Midnight Hero - By Diana Duncan Page 0,93

All eight theater doors imploded with a huge crash and the SWAT team stormed inside. A brilliant light flashed, blinding her. A deafening boom shook the building. Choking, sulfurous smoke roiled, burning her throat and making her gag. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Could only listen and pray.

Boot steps thundered, vibrating the floor. Men’s deep voices shouted. “Down! Get on the floor! Everybody on the floor!”

Gunshots exploded, bullets whined.

On top of her, Con fired his gun. A series of clicks sounded in fast succession, and his weight settled more firmly. He must be out of ammo. Suddenly, his body jerked. Thick, warm liquid soaked her sweatshirt. The coppery tang of blood assaulted her nostrils.

Con’s blood.

Chapter 15

4:00 a.m.

“Con!” Bailey’s scream was lost in the turmoil. She struggled to roll over, but his body pinned her to the floor. In the thundering, smoky melee, she couldn’t tell if he was purposely holding her down, or if he was merely dead weight on top of her.

Her throat closed up in horror. Dead weight. Dear Lord.

“Clear!” Eight different deep male voices boomed. “Clear!”

Boot steps trampled the carpet. More shouting. Con’s weight lifted. Seconds later, a man’s strong arms scooped her up and carried her through the thick, swirling haze. She coughed and gagged, battling to catch her breath. Involuntary tears streamed down her face, and she couldn’t see who held her.

Every shrieking instinct proclaimed it wasn’t Con.

She had to find him! Bailey beat her fists against the man’s Kevlar vest and struggled to escape. One big hand captured hers and his hold tightened, immobilizing her. She blinked rapidly and squinted up at him. He wore a black helmet, with the face-plate lowered against the smoggy gloom. A blue-and-gold patch rode on the upper arm of his black uniform. SWAT. One of the good guys.

Where was Con?

Her rescuer swept her outside, and sharp, cold air slapped her face. Stinging pellets of freezing rain struck her skin. She sucked in desperate breaths, exhaling the noxious smoke. The man whisked her past a row of lit ambulances. Raised stretchers inside the open vehicles held bleeding bank robbers and police officers, surrounded by gun-wielding cops and busy paramedics. Uniformed police and SWAT team members shouted and sprinted past in the swirling sleet. In the wet, white pandemonium, everywhere she looked, she saw the red gleam of blood.

She caught a brief glimpse of Liam and Aidan bent over a cop on a stretcher. Grady leaned close to the patient, his face grave, his movements rapid and precise. Her rescuer quickly turned aside, his body blocking her view.

“Con!” She fought the man’s iron hold. “Put me down!”

He shifted, holding her more securely. “Medic,” he roared. He strode to the last ambulance in line and stepped inside, then laid her on a stretcher.

Bailey sat up. “Let me go!”

“Easy.” One big hand tugged off his helmet, while the other urged her back down. Hunter Garrett’s tawny mane spilled to his shoulders as he leaned over her. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” He stuck his head out the door and again shouted for a medic. None came, and he muttered under his breath.

She fought his restraining hold. “I need to get to Con!”

“His brothers have him.” His soft Carolina drawl was kind, his blue-gray eyes implacable. “Stay still. You’re bleeding.”

A sob caught in her burning throat. “It’s Con’s blood.”

“All right.” He grabbed a pair of scissors and cut off her shirts, leaving her in the lacy camisole. “Just let me check.”

Chilly air washed over her and she shivered. Couldn’t stop shivering. “How badly wounded is he? Tell me!”

“I don’t know, honey. Sorry.” He wiped her arm and shoulder with a damp cloth. The white cotton came away streaked with red. Con’s blood. Hot anguish balled in her chest. Hunter set the cloth aside. He cupped her chin in his broad palm. “Look at me. Con will get the best possible medical attention.” He studied her eyes, her face. “Now calm down and talk to me. Do you hurt anywhere?”

Yes. My heart has been ripped out. She shook her head.

His quick, impersonal hands skimmed her limbs, her ribs, before tucking a blanket around her trembling body. His gentle fingers brushed aside her hair. “DiMarco burned you.”

Con! Please be all right. “It doesn’t matter.”

Hunter’s square jaw tightened. “It does to me.” He applied soothing ointment, followed by a bandage. “There. Is that better?”

She sat up, shoving aside the blanket. “You have to let me go to Con!”

“I can’t do that. The best thing for him