Текст книги "Storm"

Автор книги: Jo Raven

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Chapter Eighteen

STORM

“Ray, no,” I manage through clenched teeth. Fuck, my arm burns like it’s on fire. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“He’s right outside,” she whispers and pulls something out from under the sofa. It’s the gun Hawk gave me, I realize. Damn, my ears are buzzing. “Quiet.”

Another bullet smashes into the wall, passing so close to my head I swear I feel it. I grab her arm and start to crawl backward, but she slips through my fingers like water.

And she rolls away and starts shooting, breaking the balcony doors the rest of the way.

Fuck it all to hell. Blood runs down my arm, warm and plenty of it. Not good. Need to move. Need to do something.

More glass shatters before I can move and grab her, pull her away from this mess. Bullets hit right and left, and I hiss when another line of fire forms in my leg.

Ow, dammit.

I drop to the floor, barely swallowing a howl as the floor meets my brand new wounds, and drag myself across the floor to Raylin. We need to get out of here, call someone, fuck is Raylin hurt? I’m gonna just—

The door to the suite bangs open, and security guys spill inside, guns drawn. My prepaid cell is making tiny pissy noises, and I realize the line is still open, with Hawk on the other end, and I fuzzily wonder if he’s the one who alerted the hotel security or if the sound of the shots and glass shattering was enough.

The two guards move through the apartment, and Ray is pointing at the balcony. They circle toward it.

Need to move. I shift on the floor, but my leg and arm burn like a mother even with the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

“Ray.” I reach for her, but even if she’s almost there, she’s too far, and my world is turning dark at the edges. “Damn…”

Need to stop the bleeding before I pass out. Can’t afford that, even if no more shots have been fired and the guards are checking, guns drawn on the ready.

Like Raylin is, still lying belly-down on the floor, scanning the door and balcony. Looking out for me. Putting her life on the line to protect mine.

Jesus. One thought keeps playing in a loop in my sluggish brain: you know, back at the beach house, when she looked like she knew how to use a gun?

Well, she does—and now I know why.

Meanwhile… Fuck, I’m dizzy. Why…?

Oh yeah, bleeding. Shit. I clamp a hand over the wound on my biceps and groan between my teeth. Fucking hell, it feels as if my bone is shifting in my flesh, trying to push out.

Broken bone, my mind whispers.

The hell, who cares? Need to check on Ray. I struggle to lift my head that suddenly weighs about a ton, and she’s right there, beside me. When did she move?

“Storm,” she says, and her voice is the best sound in the world. It’s low and warm and concerned, free of pain. Which she’s unharmed, and a weight lifts off my chest. She puts her hand over mine. “Let me see that wound.”

So I let her, let her roll me on my side and check my leg. Sure it hurts like hell when she presses her hand over the wound there, and I wonder just how screwed I am this time, but fuck, it doesn’t matter.

Not if she’s here with me.

***

Hawk has taken over, directing the security, the police, the doctor and nurses as they stream in and out of the suite.

He can’t help it, it’s in his nature—as it is in mine, and between us and Rook, we have always fought for the top. But now? Now I’m damn glad he’s taken control, because my brain has taken a hike and is desperate to shut down for a while.

Not that I’ll let it. Apart from the shooting and the guy the police arrested—wounded in the chest, from Raylin’s bullets, but he’ll survive, it seems—there’s still the whole mess with my uncle and the will and the fucking key to resolve.

Find answers now, finish with the triad business, put those after me behind bars—then sleep. When it’s all said and done. It’s my mission, and it’s what’s keeping me going.

That and the doctor putting stitches in my arm and then my leg. The local anesthetic is working, so that I only feel the pressure and tugging as he patches me up, but my whole body hurts too much to relax.

A good thing at this point.

“You need to go to the hospital, have an x-ray done on your arm. I don’t like the way it looks. You’ve also lost a lot of blood,” the doctor is saying, her face creased with concentration as she puts away the needle and thread, and a burly nurse steps in to bandage everything. “You may feel a little dizzy for a few days. Don’t drive, and I’d recommend bed rest for a day or two, until you regain your strength. And take the antibiotics I’m prescribing you.”

Yeah, right. “Sure.”

She gives me a long look that means she can see right through my lie. Must be a doctor thing. “I mean it, Mr. Jordan.”

“He will rest,” Raylin says. “Don’t worry. I’ll see to that.”

I arch a brow at her. Can’t tell if she’s serious or not. Her smile is faint, slightly strained. It’s been a tough couple of days.

“You have more lives than a feral cat.” Hawk is walking toward us with a swagger best seen on a cowboy than the heir to millions.

Yeah, I’m one to talk, I know. Then again, the three years I spent away from all this left its mark on me.

“Storm. Have you gone deaf, man? Are you listening?” Hawk is waving a hand in my face. He’s sat down on his heels in front of me. “Hey.”

Have I mentioned my brain is kinda doing its own thing tonight? Today. The sky outside is a light gray. The breeze coming through the broken balcony door is cold.

“What?” Raylin is sitting next to me on the sofa, and I lean into her.

“I said, good job getting the shooter.”

“Wasn’t me. That was Ray. She’s the reason I’m still alive.”

His light eyes flick to her and emotions flash across his face—suspicion, surprise. Approval. “Good.”

“What about the shooter?” Raylin puts a hand on my uninjured leg, distracting my already scattered brain.

“Nothing on him yet. No documents, no tattoos, no nothing. He’s unconscious, so can’t do anything before he wakes up.” He shoves dirty blond hair from his face. “If left to me, I’d waterboard him until he woke up, but the docs wouldn’t let me.”

“He has to be a hitman,” Raylin says, “someone who won’t be missed, that nobody knows. You wouldn’t be able to connect him to the mastermind behind this plan. They’re too clever for that.”

Hawk shakes his head, clasps his hands together and presses his thumbs into his eyes. “Yeah, I know. It’d make me feel better, though.”

Raylin snorts, the sound turning into a faint sob, and I lift my arm to put around her—only my arm isn’t happy with me right now, and pain screams up my shoulder.

Jesus. Fuck.

“You’re coming with me this time,” Hawk says, “and no fucking arguments. Can’t do a thing when there’s some psycho after you.”

Now he believes me.

Of course he does. You don’t shoot someone in a penthouse suite by accident.

“That would be quite the feat,” Hawk agrees, and wait a minute, did I say that out loud?

Nausea rises in my throat, and I swallow hard. “You don’t think I’m crazy anymore?”

“That’s still on the table.”

“I can’t come with you. We—” I glance at Raylin, who flashes me a quick smile, making my heart trip, “we can’t. Too risky.”

“Enough.” Hawk gets up and dusts his pants. “This isn’t up for debate.”

“You’re right. We can’t go with you, because we’re going to the beach.”

“We are?” Raylin is staring at me with wide eyes.

Those wide eyes that caught me when I first saw them and never let me go. Like dark nets in a night sky. And…

“He’s a bit out of it,” Hawk says. “Doc told me it’s the blood loss. He’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“My uncle,” I say, turning to Raylin, because we never finished our conversation that the shooting so rudely interrupted. “Left me the house.”

“The mansion at Boca Raton. Yeah, you told me.”

“In his will.” My mind is performing those weird leaps it normally does when you’re pissing drunk or on drugs. “That’s it.”

“That’s what?”

“The key he left me. What would it open? Something that was his and left to me in his will.”

“The mansion? But it’s not a house key…” She hisses. “Of course. The desk. In the office. One of the drawers was locked.”

I blink at her. “How the hell do you know that?”

She shrugs and grins. “Snooped around a bit.”

If I start laughing now, I may never stop. I put my hand over hers and lift it, turn it over. “I’d never have made it without you.”

Back at the beach, when I couldn’t seem to be able to surface from the dark. During the shooting afterward. The explosion. Rook getting hurt. And now this. The shooting. The riddle.

Disconcerting, how everything’s brighter when she’s around.

She smiles, mouth trembling a little. “Don’t you know I love you, Storm Jordan?”

I frown, then grin, then just stare at her. Wait a minute. Did she just say…?

“You really think we may find something at the house?” Hawk is standing there, hands in pockets, gaze cloudy. Oblivious.

Because she said she loves me. And suddenly I’m so happy I feel like I could float right of this sofa and out of this suite into the fucking clouds.

“I’ll take you to the beach house,” Hawks goes on and turns to signal to one of the security guys. “Besides, unless you get to the bottom of this and put the psychopath who’s after you in a pit, you won’t be safe anywhere. I’ll call my chopper to come pick us up, take us to the airstrip.”

“Now?” Raylin squeaks.

“Well, Ms. O’Brien, since we’re all at sea,” Hawk winks because this is Hawk, and he can’t get serious to save his own life, “I guess we’d better hurry, wouldn’t you say?”

***

I make a phone call to the hospital to make sure Rook is doing okay. Apparently he’s been ordering the nurses and doctors around, demanding they let him go, and threatening to get them fired if they don’t get him some steak and whiskey.

I grin.

“How is he?” Hawk asks as I lean on him, making my limping way to the elevator. We’re heading to the hotel roof to wait for the chopper.

“He’s ordering people around.”

“Then he’s fine.”

Yeah. Relieved, I give the cell to Raylin and let them both drag me into the elevator. “You coming with us, then? To Florida?”

“Damn right I am. Not letting you out of my eyesight until I’m sure you’re safe. Brat.”

“You’re only five months older than me,” I point out.

“In age. About five decades older here.” He taps his head as the doors ding open, and he steps out onto the roof, pulling out his cell phone.

“You’re getting on in years, then,” I mutter, leaning on Raylin as I half-limp, half-hop out of the elevator and onto the roof. “Probably can’t even get it up anymore.”

“Fuck you, man.” Hawk turns, gives me the finger, then starts barking orders into his cell.

“Not for all the money in the world, ugly face,” I mutter. The one person I wanna fuck is right next to me, her hold on me strong.

Her hold on me is complete, in every way.

The roar of engines and rotor blades from overhead drowns out our voices. Raylin shivers, and I clutch her to me.

Which reminds me. “Hawk, what about the triad?” I have to shout to be heard over the noise, and damn, I feel exposed, a moving target up here on the roof. Thank God there aren’t any buildings of this height around. “Did you arrange a meeting?”

“It’s tomorrow night. Meanwhile, you’ll need to secure the money. Cash, of course.”

Yeah. I wonder how feasible that is.

Doesn’t matter. I will make it feasible. “Need to call the lawyers.”

“All in good time. Let us get on the chopper first.”

That proves a bit tricky, because I am still woozy, and we need to get onto the chopper fast as the blades are still spinning. Hawk and his bodyguard who’s riding with us lift me up, and I sprawl in one of the backseats, groaning.

“Crazy bastard.” Hawk shakes his head as he helps Raylin inside. “Should be in a hospital, not doing this shit.”

“It’s my shit,” I counter, trying to find a position that isn’t making my wounds scream in pain. “I’ll shovel it myself.”

“A shitstorm’s about to hit.” Hawk winks at Raylin, making her laugh, and the sound is so sweet I forgive the asshole his shitty sense of humor.

See? I can make a funny, too.

“You’re clever for an old man,” I grunt, straightening my leg the best I can. “Not so bright, though. I mean, I had to be gunned down for you to believe someone’s after me. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“Yeah, that you’re going to shut up and catch some winks during the flight, junior, or I’m having the chopper turn back to deposit your fucking ass next to Rook’s.”

Damn.

***

We’re finally back in the plane, and despite my protests when Hawk drags a blanket over me, I fall into deep sleep as we take off, Raylin’s hand in mine.

Maybe that’s why I managed to relax enough to let go of consciousness. Her touch.

Or maybe it was blood loss. Guess my body’s running on fumes and has sort of given up on trying to keep up with everything I want it to do.

When Hawk shakes me awake, we’re flying over turquoise sea and flat green land, and Raylin is asleep by my side, her head rolling on my shoulder.

Hawk is sitting across from us, a strange expression on his face. Almost like… longing, but that can’t be right. I blink, and he grins lazily, straightening from his slouch.

“Almost there.” He nods his head at Raylin. “This girl. You just found her on the beach?”

“She found me.” And keeps finding me.

“Normal people collect shells. Not girls.”

“Shut up, Hawk.” Shit, I’m tired. I lick my dry lips. My mouth tastes like something died in it. “I don’t care if you don’t approve, got it? You’re an old man, but not my old man. And even if he were alive…” I scowl at the view below. “I wouldn’t give a fuck.”

And Hawk just grins like he’s the fucking Cheshire Cat. “Didn’t I tell you she’s perfect for you?”

“No, you damn well didn’t.”

“A girl who can shoot to kill is a girl after my own heart.”

“Make all the fun you want.”

“I’m serious.” He leans forward, hands clasped between his knees. His dark suit is dusty and streaked with white, his hair sticking up in weird angles as if he fell asleep on it. “Sorry I made fun, man. I like her. She has spunk. And she cares for you. Hell, instead of running, she had your back and shot that motherfucker. Respect.”

I’m openly staring at him, but I can’t find the words right now. He does sound serious, not an everyday occurrence. He really means it.

Then the moment is gone, and he grins again. “We’re almost there. Let’s solve this mystery once and for all.”

***

We land at the private airstrip and climb into a rental car, so as not to attract attention. We stop in front of the mansion and find out we failed.

Detachedly I watch as two guys start running toward us, cameras in hand. Paparazzi camped on the front lawn, waiting for any other juice bit they can use for their articles? Check. Their tenacity can’t shock me anymore. It’s all about money.

Yeah, I got that memo. My whole life is based on that principle, and in all probability, my planned death, too.

At least we’re all wearing dark hoods, hiding as much of our faces as possible. Hawk’s idea.

Hawk’s bodyguard jumps out first to fend the reporters off. I cover my face in the crook of my arm, keeping Raylin behind me, and wonder how much time we have before a horde descends on us to take photos and shoot questions.

I can almost hear them in my head.

Mr. Jordan, did you set up the shooting to get insurance money? Did you have your uncle killed? Are you gay and involved with your friends Jamie ‘Hawk’ Fleming and Roderick ‘Rook’ Carter?

Yeah, they did ask that one a year ago. At my uncle’s funeral, no less. But I’ve heard it all before. Like I said, nothing shocks me anymore.

Except maybe Hawk believing me.

The bodyguard is pushing the men back, and then Hawk climbs out of the car and jumps right into the fray, because that’s what Hawk does. Hands-on management.

“Go in,” he yells over his shoulder, and I don’t need to be told twice.

The sooner we find what we’re looking for, the sooner we can leave, and fuck, maybe my arm is broken after all. Moving it hurts so bad it makes my eyes water. I let it hang by my side, keeping the other around Raylin, and limp toward the house.

There’s bright yellow police tape on the windows and the door, which is half-smashed from gun rounds. Christ. Was it only—what? Two days ago, that we were almost shot to death here? She shivers, pressing her face to my shoulder, and I drop a kiss on her head, glad to pretend she’s the only one having trouble dealing with all this.

Taking a bracing breath, I release Raylin long enough to fish the keys out of my pant pocket, and she takes it and unlocks.

This is it. This is where we see if my theory, conceived in a moment of shock, might be valid. See whether my uncle left me something here, a clue, or not. Whether there’s a fucking end to the madness, or if I’ll have to keep on running and dodging until the next bullet ends me.

Raylin has her arm around my hips, and I lean on her rather heavily, so I try to pull back. She won’t let me and I give me. Damn leg hurts, and it’s only a graze. My arm is the one killing me, but I keep that little fact to myself.

She leads the way, and I force down the memories of me and her in these rooms—not the shooting, this time, but the good ones where I kissed her, where I moved inside of her, where we existed inside a bubble and things were simple.

But simple doesn’t last, and I should know. Maybe nothing does.

The office is dusty and littered with old papers, yellowed and half-eaten by termites. I should bring a specialist to make sure the wood isn’t eaten away, and a cleaning crew, and…

And then we could stay here. At the beach. Just me and her. Except now the paparazzi know where to find me, where to find us. Shit…

We walk around the huge mahogany desk with its carved legs and details, and I pull the small key from my pocket. I spent a month here, and I never imagined an answer might be waiting for me in my uncle’s office. I’d been inside, of course. I’d browsed the papers and folders left. There was nothing of interest. Everything important was at the company, or in the hands of his lawyers.

Or so I thought.

“It’s this one.” Raylin jiggles one of the drawers. Locked. “Wanna do it?”

I drop with relief into the chair, stretching my aching leg, and try the key. It fits into the lock perfectly. It turns. The drawer slides open.

Nothing. The drawer is empty.

“Fuck.” I slam my fist on the desk and my hurt arm gives a sympathetic twinge. “Nothing here.”

And here I was thinking I’d finally know. Understand. Put a stop to it. That it would all finally make sense.

I curl my fist on the warm wood. It’s so stuffy in here. Not enough air. I lean back, fighting with despair.

“Let me see,” Raylin says, bending over me, reaching into the drawer. “Maybe he hid it. Like in the movies, you know?”

“Seriously? I doubt uncle Tony ever watched movies. He was far too busy and uptight for that.”

She draws her hand out. “Can’t reach far inside.”

Her pretty mouth turns down in disappointment, so against all logic, I put my hand back inside the drawer, searching for God knows what…

… and it brushes against something stuck to the top. Paper. I turn my hand, tug at it, and pull it out.

Another envelope.

There’s a rushing in my ears. The envelope is sealed—in wax, like we’re in the Middle Ages or something—and the seal is what stops my breath.

It’s a phoenix, rising from the flames.

RAYLIN

I lean against the massive desk, my lungs locking. No frigging way. I know I insisted he’d find something, but I didn’t really believe it, and his reaction…

His forefinger strokes over the red seal. It looks like… a bird.

A phoenix. Damn. I guess we really did find something that could be important. This isn’t some scrap paper left there by mistake.

Storm’s hands shake as he searches through the other drawers for something and comes up with a letter opener, an ornate, gilt affair. Before I warn him not to break the seal, he cuts the envelope open from the side. The opener lands on the desk with a clank, and he pulls out a bunch of folder sheets of paper. He almost drops them, his face twisting. The bandage around his arm is spotted with blood.

I grab the papers before they fall.

“What does it say?” he asks, voice hoarse. His face is pale, beaded with sweat. “Read it for me.”

“We should go,” I say, worried. “You don’t look so hot.”

“I fucked up my arm. What does the letter say?”

I unfold the papers, my heart booming. “My dear Storm,” I begin. “There are a few things you need to know, and I can’t keep them from you any longer. Soon you will come into your inheritance, and you must be made aware of things past which bear on the present. I thought—” I stop and frown. “Was he so formal in real life, too?”

“Worse.” Storm looks terrible, and I hope Hawk comes in soon. I’m not sure Storm can walk out of here without help. “Please read.”

“I thought I’d spare you this knowledge, and the Organization doesn’t want me to tell you. Which is understandable, but I trust you not to take action against them. It would not be in your interest. I will explain in the course of this letter why not and how this organization has affected your life, starting with the death of your parents.”

Well, damn. Storm makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, like a moan.

“You see,” I read on, “the leaders of the Organization take hard decisions to protect its interests. I’m one of them, Storm. And I want to say I’m sorry.”