Undercover Lover (Siren Publishing Classic) Page 6

  “Why do you put up with that old rattletrap?”

  He rubbed his thumb against his fingertips. “Cash, man. Maybe after today I can afford a chauffer.”

  “You got a lady now, Madison?”

  His stomach jolted, praying they wouldn’t find out about Liz. “Lots of ‘em.”

  “Yeah, spread it around.” Looking for a laugh, Tommy leered at his henchmen. He occupied the back booth of the down-and-out diner, while his people sat at the counter and surrounding tables, none of them close enough to overhear anything Tommy didn’t want heard.

  Sam slid into the booth and ran his fingers through his hair and brushed them over his beard. Liz. He could smell her on his hands. Smoothing his fingers over his mustache to keep the scent close, he wanted to hang on to it as long as he could.

  Shit! Focus, man.

  “Coffee, Madison?”

  “No. We need to get this done. I don’t want to spend all day on it.”

  “You got something better to do? Maybe get back to the old lady?”

  He frowned, staring through the diner’s grungy picture window as a woman huddling under an umbrella skittered past. He needed to deflect Tommy’s sudden attention to his love life. His blood ran cold at the fear Tommy knew where he lived. “Yeah, sure, I’ll have to decide which one.”

  “Franklin.” Tommy beckoned to a foot soldier on a stool at the counter. “Go get that babe, and bring her back for Sam.”

  Fuck. He was actually a little afraid of the big ox. Franklin wasn’t stupid, the goon just smart enough to be extremely unpredictable and dangerous. Built like a professional wrestler, his neck supported a bullet-shaped skull covered in crusted sores. Sam slid out of the booth faster than Franklin could get his ass off the stool. “Hey, I can get my own women. I don’t need a moron like Franklin doing my trolling.”

  “Why don’t you go get her? I’d like to see how you operate.” Kane nodded a disappointed Franklin back onto the stool.

  “Tommy, I don’t want her now.” He tried to cover his exasperation. “I just want to do this exchange. Women can wait.”

  “Well, if you don’t want her, maybe I’ll send Franklin to get her for later.”

  Fuck. He didn’t want that asshole Franklin approaching an innocent woman. “Franklin’ll just scare her off with his gruesome face,” he said dismissively.

  “Hey! Who you calling gruesome, fucker?” Franklin charged off his stool .

  He stuck his palm out. Franklin slapped it down. The creep weighed more than Sam, but Sam had the height. And the smarts. He took his advantage and slammed the shithead against the wall. “I’m calling you gruesome, and I’m gonna keep on doing it until I get tired of it.” He gave a final push then pretended to dust off Franklin’s lapels. “Leave the woman alone.” He glared into the goon’s eyes. “There’s plenty where that came from, and, after this deal, we’ll all have enough for any woman we want.”

  “Stop it, you two. They’re here.”

  Glancing out the window, he saw a black stretch roll past the diner and turn into the alley two buildings down.

  Show time.

  The diner emptied in record time with Sam, Tommy, and Franklin going out the front, the rest out the back door. They pulled up their collars, the rain pelting down heavily now. Sidling down the block, they turned the corner into the alley. Bad guys sure loved dirty, stinking alleys. The minute the limo door opened, a well-dressed man emerged.

  Dominguez. Petey’s dealer. He finally found him. Dominguez probably wouldn’t recognize him after all these years, but he’d know the fucking bastard anywhere. Tamping down his emotions—now wasn’t the time for them—he watched Tommy approach Dominguez, watched as Dominguez’s gaze swept the alley. It stopped at Sam.

  Sam stared back through the pummeling rain. Recognition dawned in the other man’s eyes. Then everything went to hell.

  “Fuck,” Sam muttered as he drew his .45 and backed toward the mouth of the alley. This op was over. Dominguez had recognized him. He hadn’t forgotten that beating. Sam didn’t figure he would’ve.

  Wouldn’t you know, the ever suspicious Tommy Kane turned and mouthed, “What the hell…?”

  Sam didn’t take his eyes off Dominguez. That’s where the order would come from. Dominguez hesitated only a second before he shouted for his bodyguard to shoot.

  The bodyguard took aim. Too far from the mouth of the alley to escape, he heard the foomp of the silencer. It wasn’t true a silencer made no sound.

  Backing up quickly, he felt the sting of a round plowing across his upper arm. He heard the one that whizzed past his ear at the same time he felt the burning path in his scalp. Franklin finally got the picture and drew his 9mm. He hated Sam and didn’t need an excuse to gun for him.

  Before the shots stopped echoing off the surrounding brick walls, he’d slipped around the corner out of the alley.

  Well, that went all to fucking hell. The reality slammed into him. You’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life by doing this without backup. A quick glance over his shoulder assured him no one was behind him.

  He had to get out of there. Now!

  In seconds, someone would come from the alley. Running along the sidewalk, he stayed close to the buildings until he came to a doorway. He didn’t care where it went, he had to get out of sight. Unfortunately, in the tiny vestibule of an apartment building, and, through the dirty glass door, he’d be in sight of anyone on the street. Ringing buzzers, he knew someone inevitably would blindly buzz him in.

  Thank you, God. He prowled a hallway that couldn’t be seen from the front door. An apartment door opened, and a woman’s curly gray head appeared around the frame.

  “Get back inside,” he snapped. “And lock the door. Don’t come anywhere near it again.” He hoped she’d follow his orders since they were punctuated by the sight of his .45 clearly visible along the length of his thigh. “Call 911. Tell them shots were fired.”

  A resounding bam followed.

  He leaned against the wall, catching his breath, trying to plan his next move. He had to get out of there quickly before Kane and Dominguez figured out where he’d gone. Pacing back to the hallway leading to the front door, he peered around the corner and spotted the bodyguard and Franklin skulking past. Jerking back, he leaned against the wall. Fighting the wooziness from his head wound, he dropped to a crouch and peeked again. Clear now.

  He looked down the two intersecting hallways and spotted a door at the end of one, helpfully marked Exit. It automatically closed and locked itself. Perfect. Unfortunately, the entire hallway was in plain sight of the front door.

  Sirens. His cover was surely blown when Dominguez and Tommy compared notes. As much as Dominguez would like to kill him, Sam didn’t think he’d admit being beaten up by a cop, or rather a punk kid before he became a cop. Dominguez would keep his mouth shut about that part anyway.

  All this time in tactical, and he’d never seen Dominguez on the street. He had enough clout to hide out under the radar.

  “I’ve got to get out of here.” Everything was all fucked up, and he needed to think. He had to make a break for the back door and hope the alley was empty. Sprinting to the door, he glanced over his shoulder. Clear, so far.

  The door slammed shut behind him. Creeping through the alley, using dumpsters for cover, he got to the street. If the coast was clear, he would holster his gun and walk casually in the opposite direction of the cop cars. He didn’t want to risk blowing his cover just in case. Tommy, Dominguez, and the rest, he hoped, were undoubtedly long gone by now.

  Of course, if he was smart, he’d stay put and identify himself to the officers. Disoriented by the agonizing pain from his head wound, it was just a graze, but it felt as if lightning strikes raked his scalp. Maybe the bullet had scraped a nerve. Shaky, heart pounding, and growing more confused, he tried to remember where he’d parked his car. Tommy could have it staked out by now. He needed a new plan.

  His vision going hazy, he nevertheless spo
tted a dully blinking neon sign a block away. AVERN. It didn’t take a genius with all his faculties intact to know what that meant. Sliding onto a stool in the bar, he ordered a beer and hunched over, trying to regroup. Not following protocol was tantamount to shooting himself in the foot career-wise. But exhaustion, no sleep to speak of the night before, nothing to eat since then, and running through rain-soaked alleys made for kind of a rough day. This wasn’t his first mistake, not even the first mistake of the day.

  Fuck.

  Relatively safe and warm with a beer in front of him, the events of the last hour settled in. And, no, he wasn’t any better off for the beer.

  “You know you’ve got blood running down your face?” the bartender remarked conversationally as if he saw it every day. Probably did.

  Sam raised his hand, felt around his temple, and came away with the sticky substance on his fingers. Peering at them as if he’d never seen blood, he reached for some bar napkins and blotted his head just above the ear. I’ve been fucking shot. The stinging in his head and burning of his arm came back ten-fold.

  Pushing off the stool, he headed unsteadily down the back hallway to where the johns should be located. Closing and locking the door, he inspected the tear in his jacket, yanked it off, and stared at the shallow gash across his upper arm. A little bit of blood trickled from it, and he mopped it up with scratchy brown paper towels. His head looked completely different. That bled like a sonofabitch. Weirdly, his baseball cap hadn’t been dislodged. He cleaned that wound as best he could with cold water and the damned, miserable industrial paper towels. He’d better get the hell out of here before the bartender could describe him. As if the guy would want to get mixed up with the police or the bad guys.

  Throwing some bills on the bar, he stepped warily out the front door again. The adrenalin rush had worn off, his whole shoulder aching worse than before, his temples pounding with every heartbeat. He’d been fucking shot. Grazed, but still shot. He had to get somewhere safe and quiet so he could clean up and think about his next move. He checked the building numbers and started walking north, moving as quickly as he could, and keeping his eyes peeled for a cab.

  The rain turned to sleet and lashed his skin. He shook from shock, and sweat burned the furrow above his ear. His alternatives were slim. He couldn’t go home and certainly not to his folks. He didn’t want to go to the hospital unless things got much worse. If he was smart, he’d identify himself to the cops. He wasn’t that smart at the moment. That left only one place he wanted to be right now.

  Chapter 9

  In the loft, Liz straightened up suddenly. Was that a knock? She supposed it could be Sam. Jesus, they’d forgotten to use a condom. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see him. They’d made a big mistake, and she didn’t want to repeat it.

  Knock, knock.

  When she got to the bottom of the stairs, her eyes widened. She heard a click, the knob turned, and the door began to open. Momentarily frozen in fear, all she could do was stare.

  “Liz?” The voice was low, a whisper.

  A burglar who knows my name?

  “Liz, are you here?”

  It couldn’t be.

  The door opened wide, and Sam stumbled in.

  “Liz, I need help.” He groaned. “Awk…”

  “Sam!

  He collapsed face down on the floor.

  “What happened?” She knelt at his side, pushing at his shoulder.

  He yelped. “Shot. There.”

  “I’ll call the police.”

  “No! No…”

  “But you’re hurt. Shot. You’ve got to go to the hospital.”

  “No, don’t.” His voice was muffled by the sleeve of his jacket.

  “Where were you shot?”

  He mumbled.

  “Where, Sam? Wake up. Talk to me.” Her voice rose hysterically.

  “Right…”

  She glanced over his body.

  “…shoulder.”

  Oh, God. The shoulder nearest her, and she’d poked at it. “Can you roll over, Sam? Let me see it.”

  “Blood.” He sounded woozy.

  “Just roll over.” As he turned, she tried to remove his jacket, wincing every time he moaned. “Oh, my God! Your head!” That scared her. “Please let me call an ambulance.”

  “N…”

  His teeth were so tightly clenched, she could hardly understand him.

  “Just clean ‘em. Soap and water. Hot water. Bandage…aspirin… I’ll be fine.”

  Okay, she’d do this his way for now. If he got worse or developed a fever, she’d call an ambulance. Turning on more lights, she collected towels, a basin of hot water, and soap. She wondered if antibiotic ointment worked on gun shots wounds.

  “Can you get to the table?” She put her hands around his waist and tried to hoist him up.

  “No. Just fix ‘em here,” he groaned groggily.

  He obviously didn’t want to move. He must be in more pain than he’d admit. She finished slipping his jacket off, rolled it up, and put it under his head. One wound slashed across the hard bulge of his bicep. She pushed up the sleeve of his T-shirt and began delicately daubing the deep scratch with soap and hot water.

  He hissed.

  “I’m sorry.” She thought being gentle was the right way to go. “I’m trying not to hurt you.”

  “…just do it. The faster, the better.”

  She heard his whispery groans. Kneeling close against him, she felt the rigid tension in his body. “That’s right, the faster, the better. Less pain. Right?” she muttered more to herself than to him.

  “It’s all right, Liz. Wash it out good. I’ll survive.” He closed his eyes and took a deep, shaky breath.

  She had to control her own fears for his sake, but being a tad pissed, she griped, “You know I’ve never done this before, don’t you? If you’d gone to the hospital in the first place, they’d be better able to tend to you.” In her worry, she poked a little too hard.

  He jerked. His eyes opened then slid shut.

  “Don’t pass out on me, or I will call an ambulance,” she snapped.

  “It’s not that bad.” His voice was barely there.

  She slathered the antibiotic cream over the open wound. “Now what’ll I use for a bandage? I have to put something over this.” She found if she talked to herself, it helped her keep focus.

  He didn’t answer. The contrast between his dark hair and beard emphasized his pallor. His eyes remained closed, but his breathing sounded fine. “A pillow case. That’s what I need.” She took the clean cloth from the linen closet, cut it into strips, and wrapped one around his upper arm, tying the ends in a knot like she’d seen on TV. “There. Watching all those old Westerns on TV Land finally pays off.”

  Now for his head. “Oh, God, this looks horrible.” A shallow furrow ran from the corner of his eye straight back into the hair above his ear. “Sam, does your head hurt?”

  “Huh? Liz, are you there?” His hand swayed in the air.

  “Sam, are you awake? I’m right here.” She brushed the back of her hand over his forehead. “No fever. Yet. One down, and one to go.” She’d picked up confidence. Her stomach was tied up in knots, but she could do this. “Just let me clean this one.” She brushed her fingers under the lower edge of the gash and resisted the urge to kiss his temple.

  Just tend to business. Don’t try to figure out what’s going on right now.

  She went through the same procedure on his head wound. His groans came louder, the skin thinner over his skull, the nerve endings closer to the surface. “I’m going as fast as I can.”

  “Hey, gimme a kiss.”

  Her hand stilled.

  Are you kidding?

  “Settle down, Sam. You’re delirious. I’m almost finished.” Nearing the end, adrenalin leaching from her body, the shakes started deep inside. She took a deep breath and sat back on her heels to collect herself.

  Calm down. Finish the job.

  The shakes lessened, and she ge
ntly smoothed ointment onto the wound. “I should cut your hair here.”

  “…unh…no.”

  “Stop moving your head. Okay, okay, I won’t touch your hair. Just let me get this cream on. I think a couple of Band-Aids will work here.”

  “So, I’m not gettin’ a kiss?”

  “Sam, stop it. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you’re not getting a kiss. A smack is more like it.” Equal amounts of exasperation and fear claimed her.

  “You wouldn’t hit a man with a head wound, would you?”

  “Obviously, you’re feeling pretty spunky now, so watch out I don’t kick you out.” He did look kind of cute lying there at her mercy. Now, she must be getting delirious. It wasn’t every day she encountered gunshot wounds and doctored them. And it wasn’t cute. Heat flashed through her, flushing her neck and cheeks. She’d saved his life.

  Now, don’t overdo this. You’d better pray infection doesn’t set in and that he doesn’t develop a fever.

  “Can you get up? Go to the couch?” She’d done all the work on him while he lay on the floor, and now her back ached.

  “Yeah, I can get up.” He demonstrated by climbing slowly to his knees, gripping the back of the sofa, and levering himself up. “Dirty…” His jaw tightened in pain.

  She left him balanced with both hands on the back of the couch and got a sheet. Spreading it over the white sofa, she slid a shoulder under his left arm, helped him around to the couch, and lowered him as gently as she could. She put a pillow under his head and struggled to take off his boots.

  His eyes closed, and he panted. “I’ve gotta go,” he muttered, trying feebly to stand.

  “No. Rest. It’s all right. Don’t worry.”

  “Aspirin.”

  Weak, but he gave in to her orders. “Right here.” She offered a glass of water with two aspirins in her palm.

  “More.”

  “Not too many.”