Читать книгу: «Dakota Marshal»

No one could throw a kiss into sexual overdrive like McBride.

Images of the two of them skin-to-skin, rediscovering each other’s bodies, streaked through her mind. Though they were in a truck on the side of the road, she still wanted to strip away McBride’s clothes. Worse, she wanted him to tear off hers.

All that pent-up desire was unleashed from a single mind-blowing kiss that got more potent the longer it went on. She should end it before her sanity dissolved. But his hands were cupping her face, the back of her neck, holding her in place so he could ravish—yes, actually ravish—every inch of her mouth. And she was loving it.

Instead of going with wisdom, she matched him stroke for delicious stroke with her tongue. There was a smoky darkness, an element of danger in the way he touched her. It hinted at some never quite spoken vice she’d been warned by her father not to want or accept. And never to enjoy.

The memory of that warning rang through her mind when it was displaced by another sound—two echoing gunshots, fired directly at them.

Dakota Marshal
Jenna Ryan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Kathy, who makes it all work.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jenna started making up stories before she could read or write. Growing up, romance always had a strong appeal, but romantic suspense was the perfect fit. She tried out a number of different careers, including modeling, interior design and travel, but writing has always been her one true love. That and her longtime partner, Rod.

Inspired from book to book by her sister Kathy, she lives in a rural setting fifteen minutes from the city of Victoria, British Columbia. It’s taken a lot of years, but she’s finally slowed the frantic pace and adopted a West Coast mindset. Stay active, stay healthy, keep it simple. Enjoy the ride, enjoy the read. All of that works for her, but what she continues to enjoy most is writing stories she loves. She also loves reader feedback. Email her at jacquigoff@shaw.ca or visit Jenna Ryan on Facebook.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Alessandra Norris—The Rapid City veterinarian’s life is peaceful, until her ex comes crashing back into it.

Gabriel McBride—As a U.S. marshal, he is accustomed to danger, but when a hit man’s bullet catches him off guard, the only person he can turn to is Alessandra.

Rory Simms—The escaped felon is unpredictable, desperate and deadly.

Casey Simms—The head of a powerful criminal family, she hired a hit man to take out McBride. But what else has she done?

Eddie Rickard—Alessandra saw the hit man on McBride’s tail. Now she’s a target, too.

Larry Dent—This small-town man wants to help, but can he be trusted?

Raven—The woman knows how to fight, but is she friend or foe?

Mystery Shooter—More than one person is out to get Alessandra and McBride.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One

The bullet that knocked U.S. marshal Gabriel McBride into the giant boulder caught him just below the left shoulder. Close enough to his heart to be a problem—if he’d actually believed he had a heart. He felt the blood and—hell, yes—the pain, but no way was he going to fold up and die because some low-life hit man had gotten lucky.

He estimated the distance from the boulder to the road, waited until the next spectacular fork of lightning faded, then, using the darkness as a cover, ran for his truck.

Once inside, he drew a deep, grimacing breath and checked the wound. His jacket and shirt were soaked. With blood as much as rain, he suspected. Which rendered his next decision moot. He was approximately ten miles from Rapid City, South Dakota, shot and disinclined to call the people he should for help. That only left one option. Alessandra.

Fighting pain that speared white-hot through his arm and torso, he got the engine started. In spite of everything, a faint smile flitted across his lips. Alessandra would either cure him or kill him. Only she and God knew which way it would go.

Maybe he knew, too, but his thoughts were beginning to haze, so when he pictured his beyond beautiful veterinarian ex holding a scalpel, she wasn’t necessarily using it to dig a bullet from his body.

Swinging the truck off the road one-handed, McBride relied on his memory rather than the headlights to guide him through the murk. A vivid flash of lightning had him swearing and pivoting left. He’d almost slammed into one of the rocks that lined the mountain road.

Concentrate, he told himself, and not on scalpels or death. It was three miles to the highway, another six to Alessandra’s door. With luck, he’d spot his quarry on the way and find the strength to haul him in. Without it, big sister’s hit man would cut him off and finish the job he’d started.

Swiping his good forearm over his face, McBride let both hit man and quarry go, fought the dizziness that wanted to sweep in and consume him and focused on Alessandra.

If tonight was his last night on earth, he wanted to die with her in his head. As she had been since he’d wedged aside a mangled piece of metal on a crumpled northbound bus and encountered her stunning gold eyes.

“YOU COULD DO worse, much worse, than date my nephew.” Alessandra Norris’s assistant, Joan, tapped the veterinary clinic’s laptop. “By the way, how do you spell the dog’s last name?”

On her knees, Alessandra smiled. “You’re joking.” She gave the black-and-tan German shepherd a quick scratch behind the ears before palpating his kidneys. “You can spell Phoenix, but not Smith?”

“It’s been a long day.” Joan’s blue eyes rose to the fluttering overhead light. “Storm’s getting worse, and this pooch is as healthy as Rin Tin Tin in his prime. Why was his owner so insistent we check him out tonight?”

“Because he just bought the dog, and the two of them are heading south tomorrow.”

“Not in that rattly old truck they rolled up in, they’re not.”

“The truck’s borrowed. They’re going by bus.”

Her assistant’s eyebrows rose. “He’s taking a dog on a bus?”

“Hey, I didn’t make the plans.”

“You don’t ride buses, either.” Joan gave her a look. “My sister and I are taking our usual tour bus trip to Las Vegas this fall. It’s fun. You’d meet lots of interesting people. That’s people, Alessandra, not dogs. Every year we encourage you to come, and every year you say no.” She shook an accusing finger. “When you’ve got a phobia, you should march right up and spit in its eye.”

Alessandra listened to the dog’s heart. “Beat’s good.” Then she removed her stethoscope and scratched the animal’s chin. “I almost got killed riding a bus, Joan. You know that.”

“But you didn’t, and in the end, you wound up meeting your husband.”

“Soon to be ex-husband.”

“We’ll see.”

Standing, Alessandra stretched out her lower back muscles. “Is there some reason we’re having this conversation at ten o’clock at night, in the middle of a storm that’s going to knock the power out and probably screw up half of tomorrow’s appointments?”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday. You’re off. Doc Lang’ll be stuck with any post-storm problems. Now, I want a commitment. Either you agree to come to Las Vegas with me and Lottie, or, come September, you get yourself ready to meet my nephew. McBride’ll sign those divorce papers eventually. When he does, you’ll be footloose and fancy free.” Alessandra’s sixty-year-old assistant slitted a shrewd eye. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To be done with what was so you can move on to what will be?”

Alessandra hooked the lead onto Phoenix’s collar. The dog had a flecked white mark in the shape of an arrow on his back. Her childhood dog, a brown lab, had had a mushroom-shaped mark that ran from its ears to the— Whoa! Where on earth had that memory come from? she wondered. Unless it was part of a much bigger memory involving a bus trip gone bad, a childhood home left behind and a future ex.

Shaking it off, she patted the German shepherd’s butt. “Are you this pushy with Dr. Lang?”

“I’ll be worse than pushy if he leaves his wife of fifty years.”

“McBride and I were together for less than a tenth of that time.”

“Your math’s off, Alessandra. You and McBride met seven years ago, back when he was a cop.”

“And the memories keep on coming.” Opening the door to the reception area, Alessandra raised her voice above the thunder outside. “Phoenix is in great shape, Mr. Smith.”

The dog’s owner, a beanpole with hollow cheeks and awkward hands, stood immediately. “Thanks again for seeing us, Doc. I hope you won’t have any trouble getting home in the storm.”

“I grew up in Indiana. This is just a summer shower. Good luck in the Southwest.”

Leaving him to settle the bill with Joan, Alessandra returned to the examining room.

Gusting wind drove the rain in sheets against the windows and walls. Not a fit night for man or beast, she thought. Then she busied herself with anything and everything that would help stop her mind from drifting back seven years. Not enough, unfortunately. McBride’s face had a way of sneaking in even when her guard was up. But tonight Joan hadn’t merely damaged that guard; in typical jackhammer fashion, she’d punched right through it.

Smith and his dog were rattling off when she closed the lab door and returned to the reception room. “Go home, Joan.” She held up a computer disk. “I need to look at some back files before I leave.”

Joan shed her pink smock. “Workaholism’s the first sign, you know.”

“Of what?”

“Boredom, depression, withdrawal, take your pick. Make up or break up, I say.” She fluffed her short platinum curls. “Personally, if I’d nabbed myself a looker like McBride, I’d have stuck.”

“Your ex-husband drove a big rig. Mine’s a cop turned U.S. marshal. Believe me when I tell you there’s a difference.”

“And there we end it.” Tugging on her rain gear, Joan pointed at the ceiling. “Those lights are hanging on by their fingernails. You’d best work fast.”

She intended to, Alessandra thought when a buckshot blast of wind and rain blew in with her assistant’s departure. One mile away, in the rancher she’d scrimped and saved to purchase, was a claw-foot tub, a bottle of wine and a retrospective movie, all with her name on them.

Sliding the disk into her computer, she wondered if it was a sad comment on the state of her life that the highlight of a mid-August Friday night involved bubbles, pinot grigio and Cary Grant. Joan would say yes, but then Joan hadn’t lived in the crazed nightmare that was Gabriel McBride’s cop-dominated world for four-plus complicated years.

A rumbling peal of thunder shook the floor and walls. The lights and Alessandra’s computer screen flickered. She poured a cup of coffee, eyed the ceiling, then turned her attention to the subject of bovine anatomy.

She hadn’t done anything wrong, she was sure of it. The calf that had lost its life to a massive infection had been, essentially if not literally, dead before the breeder had called her.

Unless she’d missed something…

The breeder, furious and threatening, insisted she had. What could an outsider possibly know about prize bulls?

By “outsider” he meant “female.” But it didn’t matter to her, since the breeder’s opinion of Dr. Stuart Lang, who’d been practicing medicine in South Dakota for the past forty years, was equally low. Glancing at scanned copies of the letters she’d received from the breeder shortly after the calf’s death, Alessandra sighed. If words could kill, she’d be dead several times over by now.

Thirty minutes later, with the lights flickering and rain still lashing the windows, she closed the file and rocked her head from side to side.

Phone threats, written threats, Joan’s threat—blind date or bus trip—a dead calf and a feeling of guilt that wouldn’t subside… All in all, she’d had better weeks. Which made her plans for that night even more appealing.

She needed moments of solitude, sometimes craved them. Her father, a staunch Mennonite farmer, hadn’t understood why. Neither had he understood or approved of her desire to leave the comfort of a close-knit community and board a bus for Chicago. What could college there offer her but headaches and problems? Better to stay in Holcombe, Indiana, marry the boy next door and turn two small farms into one.

She’d looked at Toby next door, then at the application in her hand. Not that Toby wasn’t sweet, but Northwestern had easily outpaced him. She’d wanted to save animals, not farm them.

She’d also wanted—and gotten—an adventure.

A bus ride gone bad had bled into a hero’s rescue, a marriage, a separation, a chance meeting with an aging vet and, finally, a pending lawsuit.

Taking a last sip of coffee, Alessandra wondered how Toby and the farm thing would have worked out. She’d probably be hiding chickens from her hubby’s ax. Better the lawsuit, she decided.

The smoke detectors gave a long screech and a second later the lights died.

The clinic had an emergency generator, but since there were no animals in residence and Alessandra knew the layout well enough to locate her purse and trench coat, she didn’t bother starting it up. Instead, she collected her things and let herself out the back door.

Wind snatched at her hair and coat like claws. Her car would start, it would. Although she probably shouldn’t have let a seventeen-year-old delivery boy tune it up as payment for a full sheet of lab work on his aging retriever.

Dr. Lang called her a soft touch. Joan used a less flattering term, but one look into the dog’s big brown eyes and Alessandra had caved.

Since an umbrella was pointless, she made her way across the pitted parking lot. She’d almost reached her car when a hand clamped onto her arm and swung her around in a rough half circle.

A fork of lightning illuminated the surly face of the calf breeder. He was big, bald and built like a bulldog. His eyes were flinty and he had no neck. The fingers that dug into her skin like talons tightened when she tried to shake him off.

Fear tickled her throat. Swallowing it, she met his glare. “Let go, Hawley.”

“You set the law on me.”

“I talked to the sheriff.”

Lightning flashed again. His lips thinned. “You told him I threatened you.”

“You did.”

“I called you up, told you you’d pay for what you’d done. And, by God, you will.” He took a menacing step closer, sank his fingers in deeper. “You don’t know squat about farm animals. Hell, you couldn’t wrestle a colt from its mama’s belly if your life depended on it.”

She wouldn’t back down, would not give him the satisfaction of reacting to the vicious gleam in his eyes. “I think I could probably do a lot of things under those circumstances.”

His scowl became a sneer, and he yanked her toward him.

“You talk a good game, Dr. Norris, but deep down I reckon you’re really a spineless little city girl who should have stayed in Chicago.” Another jerk, another fruitless attempt to free herself. Fear didn’t so much tickle now as grip her insides.

He bared his teeth in a leer. “Maybe I can think of a fair payment, after all.”

She caught the whisper of movement in her peripheral vision while she was lining up a determined left to his barely visible Adam’s apple. A hand descended on her shoulder, and a voice emerged from the darkness next to her.

“I think that’s enough manhandling for one night, pal.”

Shock kept Alessandra’s fist balled as she snapped her head around to regard the profile of none other than Gabriel McBride.

His expression remained amiable, but the hand that reached out to yank the breeder’s startled fingers away did so with no small amount of force.

Alessandra felt rather than saw Frank Hawley’s sputtering outrage.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Who’s not important. What is…” McBride’s slight movement had the breeder sliding his eyes downward. Lightning illuminated both the Glock and the badge at the waistband of McBride’s jeans.

“You’re a cop?”

“Close enough to haul you in for attempting to harm the lady beside me.”

“That lady’s a killer,” Hawley spat.

“Makes two of us. You’ve got five seconds to disappear. On six, you’re coming with me.”

Hawley showed his teeth again, this time in a snarl. He raised a finger, started to jab it, then curled it back and swung away.

McBride watched and waited through the next thunderbolt before asking, “What the hell did you do to the guy, Alessandra?”

She pushed his arm away. “Nothing. Let go of me.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sighing, she sidestepped him. “Thank you. Now, will you please tell me what you’re doing in South Dakota?”

The smallest of smiles touched his mouth. “Got a bit of a problem, darlin’.”

He took one step back and, before she could reach for him, dropped like a stone to the rain-soaked ground.

Chapter Two

“No hospitals, Alessandra. No cops. Say it.”

McBride was hanging on to consciousness by a fine thread. Experience told Alessandra that thread wouldn’t be allowed to snap until she made the required promise.

He held and shook her wrist. “I need you to say it.”

There was no decision, really. If she didn’t agree, he wouldn’t let her help him. If she didn’t help him, he’d die.

“Yes, all right, no cops.”

“Or hospitals.”

“I heard you, McBride.” She attempted to lever him up. “I can’t carry you, though. You’ll have to help me.”

Alessandra used all her strength to get him to his feet and into the clinic—and all her will not to go against her word. He’d been a cop once. Now he was hiding from them. Every shred of common sense she possessed told her to do what was necessary, then walk away. She also knew she wouldn’t listen to it. She never did.

And so the nightmare would begin.

HE DIDN’T KNOW where he was because everything had gone black and weird. He felt like he was being dragged over a wet, rocky mountain. Water splashed onto his face, and the whole left side of his body felt numb. Until he took a wrong turn and ran straight into a red-hot knife.

He heard Alessandra’s voice. It sounded far away. She wanted him to help her.

Help her with what?

The darkness was split by twin headlights on a twilight road.

The pavement was old, chewed up. The guardrail, where it existed, tilted into the canyon below.

He thought he was driving south, but direction didn’t matter, because suddenly there was a sea of lights, red and flashing. He braked behind one of several ambulances.

A biker watched from the sidelines. “Bus went through the guardrail,” he said, pointing. “Took the turn too sharp and started to roll.”

Now McBride heard screams and saw people, wild-eyed and bleeding, as rescue workers assisted or carried them out of the canyon.

One of them, a man with a heavy accent, was hysterical. A woman sitting close to him had been impaled by a long piece of glass. He’d never seen anyone die before.

Lucky guy, McBride thought.

He identified himself to the officers on scene, then, without waiting to be asked, started down.

More people were being stretchered upward, among them the driver. They didn’t know how many passengers might still be on board, but figured the bus wasn’t going to remain much longer on the ledge where it had landed.

McBride agreed. The thing was rocking like a drunk ready to topple.

He skidded down the treacherous slope, spotted a firefighter spraying foam on the undercarriage so flying sparks wouldn’t ignite the fuel tanks.

“There’s at least two more inside,” the man shouted. “I can’t get them out and stop this sucker from blowing at the same time.”

Nodding, McBride switched direction. He spied a man, facedown in a patch of scrub. Blood had pooled around his head. He wasn’t breathing.

But somebody was. Fists pounded on one of the rear panels.

The only way in was through the front. He had to crawl over the impaled woman and, nearby, an older female who’d been crushed by a row of seats.

The pounding stopped. He muscled a chunk of twisted metal aside, was about to call out, when a woman’s face appeared.

She was bruised, filthy and looked to be no more than eighteen years old. He noted both relief and suspicion in her eyes.

“I’m a cop,” he said, because right then he knew he didn’t look like one. “Detective McBride, Chicago P.D.” The few lights still working illuminated the most amazing pair of gold eyes he’d ever seen. “Is there anyone else?”

“There was. Now there’s only me.”

He motioned for her to give him her hands. “We need to get out of here before the tanks blow or this bus goes for a second roll.”

Once free of the wreck, he kept her ahead of him on the upward climb. She had a truly spectacular butt and mile-long legs to go with it. Her hair was dark, her features nothing short of extraordinary. She was headed for Chicago to become a vet.

Now how did he know that…?

A paramedic and a cop, both about to descend, met them at the top. The paramedic took the woman aside. The cop, a friend, began strapping on gear.

“Figured it was you down there. Anyone left?”

McBride hoisted himself over the edge. “Not alive.”

The cop continued to harness up. “It’s a mess, all right. Like you. Why the beard and long hair?”

“Undercover case screwed up. I needed to get out of Chicago.”

The woman hissed as the paramedic cleaned one of her cuts. “I guess I’m lucky your case didn’t work out.”

A smile crossed McBride’s lips. Through a thickening haze, he bent to kiss her. “Maybe we’re both lucky, Alessandra.”

She grinned, though her features were cloudy now. “You’re slipping, McBride. I didn’t tell you my name…”

The memory skidded to a halt. Wait a minute. She hadn’t said that. And he hadn’t kissed her. Not there. Not then.

Oh, he’d kissed her all right and more, much more, but that was later, when he couldn’t get her out of his head—and after he’d discovered she was twenty rather than eighteen.

Then his life had tanked and landed both of them in hell.

Pain sliced through him like a lightning bolt. It shattered all the images in his mind—the bus, the sobs, the screams, the sirens, everything. Except for Alessandra’s eyes.

MCBRIDE WAS, WITHOUT question, the most stubborn man Alessandra had ever met. Fortunately, he was also the most resilient. The moment she removed the bullet, which had come dangerously close to nicking a major artery, he’d fallen into a deep, healing sleep. She could almost see his red blood cells multiplying.

The generator outside growled noisily, but with the rainstorm disinclined to move on, she barely noticed it.

“Since when do you listen to Keith Urban?”

McBride’s question came as no real surprise given his exceptional recuperative powers. But the clarity had her raising a brow as she emerged from the lab.

She had two scalpels in her hand and didn’t put either of them down. “Joan left her iPod in the dock. I wanted music. How do you feel?”

“Like a man whose been shot, probed with a sharp instrument and left to die in a cowboy bar.”

“So, well on the way to recovery, then.” She held up one of the scalpels. “No double vision?”

“Not much vision at all.” He squinted at the ceiling bulbs. “Is the power off?”

“It went out right before you arrived and subsequently fainted.”

He half smiled. “I’ll let that go, Alessandra, because I do, in fact, see two scalpels. I also heard your voice while I was floating around in the black fog of our distant past.”

“Yes, you were reliving it fairly accurately until you got to the kissing part.”

“Call it wishful thinking.”

Alessandra looked at him and sobered. “Not that I want to be any more deeply involved than I am, but are you planning to tell me what you’re doing here, minus a great deal of blood and with a hole in your chest where a bullet used to be?”

“Just another day on the job, darlin’.” Wincing, he worked his way onto his right elbow.

She sighed. “You know you shouldn’t do that, right?”

“I know a lot of things, Alessandra, some of them not particularly pleasant.”

“Like the name of the person—possibly a cop, though I seriously hope not—who shot you? No hospitals, McBride? No police?”

“The shooter’s name is Eddie. He’s not a cop, but he is a pro, a dog with a bone, so to speak. And I’m the bone.”

“So, nothing new in your world. Except that this time the bad guy did a little more damage than usual and is, in some twisted way, connected to the police.”

He pushed up higher. “Your cynicism’s showing.”

“Removing bullets from people tends to bring it out.” She struggled with mounting frustration. “Why is this Eddie after you? Or were you after him and somehow the scenario shifted?”

“The details aren’t important. I’ll explain the cop thing later. I was doing my job, Alessandra. I have no idea what you were doing with that no-neck jackass in the parking lot.”

She could have told him it didn’t matter, let him sleep for another few hours, then given him a prescription and suggested he return to Chicago to sort out his police-related problems. Her conscience would be clear, and the status quo would be restored.

However, whether or not he would have acted on it, Hawley had a mean streak, and he was as tough as the bull who’d sired the now-dead calf. McBride had gotten rid of him. That rated an explanation.

Setting both scalpels aside, she released her hair from its long ponytail and boosted herself onto a table. “Frank Hawley wants to make his fortune breeding bulls. He just doesn’t want to spend a cent more than is necessary to keep them healthy. His farm’s like a puppy mill for cattle. One of his calves got sick. He waited too long to call. The rest—well, you heard him. He thinks I’m a killer.” Seeing him hoisting himself up, she hopped down and poked a firm finger into his chest. “The more you move, the more likely you are to reopen that wound.”

“I know.” Ignoring her warning, he swung his legs down and sat up, gripping the side of the cot. “What time is it?”

“It’s 4:00 a.m.”

“And the power’s still out?”

“We’re a little off the grid out here. Ergo, the big, noisy generator.”

He moved a tentative shoulder, hissed in a soft breath and stood. “I have to get out of here.”

“You realize that’s suicide, right?”

“Give me some bandages, Alessandra, and whatever else you think I’ll need to keep me on my feet. Then go home, and pretend none of this ever happened.”

Irritation momentarily crowded out concern. “You never change, do you, McBride? You crash in, scare the hell out of me, tell me not to worry and then disappear.”

He managed a weak smile. “That’s why you left me. Which goes to show how smart you are. Or how stupid I am. One way or the other, you don’t want to get mixed up in this.”

Her answering smile had more of a bite, but she simply said, “I’ll pack a medi-kit.” Then she went into the back room.

He’d broken her heart once. She wasn’t up for a repeat performance. Let some other female fall for his sexy, outlaw-cop charm. He was a good guy who read like a bad guy, and okay, yes, maybe he could still take her breath away with a look, but he didn’t have to know that.

She wanted someone more stable next time, not a brooding, gray-eyed rebel who seldom had less than a three-day growth of stubble on his face, disliked the thought of scissors touching his hair and hated rules almost as much as he did the people who’d so carelessly brought him into the world.

Well, damn, she thought, exasperated, now she’d gone and dumped sympathy on top of righteous indignation. She really needed to speed his departure along.

She stuffed gauze, sterile tape and antibiotics that could be used on animals or humans into a makeshift medical pack, added rubbing alcohol, electrolyte water and iodine for good measure, then zipped it closed and swung the bag onto her shoulder.

Through the window she noticed a shadow pass by outside. Apparently McBride truly did want to be gone, and quick. She was more than happy to facilitate that desire. She opened the side door, intending to offer some comment in line with her mood, when a weak beam of light from the porch slanted across the shadow’s face. It was not McBride.

Quickly she eased the door shut, not making a sound. Then she turned. “McBride!” She doubted he could hear her urgent whisper. Still holding the medi-pack, she ran for the lab. And plowed right into his chest.

He steadied her with his good hand as he glanced over her shoulder. “Is someone out there?”

“A guy with a gun. A big one.”

“Did he see you?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe.”

McBride stuffed the Glock he’d evidently retrieved into his waistband. “Can you describe him?”

“Long hair, ratty beard, nose ring.” She let him nudge her to a less visible exit. “Eddie?”

“Yeah.” He kept his eyes moving. “Bastard. I drove in ten different directions before coming here. I thought I’d lost him.” With a glance out the window and another behind them, he positioned her next to the door. “Stay right here, Alessandra. Don’t move.”

He drew his gun, pointed it up. Alessandra’s muscles knotted.

The moment McBride left, she went for the medicine cupboard, unlocked it and pulled out the .45 Dr. Lang kept there. She had to go through his desk for the bullets. Grabbing her purse, she doused the scattering of overhead lights, shoved everything into a backpack, then froze when she caught a faint creak of hinges behind her.