Lethal

“Doesn’t have to be that way. We can-”

Coburn disconnected, then turned off the phone. “Bet he had some choice words for me,” he said to Honor as he tossed the phone onto the backseat.

“He thinks you should call in reinforcements.”

“Just like in the movies. Give him his head, he’d have S.W.A.T. guys, choppers, every badge within fifty miles converging on the scene, an army of Stallones who’d only fuck it up.”

After a moment, she said quietly, “I was very angry at you.”

He glanced over at her with silent inquiry.

“When you ruined Eddie’s football.”

“Yeah, I know. My cheek still stings where you slapped it.”

“I thought you were being unreasonably cruel. But actually your intuition was right. You just picked the wrong sport.”

It hadn’t been intuition that had caused him to plunge the knife into that football. It had been jealousy. Raw, fierce, animalistic jealousy over her facial expression as she’d stroked the football’s lacing and lovingly reminisced about her late husband. But they’d both be better off if he didn’t correct her misconception. Let her think he was an intuitive jerk rather than a jealous wannabe lover.

She was rubbing her upper arms, a sign of her anxiety. “Honor.” When she turned her head toward him, he said, “I can call Hamilton back. Have him send in the cavalry.”

“Two days ago, you wouldn’t have given me an option,” she said, her tone throaty and intimate. “Coburn, I-”

“Don’t. Whatever else you were about to say, don’t.” Her misty expression alarmed him more than if she’d launched an RPG at him. “Don’t look at me all calf-eyed. Don’t nurse any romantic notions about me just because I told you that you’re pretty or related a sob story about some old horse.

“The sex? Mind-blowing. I wanted you, and you wanted me back, and I think even before we kissed on the boat we both knew it was a sure thing, only a matter of time. And it felt terrific. But don’t delude yourself into thinking that I’m a different person than I was when I crawled up into your yard. I’m still mean. Still me.”

He made himself sound harsh, because it was important that she understand this. In an hour, possibly less, one way or another, he would exit her life as swiftly as he’d entered it. He wanted to make that exit painless for her, even if it meant wounding her now. “I haven’t changed, Honor.”

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.