Jessica Andersen - Bear Claw Lawman

Already deep in Dennison’s head—I’m here, nobody followed me, gotta check the apartment first before I can relax, make sure I haven’t been made yet—Nick headed up the hall, senses attuned for the slightest warning of danger to his fugitive self.

Thud. The noise from behind the far door brought him up short and set off all sorts of warning bells—someone was in the apartment!

Where Dennison would’ve done a one-eighty and taken off, though, Nick powered straight ahead with his weapon appearing in his hand without him consciously reaching for it. It was probably one of the cops, he knew, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Especially not when the others were supposed to be canvassing.

He went quiet as he got close to the door, moving almost silently on his lug-soled boots and letting out a breath as there was another thudda-thudda-thud, then a scuffle.

Instincts on overdrive, he twisted the knob, booted open the door and flattened himself against the outside wall for a second. When there was no response, he went in low, leading with his gun. “Freeze! Police!”

In the next moment, two impressions seared his retinas and competed for priority in his head: Jenn lay on the floor, motionless beside a battered chair, near a dark pool of blood he hoped to hell wasn’t hers. And heavy footsteps coming from the back room said she wasn’t alone.

Jenn! The word shouted in his head but didn’t leave his lips. He reached her in two strides, went down on his knees before he knew it, and then had his hands on her for the first time in a month. Her pulse was fast, her breathing shallow, her eyes were closed, the side of her face already reddened and starting to swell. He didn’t see any fresh blood, and the spatter nearby was old and set, but that didn’t change the basic fact: someone had gone after her. And that someone was getting away.

He lunged to his feet, bellowing, “Stop! Police!”

Not that the guy stopped—they never did, and this one was already out the window. Nick knew it even as he cleared the door into the bedroom and heard the traffic, then the feet pounding down the fire escape. “Damn it!”

He stuck his head out, and just barely saw the guy from the back as he bolted around the corner onto the main road. But that was enough to relay the bad news—the guy had a pair of plastic boxes under one arm. He’d taken the evidence kits.

Cursing viciously, Nick holstered his weapon, went for his phone and called it in. But even with “white guy, six-something, dark pants and a suit jacket, carrying a couple of evidence kits” as a description, he didn’t hold out much hope.

Given the head start, though, there was no point in Nick giving chase. Especially not when there was a vic who need medical attention.

Not a vic. Jenn. He had to think of her that way, though. It was the only way he could keep himself steady as he returned to Dennison’s living room, went down beside her once more. He didn’t move her, didn’t dare do anything more than take her hand in his.

She was still unconscious, which wasn’t good. And her left eye was nearly swollen shut, red and puffy. She’d taken a hell of a hit. Maybe more than one.

Anger was a sharp, ugly beast inside him, hammering against his ribs and snarling to be let free. He kept his control, though—that was what made him one of the best at what he did. But he sure as hell didn’t feel like one of the best as he leaned over her. He felt damned helpless, and that was a new feeling.

“There’s an ambulance on the way,” he said, forcing his voice level. “They’ll take care of you, get you back on your feet.”

She would hate this, he knew. She would hate knowing that she’d been out of it, that she’d been the focus of an “officer down” call, taking attention away from the manhunt that even now was forming up down below. And most of all, she would hate knowing he’d been the one to wait with her.

Despite her professionalism, he knew the sharp edges were there, knew she couldn’t possibly be as cool toward him as she came across. There had to be some heat beneath that mask, some anger over the way he’d ended things so abruptly when there’d been the potential for them to keep seeing each other, keep going with the crazy heat they’d made together.

Or maybe that was just him. Maybe she really was that cool, and he was the only one who still took a second some mornings to realize that she wasn’t beside him, wouldn’t ever be there again. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, reaching for his phone. “Where the hell—”

Boot steps thudded in the hallway and Tucker straight-armed the door, face thunderous. “What the hell happened?” He missed a step at the sight of Jenn, down and out of it. He grabbed his radio and snapped, “Where the hell is that ambulance?”

“Three minutes out,” came the muffled response from Dispatch.

“Get it here in one.” Keeping the radio clutched, Tucker rounded on Nick. “Tell me.” He sounded almost as mad as Nick felt. Almost.

“I came in as the dipwad was going out the window,” Nick growled, and gave him a quick summary, along with his too-vague description of Jenn’s attacker.

Tucker shook his head grimly. “This is bad.”

“It gets worse. He got the evidence cases.”

“He…” The detective broke into a string of curses, then headed for the hallway, already barking into his radio. “Anything on the guy Lang saw? Business suit, two plastic cases. Anything?”

His voice faded as he stalked down the hallway, giving orders and making threats that anyone who’d known him for more than five seconds knew was more a sign of how worried he was than anything. Tucker was no pushover, but he was a fair leader, and he cared deeply about all of his people. More, the crime scene analysts had a special place in his heart, given that his wife, the mother of his daughter, was one of them.

Nick didn’t know what it meant to feel like that, to love like that. But he knew he was on the verge of losing it over Jenn.

In the distance, a siren throbbed faintly. Finally!

Tightening his fingers on hers, he leaned in. “They’re almost here. Any minute now.”

Her lashes fluttered.

“Jenn!” His muted shout sounded very loud in the room—in the freaking murder scene, the one he’d been coming to re-create in his mind, only to wind up coming way too close to reenacting it in an entirely more gruesome fashion. There was nothing of Dennison in him now as he brushed a few strands of hair from her forehead. “That’s it,” he said, though she hadn’t moved again. “Come on, baby. You can do it.”

The “baby” just slipped out. But even as it resonated too deeply inside him, her fingers moved against his, her eyelids fluttered again and she inhaled a deep breath—a real one this time, not one of the shallow, shocky sips she’d been taking ever since his arrival.

And then, finally, she opened her eyes and looked up at him.

* * *

W ARMTH RUSHED THROUGH Jenn at the sight of Nick’s face so close to hers, and the knowledge that he’d been watching her sleep, and that whatever he’d been thinking, it had put deep, intense emotions in his eyes, making him look so fierce he was almost frightening.

Almost.

“Nick,” she said softly, reaching for him. “What—”

She gasped when the move sent a slash of pain through her head, followed by a roll of nausea.

“Stay still.” He gripped her hand. “You were attacked, knocked out. The paramedics are on their way up.”

“Para…oh.” She closed her eyes as her brain caught back up with her, and the scenery she had glimpsed behind Nick’s head connected to her recent reality—or at least as much as it could when that reality was a jumble.

She was at a crime scene; there had been another torture-murder. She knew that much, though only as words, like Dispatch was reporting directly inside her head. In terms of really seeing things, really having the memories, the last thing she remembered was—ow! She moved to grab her head, then groaned when the motion made things worse. Grayness washed her vision and things went swimmy around her.