“That’s right, but we went ahead with it, didn’t we.” It wasn’t a question.
“But you’re not happy about it.”
Will kept his voice down, but it wasn’t easy. “What are you talking about?”
Taylor bit out, “You’re not happy with it. You wish it hadn’t happened. You’d have preferred that things stay the way they were.”
Startled, because there was truth to that, Will didn’t have an immediate answer.
Taylor’s face grew tighter, all stark bones and shadowed planes in the bright Ventura sunlight.
“Yeah, but it did happen,” Will said in a low voice. “And there’s no going back from it.”
Taylor hadn’t moved. In fact, he was so still, he barely seemed to breathe. No reaction at all. And that wasn’t like him.
Suddenly awkward, Will said, “Anyway, the reteaming is just temporary.”
“Who are you partnered with?”
Fuck. Well, there was no getting around it. It was just that Taylor was taking it even worse than Will had imagined he would — and Will hadn’t even got to the really bad part yet. Bad from Taylor’s point of view, anyway.
“I’m not — I’m working a visa fraud case. Illegal aliens using forged docs to unlawfully gain employment to naval bases in the region.”
“Naval bases,” Taylor said slowly. And then, dangerously, “Who are you working it with?”
Will said, careful to keep any inflection from his voice, “I’m acting in liaison with the navy. With David Bradley.”
For one taut second Taylor didn’t move, and then he was up and out of his seat, striding for the gate that led from the patio to the sidewalk.
“Taylor!”
Uncomfortably aware that they now had the attention of most of the diners on the patio, Will threw a bunch of bills down and took off after Taylor.
Instead of heading for the car, Taylor was cannoning down the pavement, head down like a bull — yeah, like the bullhead he was. Will, unwilling to bowl right through people, lost valuable seconds trying to catch him. No way in hell was he going to run after Taylor.
He couldn’t believe this. Where the hell did Taylor think he was going? Was he planning to walk home? Catch a taxi? Who the hell knew? Did he?
Will’s gut was churning. It was partly anger, largely directed at himself for not finding a better way to break it to Taylor, but most of it was that sick feeling that came anytime he knew he’d hurt Taylor. Taylor had a rep for being a tough bastard, and he was, but…
God only knew what he made of something like this, and Will couldn’t help but remember the last time Taylor had thought Will was getting serious about David Bradley.
He darted around two middle-aged women with piles of shopping bags between them, dodged a kid on a skateboard — illegal here, by the way — and sidestepped a couple of guys on cell phones who sounded like they were talking to each other.
Taylor was still flying down the street, charging along in his white-faced fury. Will put on a burst of speed as Taylor reached the corner of the sidewalk, pausing — amazingly — the few seconds before the crossing light turned green.
The light turned, the perky pedestrian symbol glowing white-green, and Taylor stepped out ahead of the rest of the people milling on the corner. At the same time, a battered Chevy pulling away from the curb accelerated, tires squealing as the driver tried too late to make the light.
A woman on the corner screamed in warning. Will saw Taylor’s head jerk up, too late, to see the car bearing down on him.
* * * * *
Oh yeah. That. Speeding cars coming his way.
Taylor had barely time to recognize his serious miscalculation when something significantly big and muscular hurtled full bodied into him, knocking him halfway across the intersection. He landed hard and unprepared, the breath knocked out of him, hands and knees burning as asphalt scraped away skin.
He felt the hot breath of the car rushing past, tires squealing, the smell of rubber and exhaust and roasting tar.
Sluggishly, he was aware of people screaming. But I had the right-of-way, he thought. That was shock, though, not logic. Will was beside him, getting to his knees, which took care of Taylor’s immediate concerns. He’d known the minute that solid mass of bone and muscle had crashed into him that it had to be Will.
“The sonofabitch didn’t stop.” Will swore bitterly, examining his bloody elbow.
“Why should he? He didn’t hit us.” Taylor staggered to his feet, offered a hand to Will, who took it and let himself be pulled up.
They examined each other quickly, awkwardly — it was hard to forget what had precipitated that close call. Wincing at more than scrapes and bruises, Taylor considered his own grazed hands. Will must have noticed, because he reached out, catching Taylor’s wrists and studying his palms.
After what seemed a smoldering sort of moment, he released Taylor, saying curtly, “You’ll live.”
“Thanks to you,” Taylor admitted. No point in pretending otherwise. He owed Will that one.
Will was apparently too pissed to want to take credit. He turned away, heading back across the intersection, asking whether anyone had managed to get a license-plate number. The witnesses — those who had stuck around — were already disagreeing about whether Taylor had stepped out before the light turned green.
This was not the place to conduct an inquiry, and Taylor couldn’t understand Will’s insistence on trying. As there were no longer any pedestrians sprawled in the intersection, the opposite street traffic was now trying to make its left-hand turn and impatient motorists were laying on the horn. He followed Will to the curbside, frowning, as Will tried to insist on someone supplying a make on the car or some kind of ID on the driver.
A brown Chevy, according to Will. Why did that ring a bell?
Either nobody could or would volunteer any part of a license-plate number. The crowd had already dispersed
