Chapter 10

9:00 p.m.

Molotov cocktails at the ready, Bailey kept a nerve-racked vigil in front of Footloose Footwear. Her shaking hands were cold and clammy. Her blood beat fast and thick in her veins. She, who had never broken the law—heck, she hadn’t received even a parking ticket—was about to bomb the shoe store.

Well, the six-foot tall 3-D advertising kiosk next to it, anyway. The acrylic triangle sat in the middle of murky no-man’s-land between the bank and the shoe store, touting the multiplex’s latest action flick. She muffled a nervous snort. When it came to action, Vin Diesel had nothing on Officer Sexy.

Who was, at this moment, a silent shadow, slipping up the corridor toward Santa’s downed sleigh across from the bank.

He’d said the robbers would watch for their approach after issuing the ultimatum. His objective was to plant a walkie-talkie near the bank, without being caught. At least that was the plan.

They had eight minutes before Con had to contact the team and abort the dynamic entry. He’d explained on the jog down the escalator that an aggressive assault was the last thing they wanted. SWAT storming in, guns blazing, was a worst-case scenario, used only when hostages were in imminent danger. No matter how careful the team, no matter how fast they hit, loss of hostage lives was a huge risk. Con thought they could still bargain.

If they could establish contact in time.

She clutched the slippery bottles of kerosene and slick lighter, and tried to slow her ragged breaths. She couldn’t afford to panic and miss Con’s signal over the headset plugged into her left ear. His life and the lives of her friends depended on her.

Con had pinpointed the advertising triangle as a soft target. Isolated in the middle of acres of faux marble, the fire wouldn’t spread. The kiosk wasn’t tall enough for flames to reach the upper floors. Everything was still waterlogged, and the fire would probably die of its own accord. He didn’t figure the crooks would stop to analyze that. They’d instinctively react to the threat, giving him enough time to plant the radio and hightail it out.

She watched the dim, backlit windows of the bank, thirty feet across no-man’s-land. The robbers had pulled the shades. Bulky silhouettes moved back and forth, loading what she assumed were bundles of money into what looked like a cart. They’d picked a great time for a robbery—surely not by accident. On paydays, the bank carried plenty of extra dough. Since mall employees had been unable to cash their paychecks due to the electrical malfunction that she now knew the robbers had caused, all that money was sitting in the vault. Not to mention every store had deposited their tills for safekeeping, per emergency procedure. The crooks had done their homework, crippled the system and would net a small fortune.

Bailey’s nervous glance roamed the desolate mall. If the robbers were busy loading money and—thanks to SWAT—revising their getaway, would they still be on the hunt? She hoped not.

“Sugarplum Fairy, this is the Nutcracker,” Con’s voice murmured in her earpiece. “In position?”

In spite of her anxiety, she grinned. Leave it to him to diffuse a terrifying situation. “Yes. I mean ten-four.”

“About to deliver Santa’s package. On three, light ’em up.”

“Okay,” she whispered back, mentally counting. One. Bailey shifted the lighter from left hand to right. Two. She thumbed the lighter and a tiny spark sprang to life. Three. She touched flame to wicks and fire flared along the kerosene-soaked rags. Holding her breath, she hurled the bottles at the base of the acrylic triangle. They exploded in a spectacular red fireball. Golden-red tongues licked up the sides of the kiosk. The charred smell of sizzling plastic stung her nostrils.

She stood mesmerized in horror. No wonder her father had dedicated his life to firefighting. Fire was a powerful, brutal foe. She’d seen the toll the dragon took on humans…in her dad’s scarred face, and in the disfigured bodies of the children on the burn ward. But she’d never had firsthand experience with the beast. Her heart stuttered. Her father had been braver than she knew, again riding into battle after being burned.

Shouting erupted from the bank. Bailey shook off the memories, pivoted and ran.

She sprinted past the shoe store, Quality Leather Goods and Death by Chocolate, then veered across the walkway. Gasping, she sped toward the Bedroom Furniture Emporium to meet Con. Was he behind her? She didn’t hear him, but that didn’t mean anything. His fluid movements were like a tiger’s, silent and deadly. He could be directly on her heels and she wouldn’t know.

Inside the store, she bent double, panting for air. Con didn’t appear. Her pulse geared down from a gallop to a trot, and finally slowed to near normal. She peered anxiously around the doorway. Saw nothing but spooky shadows in the echoing gloom.

Fear clutched at her throat. Where was he? In spite of her successful distraction, had the robbers caught him?

“Yo, Bailey,” Con said quietly from behind her.

She nearly leaped across the corridor. She whirled with her hand over her rocketing heart. “I’m either going to have to hang a bell around your neck or risk a coronary before the night is over. How did you get behind me?”

“I did a fast recon to the end of the mall and doubled back. Wanted to make sure none of the bad guys were around. All clear.” His mischievous smile of approval made her tingle all over. “They’re probably occupied battling the bonfire.”

She squelched the relieved impulse to fling herself into his arms and never let go. Instead, she adjusted the heavy pack on her shoulders. “So, what now?”

“We need to establish contact before SWAT executes their dynamic entry.”

“Is there time to check on Syrone, first?” She glanced around the dark, ominously silent store as they moved farther inside. If he were okay, wouldn’t he call out? “I’m worried sick about him.”

He consulted his watch. “Me, too. But we’ve only got four minutes. Listen up. I want you to talk to the suspects.”

“Me?” Nausea rolled in her stomach. “Why me?”

“As far as they’re concerned, they’re chasing a frightened, but surprisingly resourceful bookstore clerk. I don’t want to clue them in unless they force my hand.”

“Wh—what do I say?”

“Ask for their demands. No matter what they request—unless it’s to turn yourself in to them—hesitate, then bargain. See if you can gain concessions. Tell ’em you’ll do your best to acquire it. Be careful not to give away any intel.”

She sank her teeth into her lip and fidgeted with the cold metal handle on the wardrobe looming beside her. “If I mess up?”

He tugged her close and enfolded her in his embrace. “You can do it. You’re great at handling people.”

She inhaled his scent. It wrapped around her, as warm and reassuring as a fleece blanket. Normally, she was good with people, even cranky customers and scared, sick kids. Nothing about tonight was normal. “What if I say something wrong?” She swallowed hard. “What if I get our friends hurt?”

“Don’t worry, darlin’, your sharp brain will handle everything just fine. And I’ll be right here.” He cupped her face and planted a soft, confident kiss on her mouth, then looked her squarely in the eye. “We’re out of time, with no options.”

Her friends needed her. She firmed her chin, stepped back and tugged a tablet and marker from her pack. She handed them to him. “For coaching.”

“Great idea.” He looked at her. “Ready?”

She swallowed again. Nodded. “How will you let the robbers know about the walkie-talkie you stashed in Santa’s sleigh?”

He grinned. “Like this.” He switched on the blue unit and began to whistle.

It took her a second before she recognized the tune. “Here Comes Santa Claus.” Impressed by Con’s agile imagination, she waited for a response.

A long, too-silent minute passed. He checked his watch and held up three fingers. Three minutes.

Another sixty seconds. No response. Oppressive cold and darkness pressed in on her from every side. Anxiety sat in a lead weight on her chest. Con frowned and held up two fingers. Anxiousness turned to dread. Looked like SWAT would have to break in and attempt a perilous rescue.

Con held up his index finger. One minute. She tensed. Then her earpiece hummed. The hard, Bronx-accented voice she recognized as Tony’s sounded in her ear. “Hey, Santa’s little elf.”

Con turned aside and spoke in a low, rapid tone into the red unit. “SWAT Command, this is the Nutcracker. Have established contact with the suspects. Abort entry. Repeat, abort entry.” He paused to listen, then turned back and gave her a thumbs up.

Whew. Too close for comfort. Bailey sucked in a shaky breath and strove for a calm demeanor. “Call me the Sugarplum Fairy.”

A short, shocked silence later, Tony responded. “Ah. The spider rescue squad.”

He knew who she was? Bright panic flared, and she sent a wild, silent plea to Con. Help!

He stroked a finger down her cheek, then wrote on his tablet, Have faith. Work him.

She straightened her shoulders. Nan, Letty and Mike’s welfare was riding on her ability to pull this off. She could do it. “I imagine you’re ready to get out of here. I sure am.”

“Who’s with you, cupcake?”

“I’m alone.”

Tony guffawed. “No way.”

She borrowed a leaf from Syrone’s playbook. “I was a Marine.”

“And I’m a one-legged ballerina.” Tony barked out a gruff laugh. “I’m supposed to believe a dainty bookstore babe not only used to be a Marine, but also took out two of my best men, set off the sprinklers, summoned SWAT, and jury-rigged Molotov cocktails?”

“Listen buster, don’t underestimate a woman who reads.” She’d wager brains over brawn any day. She sounded composed, even nonchalant. Amazing, considering all the saliva in her mouth had dried up. “So, you want to chitchat all night, or you want to tell me what it will take to be rid of you? I’m ready to go home, Tony.” She emphasized his name to let him know he wasn’t anonymous to either her, or the police. “How about you?”

Con’s grin bounced back.

“You’re too smart for your own good,” the robber growled.

“Maybe, considering I’m not the one giving a not-so-impressive performance of Custer’s last stand…in a mall.”

Con’s grin spread, white and wicked in his stubbled face.

“I can think of a dozen better ways you can put that sassy mouth to good use, cupcake.”

A scowl wiped out Con’s grin. Uh-oh. He went into guard dog mode whenever anyone disrespected her. She patted his arm. He was right about her doing just fine. She might be useless in a fist-fight, but she had plenty of ammo for verbal jousting. “Even with a vault full of money, you couldn’t pay me enough. We’re wasting time. What do you really want?”

“My missing crew members back. Assuming they’re still alive?”

Con wrote on his tablet, Don’t be too agreeable. Keep him off balance.

“Maybe. I might tell you where to find them after the hostages are safe. Anything else?”

“A chopper. Thirty minutes or less.”

Con nodded and wrote, Multiplex parking lot. More time. Free a hostage.

“I might be able to arrange that. The multiplex lot is the only place big enough for it to land, but it’ll take longer than thirty minutes. Delivering a helicopter is a skosh more complicated than sending out for pizza.” She drew on the research she’d conducted about Con’s job for the correct terminology. “Show me some good will. Release the pregnant woman.”

“Way too smart for your own good. No can do.”

She looked to Con for guidance. Chopper big order. Try again.

“Come on, Tony.” She used the soothing tone she applied when her boss went on one of his frequent rampages. “I’m sure you’re a reasonable man. Let’s compromise, work this out. We’re all anxious to get out of here. If I’m going to order up something as big as a chopper, I need a hostage.”

“How about a dead hostage, cupcake?”

Fear jabbed, swift and deep. Her startled gaze locked on Con’s. His eyes narrowed, the deep brown irises lethal twin lasers. He scribbled, Futile, no profit.

She took a deep breath, then slowly released it. “That would be suicide, and I don’t think you went to all this trouble to steal that money only to waste it. You don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Yeah, I do. Starting with you.”

Con’s scowl grew black and murderous. She tamped down her fear, even as she watched Con ruthlessly harness his rage. Control, one of his many formidable talents. One hundred and ten percent focused on the job. His resolute focus would save them. And their friends. “Threatening me won’t gain you anything.”

“Satisfaction, cupcake. Worth almost as much as money. I hope I have a chance to personally demonstrate.”

Con’s words slashed across the paper, but his hands were rock-solid steady. Everyone safe, or no chopper.

Had Tony reaped his diseased brand of satisfaction after Brian O’Rourke’s murder…by stealing his victim’s watch? If so, he’d already wounded the man she loved. She wasn’t about to let him damage anyone else she cared about. Bailey clenched her jaw. “Promise you won’t hurt any of the hostages.” She adjusted her headset mic with sweaty hands. “Or no dice on the chopper.”

A long heart-shaking pause ticked past. Finally, Tony replied, “For now. Get that bird in a hurry, or all bets are off.”

She switched the blue walkie-talkie into standby mode. Now that the crisis moment had passed, her knees went wobbly.

Con hugged her to his broad chest. “Great job, slugger. If you ever get tired of the bookstore, you could have a long and lucrative career as a hostage negotiator.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” She rested her cheek on the soft cotton of his sweatshirt, drawing strength from the steadfast thud of his heartbeat. “Nobody ever died from reading a book.”

“Nobody is going to die tonight, either.”

She sent up a fast, fervent prayer that he was right.

Con released Bailey and stepped back. The store was quiet. Too quiet. He should be able to sense the subliminal vibe that accompanied another living presence. Should feel the weight of Syrone’s interest focused on them. Instead, the atmosphere felt as sterile and empty as a morgue. Dead. Hair prickled on his neck. Every instinct Con possessed screamed to hurry to his friend.

He battled the urge and accessed the red walkie-talkie. First things first. Subjugate his feelings. Stick to procedure. Adherence to training would tip the odds toward everyone’s survival. “Command, this is Nutcracker. Suspects demand a chopper. Thirty minutes, that’s three-o minutes. Do you copy? Over.”

“Ten-four,” Aidan replied. “Stand by.”

Con watched Bailey as he waited for his brother to discuss options with the team. Her strawberry-blond curls were rumpled, her complexion rosy from exertion. She’d tied the silver hummingbird charm he’d given her around the outside of her turtleneck. Her intelligent blue eyes held his, as if she could discern his thoughts, hear what Command relayed to him.

Hell, sometimes he thought she could read his mind. She always knew what he needed. When to talk and when to remain quiet. When to provide companionship and when to leave him in solitude. When to comfort and when to confront. Her moods and his were almost always in sync, a police officer’s dream. A man who dealt with constant conflict on the job needed peace and understanding at home. Bailey was the calm eye in the center of his storm.

Admiration and respect arrowed into him. She’d handled the negotiations well. Proven her mettle under fire again and again. She’d stood her ground, even when Tony had threatened her, and insulted her with crude innuendo. Satisfaction. No matter what warped credo he followed, the slimebag better not get anywhere near Bailey. Con’s hands tightened into fists. Even if he didn’t already owe Tony for Pop, Con would kill him if he put his hands on his woman. He’d give the bastard satisfaction. An AK-47 enema.

“Nutcracker, about that chopper.” Uh-oh. The edge in Aidan’s voice made Con’s shoulders stiffen. While Con had struggled to learn to control a volatile temper, he could count on one hand the number of times his roll-with-the-punches brother had lost his cool. Whatever Aidan was about to relay, he didn’t sound happy. “The ice storm has grounded all aircraft. Can you stall? Over.”

Con swore. “Maybe. We’ve got—” he glanced at his watch “—twenty-eight minutes. We might be able to bluff. I’ll be in touch. Over.”

He looked at Bailey. He didn’t have to say anything.

Her eyes widened. “No chopper?”

“The bad weather has everything grounded.”

“Tony sounds ruthless and edgy. He might go off the deep end.”

“We won’t let him.” He strode to the store’s entrance and executed a fast scan. Dark. Quiet. Empty. Maybe now that the bad guys thought escape was imminent, they’d get busy transporting their money and stop the hunt. He wouldn’t count on it.

“Let’s check on Syrone.” Syrone hadn’t made a sound during their communication with the robbers. A former Marine would know better. Man, he hoped that was it, and not the worst-case scenario torturing his mind.

“Syrone? It’s Con and Bailey,” Con warned in a low, but distinct hail. He wasn’t keen on getting shot. No answer. With Bailey beside him, he strode to the makeshift barricade at the rear, and then shoved aside the dresser.

“Oh, no!” Bailey gasped.

Con’s gut tightened. The big man had slid from his semi-sitting position, leaving a bloody streak on the wall. His eyes were closed, and he lay slumped on the mattress. The machine gun sat askew across his lap, and his hands hung at his sides. He appeared limp and lifeless.

Con cleared the thickness from his throat. No stranger to death, he would never get used to it. Especially if the Grim Reaper had claimed another friend. He glanced at Bailey, her face white and strained in the gloom. She’d been shocked and horrified by a fight. If Syrone were dead, the discovery would devastate her. “You’d better wait over there, sweetheart.”

“He’s my friend, too. I’m not going anywhere. We have to help him, Con.”

Hoping Syrone wasn’t beyond help, Con knelt and eased the Kevlar hood off him. He pressed two fingers to Syrone’s neck. His ebony skin was cool. Too cool. Con didn’t feel a pulse. His spirits sank, sorrow and dread hovering over him in a heavy, smothering cloud. “C’mon, big guy. Don’t do this. Those rug rats of yours need their daddy.”

Bailey stifled a sob. “Is he—?”

He shifted his hand, pressed harder. Ah, there! Weak, thready, barely palpable. “He’s alive!”

“Thank God!”

Con briskly patted Syrone’s cheek. “Syrone. Hey, wake up.”

Syrone stirred. Moaned.

Con patted him again. “Syrone. C’mon, buddy.”

“Wha—?” Syrone mumbled.

“Open those big brown peepers and talk to me.”

Syrone’s eyelids eased open. “Irish? Why did you hit me?”

Relief weakened Con’s limbs. “Sleeping on the job, man.”

“Oh, crap.”

“My sentiments exactly.” He unwrapped the quilts and unbuttoned Syrone’s shirt. “Let’s have a look at the damages.” Blood had soaked through, and the sodden bandages had loosened. He reapplied a thicker, tighter dressing.

Syrone shivered. “I’m cold clear to my bones.”

“I know.” Frustrated, Con turned to Bailey. There wasn’t much they could do. Shock would kill their friend. He required surgery, and probably a transfusion. And he needed warmth. Perhaps the two of them could bundle up with him and share body heat. They couldn’t afford the time, but couldn’t leave Syrone to die, either. “He’s fading fast. We need more quilts.”

“I’ve got something better.” Bailey dug in her backpack and tugged out a box of disposable hand warmers. She passed a handful to Con. “From the camping store…they’ll last six hours. I have foot-warmer heating pads and a Polarshield blanket, too.”

Wonder surged through him. Untrained, scared, she’d risen to the occasion and come to his aid countless times tonight. Her quick thinking and unquenchable spirit awed him. “Baby, what would we do without you?” He kneaded the packets to activate them, tucked the already-warming pads under Syrone’s armpits and against his chest, and buttoned him up. He applied the foot warmers to Syrone’s socks and then put his boots back on. Finally, he wrapped him in the crinkly Polarshield blanket and two quilts. “Okay, big guy, that’s about as personal as I care to get with you.”

“Likewise, Irish.” Syrone sighed. “Damn, that feels fine.”

Con again turned to Bailey. Worry shadowed her delicate features, but she gave him an encouraging smile. Outwardly frail and sensitive, his girl possessed innate strength and fortitude. For years his job had been his first and only love. Now, he wasn’t ashamed to admit she was the center of his universe. What would happen to her, to the hostages when the chopper didn’t arrive? How would he protect them? From here on, the scenario could unravel at warp speed and spiral out of control. People could die.

He shook his head. Focus. One crisis at a time. “Do you have any more of that candy syrup from the toy store?”

“Yes, but I thought he couldn’t have anything by mouth.”

He whispered in her ear. “If we don’t get him stabilized, he won’t live long enough for it to matter.”

Clearly shaken, she passed him the small wax containers shaped like cartoon characters.

He twisted the ears off the wascally wabbit and poured the thick, grape-scented liquid into Syrone’s mouth.

Syrone coughed. “What are you feeding me, Irish? Poison to put me out of my misery?”

“Super-secret healing elixir, brewed by celibate Tibetan monks under a full moon.” He urged his friend to swallow the contents of the second container. A duck, cherry, unless he missed his guess.

“Ugh! Those monks need to go low-carb. This stuff would strip the paint off my SUV.”

Con laughed. “Probably. But as my darlin’ explained to me earlier, it’s instant glucose.” He encircled Syrone’s beefy wrist and took his pulse. “Not bad. Much better than when we found you.”

“I owe you my life, Irish. Times two. You, too, Bailey. You’re both due for major payback.”

Bailey shook her head. “You’d do the same for us.”

“Hey.” Syrone blinked. “How come you’re still here? Weren’t you supposed to escape out the access door?”

Con fed Syrone another dose of cherry syrup. “The suspects C-4ed the vault, and the concussion took down Santa’s workshop. The access door is blocked. They claim they’ve wired all the exits.”

“Has SWAT been able to contact them? See what they want?”

“They wouldn’t accept the throw phone, but I made contact. Oh, if you need to reach me…” Con handed Syrone the extra red walkie-talkie. “My handle is Nutcracker. SWAT’s patched in, too, just in case.” He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to. Syrone’s lowered brows told him the ex-Marine knew Con was providing backup. If the bad guys took Con out, Syrone would know when to call in the cavalry. “Have you seen any action back here?”

“Quiet as the grave, Irish. So, what’d the perps want? Are we gonna blow this gig anytime soon?”

“They’ve asked for a chopper in the multiplex parking lot in thirty minutes.” Frowning, he opened the last wax container—a martian—and administered the odious green lemon-lime liquid. “Not going to happen, because of the ice storm.”

Syrone swallowed, shuddered. “What’s the plan?”

“Bluff like hell.” Con took Syrone’s pulse. Stronger and more regular. He’d be okay—for a while. If they didn’t get him to a doctor, the hand and foot warmers would outlast him. “I’ll check in every thirty minutes. If you don’t hear from me, call in SWAT.” Again, he didn’t elaborate. Syrone read him loud and clear. If Con missed a radio check, he would be either unconscious or dead.

He squeezed Syrone’s hand. “My gut says the crap’s about to hit the fan. It’ll go down fast. Hang in there, Marine.”

Syrone nodded. “You may be a wimpy SWAT boy, but you’re semper fi, Irish.”

Bailey kissed Syrone’s cheek. “We’ll see you soon.” Her voice was thick with unshed tears.

Con helped Syrone put on the Kevlar hood. Then, for the second time, they left their wounded friend in his makeshift fortress.

“Always faithful,” Bailey said softly as they stood just inside the store entrance. “I agree.”

“I try, sweetheart.” His wary gaze swept the corridor. He had to be doubly vigilant. If the situation went FUBAR, it would happen during the risky transitional phase. Even if they managed to scramble a chopper, no way would SWAT allow the suspects to board. Especially with hostages. Taking an incident site mobile endangered more lives, both civilians and officers. It was never allowed. At any cost. That was the part that had him worried. “I want to hit the multiplex, do a recon before the suspects move.”

The multiplex sat at the back of the mall, eight theaters branching off a central main lobby. There was one mall entrance and one parking lot entrance.

He left Bailey hidden next door while he took a fast visual inside the lobby. Red running lights along the walls outlined the walkways and concession area, with decent visibility about six feet up. The far corners and vast, echoing ceiling were pitch black. The buttery scent of stale popcorn lingered in the air.

Squirt gun at the ready, he swept inside and performed a swift, thorough search. The theater doors were all locked. So far, so good. Limited lobby access would facilitate containment.

He examined the outer glass doors, and swore. Wires snaked the perimeter, and a chunk of C-4 was lodged in the lower corner beside a detonation device. The SOBs had wired the exits. He didn’t have time to mess with it and didn’t dare. If he screwed up and went boom, Bailey might escape, but the hostages would be on their own. Outside, glittering freezing rain pounded the darkness in a heavy, drumming rhythm. Visibility was limited to a few feet.

Con determined the site was secure and radioed the intel to SWAT so they could get the bomb squad on it. He went back for Bailey. Inside the theater, her glance traveled over the thick, geometric-patterned carpet, dark, menacing nooks and crannies, and then upward. A wistful smile blossomed on her sweet mouth.

He followed her gaze to the board behind the ticket counter, listing shows and times. They’d been here often, but he knew from her dreamy expression she was remembering their last movie date, to see the final installment of Lord of the Rings. The books had been Bailey’s favorites for years, and she owned every DVD version and every soundtrack CD. She had a thing for Aragorn, the sword hunk who would be king. She’d even talked Con into dressing up like the guy to her Eowyn for the precinct’s Halloween party. It could have been worse. At least he hadn’t had to wear tights. Or heaven forbid, be a Scotchgarded-at-birth elf. “A fond memory. Even if you did go through a package of tissues and soak the front of my shirt.”

“I get choked up all over again just thinking about it,” she whispered. “So poignant. Ordinary people, fighting great evil. Never giving up, no matter the odds. No matter the cost. Courageous, noble. What a triumph.”

Yeah, except in the movies, the good guys always won. Real life wasn’t as neat and tidy. He tugged her into his arms. He needed to prepare her for what would happen next. “You’ve been a huge asset. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

She stiffened in his embrace. “I feel a ‘but’ coming on.”

“The situation is about to reach critical mass. I’ve got to play the rest out alone, darlin’.”

“No!”

He cupped her face in his hands, looked into her beautiful blue eyes. “This is what I’m trained for, Bailey. You’ve done great, but you’re a civilian. You need to step out of the line of fire.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. “I’m afraid for you, Con. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Me, either. I’ll be careful.” He rubbed her taut, quivering back. “I’ll take you upstairs and stash you somewhere safe. Then you have to let me go.”

 

Bailey clung tightly to Con’s warm, capable hand. Everything inside her roiled in hot rebellion. No. Why did she have to step aside and let him risk his life alone? It wasn’t fair. Wasn’t right. She wouldn’t do it.

As they approached the huge Christmas tree near the escalators, her steps dragged, slowing Con’s momentum.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Time’s a’wastin’.”

She scowled at the towering wooden Nutcracker soldiers, hand-carved by local artisans. At the acres of fake snow batting mounded around the area near the tree’s base. Decorative, but serving no real purpose. Was that how Con saw her? Drat the man, she could help him, had helped him all night. “Con—”

“Don’t argue. I’m in charge here.”

Yes, but he didn’t have to be so all-fired bossy about it. “Con, dammit! Stop!”

He stopped, pivoted and arched a dark brow. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you swear.”

“It won’t be the last unless you stop towing me along like luggage on wheels and listen to me.”

“We’ll talk. Upstairs.” Still holding her hand, he bounded up three flights to the top floor. On the way, he instructed her to monitor both walkie-talkies and what to do if Tony called again.

Upstairs, she leaned against the wall, the plaster rough and cool behind her. She tried to catch her breath enough to speak. “You said I was an asset.”

He wasn’t even breathing hard. “I meant it. But things could get ugly. Dangerous. I won’t risk your life.” He stepped close and smoothed the frown lines from her forehead. “Baby, you said yourself you weren’t sure how you’d react if you had to hurt someone. Mere seconds can cost lives. If you hesitated…”

He didn’t need to finish. Bottom line, he couldn’t depend on her to come through for him. He was better off alone. Her shoulders slumped. “Okay. Where do you want me to hide?”

“The food court. It’s circular…if one of the robbers comes looking, you have an escape route.” He moved closer, his big, warm body pressing into hers. Solid. Strong. Sustaining. Her traitorous brain superimposed another image—his body slumped, bloody and lifeless. She blinked away the agonizing picture.

He tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Don’t.” He lowered his head and kissed her. His tongue stroked sure and deep. She tasted his dark, heady essence mingled with cinnamon. Felt the soul-deep connection shimmering between them. She would never get enough of him. She treasured him more than life. Needed him more than her next breath.

Loved him enough to let him do what he had to.

Her intention to break up had been in his best interests. Yet she was forced to admit her choice then had been born of love and fear. Not only for him, but herself. She’d been afraid of getting hurt. Now, her determination to release him was for Con alone. Her first decision had been made in cowardice. This one was forged in conviction. He couldn’t afford distractions. She refused to behave like a fool and destroy his focus.

Tears threatened, and she blinked them back. She would not cry. Would not cling. She poured her feelings, her emotions, all her longing into the kiss. Telling him how much he meant to her.

Gently, he broke contact. “I have to go.”

“I know.” She touched his cheek. Warm skin, bristly stubble, exuding confidence and vitality. So alive. So precious. “I love you. Don’t ever forget that.”

“I love you, too, darlin’.” His mahogany eyes crinkled at the corners. Sorrow, yearning and hope mingled in the warm brown pools. “Wait for me in the pub, in the food court.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, fighting the compulsion to beg him to stay. To hold on to him and tug him out of harm’s way. Keeping him safe wasn’t up to her. Never had been.

He had to choose duty over her. Just like her father. But for the first time in her life, she understood why. She knew he’d made the right choice.

Just like her father.

Heroes had to be heroes. They couldn’t be anything else. Countless lives depended on them. The women who loved them had to accept that. And keep on loving them, anyway.

Just the way they were.

Con turned and walked away, and her heart shattered inside her chest.