“No.” Squeezing her eyes closed, she turned her head away, afraid to hope. Afraid to think.
“He’s fine, Chapman. I can feel it—the shock of it just knocked him out, and he’s going to hurt like a motherfuck, but he’s fine.”
* * *
HE could feel her.
Her hands on his face.
Her thoughts, furious and full of grief, flooding his mind, battering his shields.
Damn you . . . you told me not to let him take me away. But what about you . . .
He’d like to tell her he wasn’t going anywhere.
And he’d do it, too.
As soon as he could breathe.
Gone . . . She was gone. Everybody’s voices and thoughts raged, and he lost hers in the thick of it. Lost himself in the pain of it, for just a minute, but then the pain, like a dragon, dragged him back into a state of semiawareness and he wanted to scream. Might have carved his chest open just to relieve the agony.
And still she wasn’t there. Dru . . . he just wanted Dru . . .
He’d been shot before, and he was pretty sure it was less painful than taking a hit square in the chest with body armor.
Even unconscious, the pain was snaking into him, eating at him, firing away in his nerve endings . . .
Damn it, you can hear me. I know you can—
She was back.
Summoning what little strength he had, he flung out a hand.
And then she was there. Her hand in his. Tight, strong. Demanding.
Stay away. That was the one thought he could manage. Stay the fuck away from Whitmore.
He’s dead, Dru told him. Dead and done. And you . . . if you ever scare me like that again, I’ll hurt you. You hear me?
The pain pulled him back into its gaping maw. But it didn’t matter. Dru was there. And she was safe.
And if he could ever manage to wake up . . .
THIRTY
TUCKER watched from the sidelines as they loaded Crawford into an ambulance.
His head ached. Pounded like a son of a bitch.
All that power licking through the air wasn’t helping, either.
Something soft butted against his ankle. Frowning, he looked down and saw a little fuzzball twining around his ankles. “Shoo.” He nudged the cat gently with one booted foot.
As the skies ripped open and rain started to pound down, the cat gave a pitiful little meow.
Crouching down, Tucker sighed and stroked a gloved hand down her back. It was safe now. The rain dampened all the electrical currents in the air, and blissfully, some of the pain in his head receded. It had damn near split his brain in two, or at least it felt like it, what he’d done.
He’d seen Whitmore fire—felt the trajectory of the bullet cleaving through the air. If it had been a sunny day, or if it had already been raining, it wouldn’t have been possible. But with the storm so close, the air had been charged and he’d felt the bullet . . . felt it in a way he hadn’t thought would even be possible. And he’d known what would happen.
“I tried to stop it altogether,” he said to the cat.
She stared at him, looking rather regal despite her sopping wet fur.
“I wasn’t able to. Bullets are a bitch.”
She meowed in agreement.
Blowing out a breath, he reached for her and wasn’t surprised when she let him pick her up. “You belonged to that fucker, huh?”
As she tucked her head against him, he felt the power train of a purr thrumming in her little body. “You need a decent home after that, I bet. I can’t do much, but I’ll feed you, at least. Let’s blow this joint.”
And before anybody could think to look for him, Tucker lost himself in the rain and the shadows, carrying a wet cat, who oddly wasn’t too disturbed about being wet.
* * *
COLD—SO damned cold . . .
Terror, for the longest time, gripped her. Death, something she’d longed for, was there. Just within her reach.
Horrid, really.
She’d come down here just to die.
In a shining burst of clarity, she realized she had only a few seconds . . . she could die.
Or she could try to live.
She knew what Thom would have wanted.
Clawing at the water, she struggled to the surface. But her clothes . . . they were so heavy, so, so heavy.
No, she thought, as the darkness grew heavier and heavier . . . I’m not going to die like this.