The Society - Hunter Healer Part 7

Now he sounded angry. Get the h.e.l.l out, woman! There's nothing you can do here.

"Like h.e.l.l there isn't," she muttered, and hit the door at full speed, spilling out into a concrete stairwell. In here there was no carpeting or smooth pale paint or little Egyptian knickknacks, only the stairs and confused people. The mood of the entire casino tipped and spun, sc.r.a.ping against Rowan's sensitive brain. She didn't care how she looked now, barely keeping her feet under her as she bolted down the stairs.

It took less time than she'd thought to reach the bottom. The alarms hadn't been on long enough for the crowd to really start ma.s.sing at the doors. She broke out onto the first floor and found herself at the end of another long hall, restrooms on one side and the glow and tingle of slot machines at the other end.

Justin! She "reached" for him frantically, almost reeling under the wave of burning agony that slammed through him. What was it? Had he been injured? It felt familiar, somehow, if she could just think- No time for thinking, because two women in tan trench coats moved across the end of the hall and paused, seeing her. Rowan's head gave another agonized flare of pain and her stomach flamed with hurt, the veggie omelet she'd eaten that morning rising in rebellion.

Revolting food, she thought, wondering why she always had the urge to laugh at the most inappropriate of times. Revolutionary hash browns, anyone? Resistance pancakes?

One of the women reached under her coat. Rowan sped for them, her eyes locking with the shorter woman's eyes, hazel and wide and full of the sparkle that told her this was a psion. The nausea twisted inside her belly again. She had a split second to reach for her own gun, clear leather and decide if she was going to take a life here in this gawdawfully decorated place.

The first woman dropped, her legs folding under her. The second paused, her hand closing around her gun-then she buckled too, her eyes rolling up, and her military-short blond hair ruffling as she hit the ground with a thump audible even through the fire alarms. And there, behind them, slipping something back into his pocket, was Justin.

He looked like h.e.l.l. He was gaunt, his cheekbones standing out, and his hazel eyes were just as dead and flat as ever. Tall man, much taller than her, stubborn dark hair cut military-short like her father's. Why did he trim his hair? He'd just been growing it out the last time she'd seen him. He had a nice face, even cheekbones and a firm mouth drawn tight and haggard with pain now. Same clothes as usual-dark hip-length leather coat, jeans, and a pair of engineer boots. Easy to move in, if a bit too overdressed for the Vegas heat.

But there was the shadow of a bruise on his face, dark circles under his eyes, and the way he movedwould have told her he was in pain even if she couldn't feel it against her own nerves.

Rowan flung herself down the hall. When she was less than four feet from him, the crackling jolt of his nearness ran along her skin.

She ran to him. He didn't move aside, just opened his arms slightly. When she hit, his arms closed and he whirled, using the momentum to help her down to the ground as she heard a popping, shattering noise.

Gunfire. The slot machine nearest them exploded in a shower of gla.s.s and shredded plastic, change zinging out from its ruined bottom and sparks flying. The noise was incredible. Rowan gasped and swallowed a shriek.

"Justin! Justin!" She was yelling his name, over and over again.

They hit hard, her cheekbone bouncing against his shoulder, and fireworks spilled across Rowan's vision.

She let out a short cry of pain, and Justin rolled, untangling himself from her. He had a gun, too, somehow coming up into a low crouch and returning fire.

"I told you to get the h.e.l.l out!" he yelled over the sudden screams and shattering gla.s.s. It sounded as if he'd hit something. Her head rang, both with pain and his nearness, and her stomach twisted against itself again. "Move, woman!"

Nice to see you too. But he was all business, clear and cold, with the peculiar fierce concentration he used while under fire. A machine. Sigma had trained him to be a machine, and he'd trained so many Society operatives to move coolly and think clearly under fire that his reputation had turned him into something of a legend. Her own gun slid into her hand as she scrambled along the row of slot machines.

Justin followed her. Here. He's here. Childlike, the way her chest suddenly eased. Everything's going to be all right. He's here. He's alive. He's all right. He's here.

His hand closed around her upper arm, hard, and she stopped dead. He pushed her aside and scanned the end of the row of slot machines. They were in a back corner. It would be almost impossible to shoot their way out through the large open place where the roulette and blackjack tables were. The short, cheap carpet ground under her boots as she half-turned, looking over her shoulder to make sure their six was still clear. She smelled cordite and felt air-conditioning chill the sweat on her skin. Fear rose sour in her throat, her heart pounding. No one was braving this aisle of slot machines yet.

"Who did you come with?" he barked. "Who's your backup?"

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "Cath. She's getting out. I told her I'd draw fire."

He swore, his fingers moving automatically as he slid another clip into the 9mm. The movement was habitual. He didn't even look at his hands, pointing to a fire door with his chin. "Go that way, out the fire escape. I'll clean up in here and find you."

She set her jaw and shook her head. "I'm coming with you."

"G.o.ddammit, do what I tell you!" Frustration made the words sharp, and he glanced over her shoulder, scanning the blackjack tables again. "I've found you once. I can do it again. Get out."

Her eyes flicked past him. She lunged forward, intending to run for the aisle and the blackjack tables. If she went, he'd have to follow, and there would be no more of this get out of here and leave me behind nonsense.

He grabbed her, yanked her back and pushed her toward the door with its blinking green Exit signoverhead. She felt a sudden sharp flare of bloodl.u.s.t and threw herself instinctively down, her feet tangling. He also fell, just as more bullets whizzed overhead. Well, wasn't that lucky. Instinct saves the day again.

Rowan's knee hit hard and he dragged her back behind the shelter at the end of the aisle. He had his left arm around her, and his right hand with the gun pointed carefully away. His heartbeat thudded against her ear, and she felt absurdly comforted.

Options were rapidly closing down on them, and she could feel his mind clicking through alternatives, working percentages, calculating how to get her out of here alive.

Justin, please, G.o.ddammit, I'm not leaving you! Desperation, flavored acrid yellow.

"Come on," he said in her ear. His arm tightened around her, electricity tingling on her skin from his nearness. "Keep up, move with me, and for G.o.d's sake do what I tell you."

She nodded. Her own gun, useless for the moment, was clasped in her hand. The adrenaline freeze began, details standing out sharp and clear-he hadn't shaved that morning. She could see the roughness of charcoal stubble on his cheeks, a crack in the shoulder of his leather coat, and a fading bruise spreading over his left eye. Someone had hit him awhile ago. Sigma? Why?

Then, wonder of wonders, he pressed a rough kiss onto her damp temple. Stray strands of her hair had come loose, and his lips pressed one against her sweating forehead. Rowan's speeding heart seemed to crack in half. More gunfire chattered and popped. Why are they shooting? She didn't mean for him to hear the thought, but he did.

"Drive us out, make us break cover." He got his legs under him and pulled her up into a crouch. "We're going to have to move fast, angel. You ready?"

She nodded, biting her lower lip. She gained a shaky equilibrium, staying as low as she could.

"They're going to shoot to kill. They can't afford to let me get away." His flat, dark eyes searched her face. "You understand?"

He's saying that if they're shooting at him, they may hit me. He thinks I care about that?

"I understand," she managed. "Let's get the h.e.l.l out of here."

Chapter Fourteen.

If Delgado didn't remember training her, he would have now doubted that he had. It was a stupid move, letting herself be caught in the trap with him. He'd given her a clear shot at escape. Why hadn't she taken it?

She was even more beautiful than he'd remembered. How had he forgotten her clear, pale skin, her aristocratic nose, graceful cheekbones, flawless mouth that was even now pulled down with worry, and her pearly teeth sinking into her lower lip? Dark circles under her eyes only served to underscore how green they were, again. She looked like she hadn't been sleeping well. Her hair was still the same pale, fine ash blond pulled back and braided. He couldn't wait to get it free of the braid and wrap his fingers in its dense silkiness. Not only that, but she smelled beautiful-shampoo and soap and the clean scent of female under a thin veneer of sweat from healthy effort. Her forehead was damp, a few random strands of hair sticking to the skin.

She smelled like home. There was no way he should have let her get involved with this.

Delgado closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. It wouldn't do to get all hurried and blow their chances of escape with something stupid. How was he going to get both of them out of this?

He knew, of course. There was only one way. One thing they wouldn't expect.

"All right." He gained his feet, and she rose with him. "Come on. Stay close."

She nodded. A slender woman, she only came up to his collarbone. She wore a man's linen suit jacket over a T-shirt, jeans, and her rig. He wanted to keep his hand around her arm, feel that crackling glaze of electricity that was her talent brushing over him, but he needed both guns out. He shot a glance out into the pit and down a long corridor of slot machines. He could hear screams, staccato bursts of gunfire-casino security, maybe, battling it out with Sigma. That was enough to bring a hard delighted smile to his face, the grin of a fox hearing the hunter tangle with his own dogs. He simply ignored the noise from the fire alarm he'd pulled, one more thing that didn't matter.

He moved down the long corridor, his back roughing with gooseflesh. Sweat collected along his lower back and under his arms-his body's response to combat. With the heat around here, a sweating man was no big deal. No need to waste energy trying to control an autonomic function.

When they reached the end of the corridor, a single sweeping glance told him everything he needed to know. Three Sigs were down in heaps of tan trench coat, and the rest were moving into the far end of the pit. They had a group of casino security guards pinned behind a makeshift barricade. It was utter chaos, especially with the fire alarms and a tide of screaming tourists to deal with as well.

He'd spared himself half a moment to push one of the security guards to open fire on the Sigs, saving a whole lot of time and trouble even if it was putting a civilian in the line of fire. He'd feel bad about that later. Much later, when he had Rowan out of here and safe.

He led her across the corner of the pit, moving from cover to cover. There was even an overturned blackjack table. How the h.e.l.l did that happen? Bullets chattered. The security guards wouldn't hold out much longer. The Sigs were better armed and better trained. Delgado smelled spilled blood, hot lead, cordite, and the leather-peppermint-pepper smell of deadly exertion.

"G.o.ddammit," he whispered, pulling her down behind the table. "Keep your head down."She nodded. She was deathly pale, but two spots of hectic color burned on her cheekbones and her eyes gleamed.

He wanted to kiss her again. The feeling almost made his hands shake. But that wasn't what made him curse. The Sig team was sweeping in from the entrance, cutting across the grand taupe-colored lobby, their boot heels clicking on the faux stone floor. They were cutting off one route-the easiest route-of escape, and they would zero in on Del and the woman-his woman-in less than ten heartbeats.

Delgado moved. He squeezed off two shots and sent them scrambling for cover, then he bolted for the bar. Rowan matched him stride for stride, and he heard her breathing as if it was his own. Keep up, angel. For G.o.d's sake keep up ... there. Move, move, move.

They burst through the swinging gla.s.s doors and into the dimly-lit h.e.l.l of the bar. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, fouling every surface, and the door shattered as a hail of bullets caught it. She let out a short breathless cry and stumbled. He had one hand free and reached over, dragging her along. Ridiculous, dangerous-he should have kept both guns out.

Gla.s.s popped and sparked, the reek of spilled liquor mixing with the fuggy lake of cigarette smoke.

n.o.body in here, thank G.o.d. And there, behind the bar, the door that led to a back hall and probably a fire door.

No time, no time. Instead of staying down and cautious, the Sigs were coming straight for the shattered lounge door. Del caught sight of a baby grand piano sitting on the stage, spotlit against a blue velvet curtain. All we need is an Elvis impersonator singing over the fire alarm. Viva Las Vegas. He shoved her up and over the bar and followed, his boots grinding in broken gla.s.s. He squeezed off a couple more rounds to keep them back from the door and ducked down. "You okay?" He wasn't gasping, but he was close.

"Fine." Rowan was paper-pale, visibly trembling, her mouth compressed. Her pupils were so wide her eyes looked almost black in the dim light, and she clutched at her leg.

Hope she's not hit. He had to crouch further as gunfire chattered, broken gla.s.s tinkling from overhead.

A fine spray of rum drifted down. At the curve of the bar, there were Sterno cans with low blue flames under the chafing dishes for keeping the hors d'oeuvres warm. He pushed Rowan down, grabbed the nearest two and tossed them, burning, over the bar. He almost got shot for his pains as more gla.s.s shattered and more booze oozed down.

Need something more. He found what he wanted-a half-full bottle of Stoli, racked below the bar. He holstered his right-hand gun and pulled down the bottle.

"Give 'em a couple of rounds," he said, digging in his pocket for spare cloth. He found a thin, torn strip of rag, useful for wiping fingerprints or any number of things, and unscrewed the cap.

Rowan complied, taking a quick glance over the bar and popping two shots off with a short, sharp cry that sounded painful. She rubbed her wrist as she fell back to the floor again, grimacing.

Of course, her hands are so small she has a hard time with the recoil. Poor girl.

"In ten minutes this will all seem like a bad dream," he told her, twisting the end of the rag and forcing it into the bottle's long, thin neck. Have to keep it loose enough or the gas won't ignite. Do it right, Delgado.

He pulled a stiletto from his sleeve and jammed the rag further in. Then he found a dish of matches. Acigarette lighter would have been better. A fine time to wish I smoked. Say something, keep her focused. "We'll find ourselves a nice quiet place and get acquainted again, what do you say?"

"Sounds good to me." Her voice shook with gasping pain. Not a whisper of whatever she was feeling escaped, though. She was holding up under the pressure like a pro.

He jammed the stiletto back into its sheath, grabbed a bottle of rum, and broke its neck with a swift sharp smack against the counter. After dousing the dry part of the rag liberally, he hefted the rum bottle up and over the counter.

Shots, again. "G.o.ddammit," he said, shaking the vodka bottle to get it nice and angry. "Throw a couple more bottles over the counter, sweetheart, while I get this lit."

"You're so much fun to hang out with," she shot back, and grabbed a bottle of Kahlua, lofting it over the counter and following it with another bottle of Stoli. The reek of spilled liquor filled the air. There was enough fuming booze out there to make his eyes water. She managed to get a good eight bottles thrown with one hand, her other hand clamped onto her leg as if she had a cramp in the quad muscle, as well as two more Sternos she worked free of the racks with quick deft yanks. While he struggled with the matches, they were getting closer, closer, closer. There was one in the door now, and Del could hear the crackle of another psion's thoughts, a well of bloodl.u.s.t.

The rag caught. He waited until the flame had a good purchase and switched the impromptu c.o.c.ktail to his left hand. "Cover your eyes," he said, not wanting her to catch any flying gla.s.s. Let's hope this works. If I believed in G.o.d I might be praying now.

She did as he said, obviously willing to trust him, and hunched down behind the bar as more gla.s.s shattered. Del tossed the c.o.c.ktail as he rose to his knees, his right hand bringing up his own gun. More gla.s.s shattered and the whole world narrowed. He shot twice at the Sigs looming in the shattered door and dropped.

The explosion was satisfying, to say the least. He hit the floor, taking her with him, as flying gla.s.s peppered the bar. The sound was horrendous, alcohol and Sterno fumes igniting and gla.s.s whickering through the air. He covered her body with his and caught a stray breath of a clean, pure scent. Her hair touched his face, a slippery satin rasp against his stubble, and her hip pressed into his belt buckle. She was soft and slim, and he remembered what it was like to bury his face in the softness of her throat and hear her sigh as he- No time to think about that, they had to move. Not bad for thinking on my feet, but don't congratulate yourself yet, operative. Get her out of here.

He rolled up to his feet in a swift crouch. His forehead burned, blood dripping into his eyes. He yanked her up, fingers slipping in warm wetness. Was she hit? He hoped not. The thought of her wounded did something funny to his chest.

"Back door, angel," he said, and they went, duck-walking just in case anyone out there still had a gun and the presence of mind to use it. She gasped with each footstep, dragging herself along. The fire alarm was for real now, and he could hear sirens. He hit the door open with the palm of his left hand, his right holding a gun again, and pushed her through after checking behind it. And there, above the stacked cases of liquor and other odds and ends, was the Exit sign. It was a fire door. The delivery door was off to the left. But since the alarms were already going, it wouldn't matter, would it?

Acrid smoke billowed through the door. It was burning merrily in the bar now, tables, chairs and plush carpet fueled by spilled liquor. A wave of heat groaned through the entire bar."I think I'm going to throw up," Rowan said in a high, thin, breathless voice. She slumped against him, still clutching at her leg. Was she hit? G.o.d, he hoped not.

His chest was on fire, his nerves twisting with the need for Zed. Get her out of her. Get her out and away from them. Get her out now.

"Wait until we're out in the alley," Delgado heard himself reply. "G.o.ddammit, woman, I told you to run."

"Wasn't leaving without you." Stubborn. Always so stubborn. "Where have you been?"

"In h.e.l.l, angel." He kicked the fire door open, waited a beat, and spun out, covering the likely angles.

n.o.body there-the alley was clear. The Sig team guarding it was probably pulled in to help deal with the mess inside. He'd known it was clear. His own psychic talent worked overtime to tell him so, spurred by Zed withdrawal and adrenaline, but it was nice to have confirmation. "In h.e.l.l. It's nice to be back."

Now, let's get a car and get you out of here.

Heat shimmered up from the pavement. Rowan clamped her hand over the wound on her left thigh. It was still bleeding. Merciless sunlight beat down. Delgado had wiped the drying blood off his face, and his hair was dark enough that, at a casual glance, the blood crusted in it wouldn't show. He wasn't upset over his own wound, caused by a shard of flying gla.s.s he was happy missed his eyes. It was her serious, b.l.o.o.d.y injury he was worried about.

His stomach turned over. Later, he promised himself. Feel bad later. Right now, get her somewhere safe.

Christ, I'm saving up a h.e.l.l of a lot to think about later. Then he reminded himself not to think about that.

Until later.

"It's up here on the left," she whispered in the same colorless, tiny voice. Her eyes were closed, and she had stopped stealing little glances at him. Her hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. "Poor Cath. I hope she's okay."

I don't give a d.a.m.n. He didn't give a good G.o.dd.a.m.n what happened to anyone as long as Rowan was all right. The whole f.u.c.king world could go to h.e.l.l in a handbasket for all he cared. He had nothing further to lose now; nothing except her.

I'm just as dangerous to the Society as I am to Sigma right now, he thought, and saw the sign for the Hotel Doze-Inn. "There it is," he said. "Room 25?"

"That's it." She'd already handed over the room key. A rendezvous with Cath, and getting all three of them out of here, was just what the doctor ordered. And once he had a few moments he was going to tell Rowan just how good it felt to be near her again. "I'm bleeding all over the seat," she said. "I'm sorry."

You're sorry? Jesus Christ, you could have died back there. You got f.u.c.king shot! What the h.e.l.l are you apologizing for? He clamped down on himself. Hysteria was not what he needed now. What he needed was a good stiff drink and a chance to bandage her up. "No worries, angel. Unless we need get you to a doctor."

"No. No." She sounded panicked, and he cursed himself. "It'll be fine," she said. "Look, it's stopped bleeding. Now I just have to wait for it to heal while it hurts."He pulled into the parking lot, checking the rearview mirror yet again. Still no sign of pursuit. "We look clean."

"Is the car..." She gulped down air, and he caught a flash of pain. Oddly enough, that touched a spark of fury deep in his gut, a fury that managed to rise in a sheet of red flame. Hurt her. They had hurt her. "Oh, G.o.d. Is the car here?"

"Blue Subaru, Georgia plates, just the thing for evading Sigs? Yes, it's right there. You've got the keys?"

"I shouldn't ... I shouldn't..." Her head lolled back against the seat. The delicate traceries of sweat on her face made her look even more pale and delicious. He had to restrain the urge to lean across the seat and kiss her cheek.

G.o.ddammit, Rowan. I almost lost you. I almost f.u.c.king lost you in that b.l.o.o.d.y mess. Why didn't you run?

"No need to worry, angel." He saw a familiar figure leaning against the side of the Subaru, shading her eyes with one hand. Cath had ditched the blue Mohawk for a short black gamine haircut that suited her much better. She'd even taken most of the metal off her face for the Vegas run, and her Catholic-schoolgirl prettiness shone out. She was going to be dangerous in a couple of years. Zeke would have his hands full keeping her out of trouble.