Midnight Hero - By Diana Duncan Page 0,60
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