didn’t die, then why didn’t she come back?”

Olivia frowned. He was talking but he wasn’t making much sense. “You don’t know if your mother is alive or dead?”

“She went away when I was seven. One day she was there and then she was gone. Da wouldn’t talk about it. Later, he told us she died in a car wreck. But he was angry and I think he said that because he wanted us to forget her.” Conor sighed and for a long moment he was silent.

Olivia thought he’d lost consciousness, but when she looked over at him his eyes were still open. “I never forgot her. The others did, but I didn’t. I can still see her.” He tipped his head her way. “She was pretty…like you. Only she had dark hair and yours is like spun gold.”

His compliment was so simple and plainspoken that Olivia felt tears push at the corners of her eyes, tears of concern and affection and frustration. She was frightened, and usually when she felt that way, Conor made her feel safe. The thought that he might not be there to keep her safe tomorrow caused an ache to grow in her heart.