Cross fire, p.25
Cross Fire, page 25
“I told you this was a bad idea. She’s terrified and she’s panicking,” Jordan said in a low voice. “I’m gonna let her go.”
“Give her another minute,” Marx suggested.
“Marx—”
“Let her do this, Jordan.”
“You can only fight one thing at a time, Holly,” a deep, even voice rang out from somewhere in the room. Everything blurred into smudges of color through my tears, and I couldn’t separate him from what was probably the wall. “Fight the panic first, then your attacker.”
Fight the panic first.
The idea drifted through the overwhelming fear and took root. If I could rein in the panic, I could focus on what I needed to do to escape.
But my thoughts felt like frantic birds; every time I tried to focus, another burst of fear sent them fluttering in every direction, and I couldn’t seem to catch them.
I could feel the memories and the debilitating fear threatening to drag me back under, and I fought to concentrate on the present, on the differences between this moment and that one.
I could feel soft material beneath my fingers—a T-shirt maybe—and beneath that was the warmth of skin, and . . . my panic spiked as I realized I still had my hands pressed against a man’s stomach, and he was pressed against my back.
I choked on a sob.
“It’s just me, Holly. You’re safe,” Jordan whispered into my hair. His voice was rough with emotion, but it held none of the menace I expected to hear from a man with his arm around my throat. “I promise you’re safe.”
It’s not . . . the same. I’m not there. He’s not him. It’s not—it’s not the same.
I refused to let myself think about anything more than the T-shirt beneath my fingers. It was soft and smooth, like a workout T-shirt, and I could feel the edge of a design.
I drew in a breath, held it for four seconds, and exhaled.
My feet weren’t bare, and they were planted firmly—toes to heels—on a soft, dry floor rather than slippery tile that left me desperately scrambling for balance.
I drew in another slow breath.
I wasn’t trapped in that small space with Collin; I was in a large room with blue floors that smelled like rubber, sweat, and the faint aroma of Marx’s cologne.
My breaths hiccupped as I trembled, but I could hear them slowly smoothing out as the panic receded.
“There we go,” Marx said quietly. “Grab his elbow and pivot, Holly.”
I did as he said, my technique unbalanced and shaky, but I finally managed to duck out of the arm that restrained my neck. I staggered back across the mat, putting as much space between me and the men in the room as physically possible.
I sank down in the corner, burying my face in my arms. I could feel Marx hovering nearby, but he didn’t touch me as I fought to regain control of my body.
Realization hit me as the intense emotions slowly drained away: I had done it. I had broken out of the hold. A small bubble of pride swelled inside of me.
I wasn’t helpless.
20
I lingered in the break room as I waited for Marx to return from his “bust.” He had gotten word about where to find his street dealer, and I had watched as he and a few other officers strapped on bulletproof vests and inserted earpieces before heading out.
I was staring into the box of doughnuts, trying to decide which one I wanted, when a familiar voice said, “Hey, kiddo.”
I stiffened and then turned to see Captain McNera standing in the doorway. He gave me a pleasant smile that made him no more likable. “Tough choice?” he asked as he stepped into the room. “Which ones are giving you the trouble?”
“Chocolate cake and blueberry,” I replied tentatively.
He nodded. “Both good options. But I’m guessing you don’t wanna eat both.” When I shook my head, he said, “Tell ya what, cake doughnuts are my favorite and I like blueberry too. My blood is in need of a little sugar, so why don’t we split them.”
“Are you diabetic?”
“No, I just have a sweet tooth the size of the Atlantic. So what do you say?”
I wanted to say, “take a hike,” but he’d been Marx’s friend for a long time, so I tried to be civil. “Sure.” I grabbed a plastic knife from one of the drawers and cut both doughnuts in half. I paused before grabbing the halves and putting them on a plate for him as I thought of Sam and his germ phobia. “Do you mind my fingers?”
“Not at all.”
I placed his on a plate and held the plate out without moving toward him. He leaned forward and took it from me.
“I keep forgetting how shy you are,” he admitted.
I licked the stickiness from my fingers as I retreated with my plate to the farthest wall. “Did you really come in here for a doughnut?”
He smiled. “No, young lady, I did not. Rick asked me to check in on you if he wasn’t back in an hour.” That didn’t surprise me. “He said you’ve been having some issues with a man, and he’s concerned about you being alone.” At my displeased frown, he explained, “He didn’t betray your confidence. That’s all he told me.”
He wasn’t worried about Collin breaking into a police station and dragging me out; he was worried about me leaving the police station and getting myself into trouble.
“I never had a chance to thank you, Holly.”
I nibbled on my doughnut. “Thank me for what?”
“Rick is an amazing cop, but after Shannon left him, he became a different person—always tired, angry, and distracted. He hardly ever smiled. It wasn’t until he returned from Kansas with you that I noticed the change in him. He’s happier. He smiles more, and to everyone’s surprise, he even laughs from time to time. I’m pretty sure we have you to thank for that.”
I shifted self-consciously. “I haven’t done anything.”
He smiled and lifted the doughnut to his lips as he explained, “You just have a way about you.”
I wasn’t really sure what that meant, so I decided to ignore it and focus on my doughnut. I worked on my blueberry half quietly, fully aware that he was still watching me.
“I realize that you and I didn’t get off to a very good start,” he said after a moment. “But I hope that if you continue to be a part of Rick’s life, you can find it in yourself to forgive me.”
“Are you guys close?”
“We’ve been friends since I transferred to this precinct twenty years ago. He and I were partners for a time.”
“Who’s his partner now?”
“Rick doesn’t get along well with most people, so he generally works alone. I figured him for my job someday—he was the better cop—but he has a bit of a temper.”
I smirked. I had seen that temper before, but he seemed able to control it better now. “He’s a good man.”
“Yes, he is.” He studied me. “What is it between you two? I know he’s not romantically interested in you, and I don’t get that sense from you either.”
I shrugged. “Just friends.”
“Hmm.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “Well, if you’re ever having a doughnut dilemma, I’m just over there.” He pointed to his office. “And I’m happy to share a doughnut with you anytime.”
I forced a smile and then sank into one of the folding chairs after he left the room. I watched him through the glass as guilt gnawed at me. He was clearly trying to make amends, but he had made the terrifying situation last autumn even harder, and I would rather upchuck my doughnut than say the words “I forgive you.”
I knew in my heart that it was wrong to hold a grudge.
Jesus offered us forgiveness whether we deserved it or not—no matter how many times we rejected Him, and no matter the depth of our sins. What right did we have to deny it to someone else who was seeking it? What right did I have?
I looked at my knapsack on the table as my thoughts turned to Izzy. Captain McNera wasn’t the only one trying to make things right. Was I holding onto my pain and anger so tightly that I was withholding forgiveness?
I pulled my notebook from my bag and flipped it open to the unfinished letter. I stared at the nearly empty page, struggling to find the words to fill it.
I uncapped the pen, pressed it to the paper, and waited for the words of forgiveness to flow out of it. But what I began to write took an entirely different path:
Your face is the first one I remember after my family died. The first arms to hold me. It doesn’t matter that you took me illegally. It doesn’t matter that I only lived with you for two years, or that you were a criminal. You were all I had in this world to hold onto. And you abandoned me. You were the closest thing I had to a mother and you chose drugs over me. You left me alone. And I hate you for that. I hate you because . . .
Because I had loved her.
I heard Marx’s brusque voice coming from the squad room, and I set my notebook aside. My eyes widened when he strode in with his hand wrapped around the arm of a man in handcuffs. He shoved the man into the vacant chair beside his desk, and the man called him a few choice names.
“Next time, I’ll aim higher,” the man sneered. “You don’t have a bulletproof helmet.”
Marx stripped off his vest, laying it across his desk, and I caught the glint of metal embedded in it. My insides twisted. Was that a bullet?
“There’s not gonna be a next time. Even if you manage to find yourself a lawyer without a conscience to get you off the drug charges, you shot a cop.”
The drug dealer leaned forward in the chair and spat on Marx’s shoe.
Marx arched an eyebrow and said dryly, “Charmin’.” His head lifted when Captain McNera called him. He motioned an officer in uniform over and requested, “Take him down to bookin’. Make sure he gets his own cell. I don’t want there to be any accidents.”
“Five star accommodations, huh?” the drug dealer asked as the female officer pulled him to his feet. “And a pretty escort.” He looked her over and winked.
She ignored the comment and propelled him forward through the squad room. He looked around the room, and I had a bad feeling as his calculating eyes skimmed over the empty desks and then the few officers who were at the other end of the room.
Recognition lit his eyes when he saw me standing in the doorway of the break room, but I was certain I’d never seen him before. He stopped abruptly, and the female officer tried to force him back in step beside her.
“Walk,” she demanded.
The man glanced back over his shoulder toward Marx and Captain McNera, who lingered outside of the captain’s office to talk quietly, and then back at the officer escorting him. He sized her up quickly and then threw his shoulder into her hard enough to knock her off her feet.
He barged into the break room, and I scrambled back from him. His hands were still cuffed behind his back, but that didn’t discourage him from trying to reach me as I skirted the edges of the room to avoid him. I had no idea what I had done to upset him. I hadn’t even spoken to him.
“So you’re it, huh?” he demanded.
My back smacked the wall, and I didn’t have anywhere else to go. He opened his mouth to say something more as he closed the distance between us, but his words were lost when Marx wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and slammed his face down on the break room table.
I flinched at the harsh sound of the impact.
“You don’t go near her. You don’t talk to her,” Marx growled in warning.
“A little jealous, Detective?” The man wheezed in amusement. “I would be too if that was my girl.”
Marx tightened his hold on the back of the man’s neck when he twisted in an effort to see me, and leaned down to growl, “You don’t even look at her.”
“Detective,” the female officer protested, trying to pull his arm away from the man. “Let him up. I’ve got this.”
Marx looked at me less than two feet away from where he had the man restrained, and then at the officer. Frustration laced his voice. “See that you do this time.”
The woman’s jaw hardened, but she only nodded and grabbed the man securely by his arms. Marx released him and stepped back, letting her take over.
“You can’t hold me, Detective,” the man said as he straightened. He ran his tongue over his split lip and then spat blood onto the carpet.
“We’ll see about that.”
The officer hauled the man out of the room, and I caught Marx’s faint wince of pain as he braced an arm against his side for the barest instant.
“You were shot?” I asked.
He lowered his arm from his rib cage at my quiet question. “It’s just a bruise. The vest took the brunt of the impact.”
“It’s not just a bruise.”
“It’s nothin’ to worry about.”
I crossed my arms and asked irritably, “Do I get to use that line the next time I get hurt and just don’t wanna tell you about it?”
He grimaced. “You have a habit of turnin’ things around on me, and I don’t like it.” He stared at my unwavering scowl and sighed. “It’s a cracked rib or two. It tends to happen when you get shot in the vest at close range. I’ll be good as new in a few weeks.”
He wouldn’t be good as new, but unfortunately there was nothing to do but wait.
“And no, if somebody hurts you, you don’t ever get to tell me it’s nothin’ to worry about. I expect a name and detailed description so I can hunt them down and return the favor,” he informed me. “Or at the very least, arrest them.”
“Fine. I agree never to use that line if you agree to stop getting shot.”
He smiled. “I’ll do my best. I sent a message to Jordan. He’ll be by in about an hour to pick you up.”
“Why?”
“Because I have paperwork and an interrogation to do after my briefin’ with McNera. I don’t want you to be stuck in this room until midnight. And then there’s the fact that you were almost attacked less than a minute ago.”
“Maybe he just really wanted a doughnut.”
Marx shot me an unamused look. “Whatever the reason, I’m not comfortable with you bein’ here when I’m otherwise occupied.”
“And yet, you want me to stay here while you’re otherwise occupied for the next hour. Or are you wanting me to go outside and wait for Jordan on the curb?”
He frowned. “You know I don’t want you waitin’ on the curb. Stop bein’ difficult, and don’t get into any mischief.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, sliding onto the table beside the box of doughnuts.
“Mmm hmm. If I didn't know you, I might believe that. If you need me, I’ll be in with McNera. Don’t be afraid to knock.”
Time seemed to drag by at a snail’s pace until a familiar face I couldn’t quite place passed by the break room window. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but no one gave him a second glance, so he was likely an off-duty cop.
I perked up with interest and suspicion when he stopped by Marx’s desk. He glanced around the room before shifting a few folders. He tilted his head to read one of them. Now he was snooping.
I hopped off the table and walked quietly into the squad room. “What are you doing?” I asked from behind him, and the man jumped, startled.
He whirled around to see me, and I watched surprise and irritation flash across his face before recognition settled. His lips spread into a dazzling smile that probably made most women swoon.
I didn’t even sway.
“Holly, hey. What are you doing here?”
I folded my arms and pointed out, “This isn’t your desk, and those aren’t your files.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s Marx’s desk. Have you seen him? I was hoping to talk to him.”
“I have seen him, and he’s not in that folder.”
His smile turned sheepish. “Yeah, I have a curiosity problem. Mom always told me I have a tendency to poke my nose where it doesn’t belong.”
That I could understand; I had the same problem. “He’s in a meeting.”
“Oh,” he said, sounding a little disappointed. “I guess I’ll just leave him a note. One of my buddies might have seen someone he’s been looking for. Actually, maybe you can give him the message for me.” He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his jeans pocket and offered it to me.
I took it from him hesitantly and looked down at it. There was an address written on it. “What’s the address for?”
“Now who’s being curious and nosy?”
He leaned back against Marx’s desk, and his eyes roved over me with enough interest to ignite a tiny spark of anxiety in the pit of my stomach.
I had seen that look before, and the memory of our first meeting stirred in my mind. It had been at Marx’s apartment the night someone threw a rock through the window. He was Sam’s partner: Dane? Daniel . . .
Danny.
“Green is a good color for you,” he said. “Brings out your eyes.”
I blinked at the unexpected compliment and then looked down at my sweater. It was a vibrant shade of grass green that accentuated my red hair.
Danny’s lingering gaze, which I suspected had little to do with the shade of my sweater, made me deeply uncomfortable, and I folded my arms. “Where’s Sam?”
I hoped he would walk in at any moment and tell his partner to move along. I didn’t want to be rude, but I wasn’t interested in anything this man had to offer.
“Probably sleeping.” He cocked his head as he studied me. “You have stunning eyes, and I don’t just mean the golden root-beer color, but the way they always look deep and mysterious, like there’s an entire interesting world behind them. I’m curious about that.”
“You should try to be less curious.”
Pot, meet kettle.
The dismissiveness of my words didn’t seem to register with him, because he just smiled. Right . . .
“I’ll make sure Marx gets this,” I said, holding up the note.
I started to turn and head back toward the break room when he pushed away from the desk. The casual movement brought him within inches of me, and I immediately back-stepped, bumping into the desk chair behind me.
“You know, I’m off tonight. You should come over for dinner,” he said.
