Читать книгу: «The Commander», страница 2

CHAPTER THREE

ANDRES REACTED instantly, old habits taking over as adrenaline kicked in. He grabbed Lena by the collar of her jacket and yanked her to him. Still trying to draw her weapon, she fought him futilely. “No,” she gasped. “You go! Get in the car and leave!”

“Not without you!” They wasted a few more precious moments, then too weak to do anything else, she gave in to Andres and allowed him to pull her into the truck. Before he tumbled inside the vehicle with her, Andres sent a quick glance in Zack Potter’s direction. The time to help his friend had passed. “Get us out of here,” he roared to the driver. “Now! Let’s go!”

The man needed no urging. The black SUV sprang forward, the tires squealing as he drove it down the sidewalk and straight toward a set of double gates. Only when she spoke again did Andres realize Lena had never released her grip of his arm. She pulled at him weakly, her voice fading but still urgent. “Stay down. We don’t know where the shots came from.”

Andres turned, but it was too late for her to hear his reply. Her eyes rolled back and she fainted without a sound. Her limp body started to pitch off the seat, but he threw himself on top of her and stopped her fall at the very last minute. Bracing himself, he fought the violent rocking of the truck and prepared for the crash of the vehicle as it went through the metal frame of the gate.

When it didn’t happen, he lifted his head and took a quick glance. A figure in black, one of Lena’s men, had swung back the iron grilles. The driver deftly maneuvered through the narrow opening, then bumped the speeding vehicle over the grooved tracks to a grassy swell just at the left of the runway. With the tires screaming even louder than before, the Suburban hit the pavement outside the terminal then turned right on two wheels. Within seconds they were on the main road into town, two black and whites escorting them, one front, one rear.

In the back of his mind, Andres realized what he had just witnessed. Lena had planned for this. She’d had a man stationed at the exit and an escape route in place.

The man behind the wheel said something about alerting the hospital, then spoke into a headset. “Let them know we’re bringing someone in,” he said shakily. His voice thickened as he answered an obvious question. “No, it’s not the package. It’s Lieutenant McKinney. She’s been hit.”

Beneath Andres, Lena groaned. He slid to the floorboard of the vehicle to give her more room, then he took a good look at her injury for the first time. The bullet had managed to go beneath her vest. It didn’t look good. His mouth went dry.

“Where’s the first aid—”

Before he could finish, the driver thrust a white metal box over the front seat. “There’s bandages and tape inside,” he said. “We’ll be at the hospital in five minutes.”

Andres ripped open the case and grabbed a roll of white gauze, but the material was woefully inadequate. It seemed as if blood was pouring from Lena. Yanking off his coat, he pressed it against the wound but the fabric was immediately soaked. He’d seen plenty of men shot, had even done the shooting himself more than once, but this was Lena, for God’s sake. She groaned and a sick feeling rose up in his chest to block his breathing.

He slipped a hand beneath her head. She was going into shock, her skin pale and clammy, her body shaking on the leather cushions that were already slick with her blood. Her eyes fluttered open, and suddenly she looked smaller and more frail.

“Hang on, querida, hang on.” His endearment slipped out naturally, just as it had earlier in the plane. “We’ll be at the hospital any minute. You can do it.”

She spoke with great difficulty. “You…okay? Not hit?”

“Don’t talk,” he said automatically. “You’ll lose more blood.”

She ignored him completely. “Are you…okay?”

“Sí, sí. I am fine, now por favor—no more talking!”

She nodded weakly, her eyes closing once more, only to blink open again. “W-what about…Potter?”

“Don’t worry about him. The others will take care of him. You just lie there and be quiet.”

They bounced around a curve. She tried to bite back a cry but failed, her agony apparent. Helpless to do anything else, Andres screamed at the driver. “Take it easy up there, goddammit! You’re hurting her!”

The man didn’t respond; he simply added more gas, the black Suburban barreling down the highway, passing everything else in a blur.

“Andres…” She spoke his name softly, painfully.

He bent down, his heart suddenly plunging into a frightening abyss. She was fading right before his eyes, growing obviously weaker as he held on to her. “Lena! Stay with me, okay? Stay awake!”

She lifted a shaking hand and grabbed his shirt. Her fingers were red and sticky with her own blood, but the strength in her grip was shocking. She pulled him closer, her voice a fading rasp. “I should have done a better job…shoulda checked better.” Her lips were dried and caked, the words thick but the meaning clear. “I’m sorry, Andres, I’m so sorry….”

She was apologizing for saving his life? If there were shoulds they belonged to him, dammit! He should have been the one lying there bleeding, not Lena.

He leaned over her. “Lena, please! You did do your job. Don’t get loco on me, okay? ¿Me escuchas? Do you hear me?”

She nodded faintly, then she went still in his arms and her head fell back.

ANDRES DIDN’T KNOW which was worse: holding Lena’s unresponsive body or handing her over to the medics at the hospital. Either way he felt helpless and totally out of control.

Three nurses and two doctors were waiting as the SUV wheeled into the drive-through by the hospital’s back door. They shoved him out of the way and disappeared with Lena down the hall. He caught up to the gurney just as they turned it into a room and slammed the door in his face. All he could do was listen as someone screamed for X rays STAT and another voice yelled out for a chest tube. He vented his frustration by cursing in Spanish and waving his arms but his actions were futile. No one would let him inside.

Leaning his head against the mint-colored wall, a storm of emotion broke over him. Panic, anger, fear, guilt—every feeling he’d ever experienced erupted all at once. It was a tide he couldn’t stop, a flood he couldn’t control. In a useless attempt to stem the sensations, he raised his hands to cover his face, but all he did was make it worse as his fingers came into focus.

The creases in his skin were painted red. Red with Lena’s blood. His horrified gaze fell lower. His pants, his shirt, even his shoes were crimson. He was covered with her blood.

He stared a moment longer, then he closed his fingers, his knuckles shining under the bright lights of the corridor as a rush of guilty rage shook him. Lifting his arm in one fluid movement, he slammed his fist into the wall. A hole appeared as a rain of green plaster cascaded to the floor.

His whole side went numb, but his mind—and his heart—cracked open wide.

THE DOCTORS and the nurses were talking. Their voices were hurried, but distinct, each word a perfectly formed entity that Lena heard, then saw. They floated above her, just out of reach in little cartoon boxes, as did the masked faces of the people nearby. She wanted to tell them she felt fine but everyone seemed too rushed to listen to her mumbles. She closed her eyes slowly, the lids fluttering down. The next thing she knew, she was at the beach. Jeffrey, the youngest of all her brothers, was chasing her into the tide, splashing her and calling her a baby, telling her about the monsters that were just offshore, waiting to get her.

She looked out into the emerald waves and shivered. Monsters were out there, all right, but they weren’t in the water. They were closer, closer than either of them had ever suspected. She shut her eyes and screamed, but no one heard her.

ANDRES HEARD Phillip McKinney long before he saw him, the man’s unmistakable voice rolling down the hallway and bowling over everything in its path. Andres jumped to his feet and after a questioning glance, Carmen, at his side, stood as well. A moment later, Lena’s father strode into the waiting room, his entourage following behind him as he plowed through the crowd of cops who’d begun to congregate after hearing the news.

Phillip had aged a bit, but not that much. His hair, always silver, was a little thinner and his step a little slower, yet his back was ramrod straight, his skin tanned and tight. The handmade suit, the polished shoes, the silk foulard tie, they hadn’t changed at all. Expensive and flashy, they were essential to Phillip’s presence.

At seventy, he was a still practicing attorney with personal injury lawsuits his speciality. His thriving partnership had given him the kind of wealth and power few men could ever achieve; he was well-known all over Florida and even in the nearby states.

Almost as an afterthought, Andres’s brain registered the identities of the men surrounding Phillip. They were Lena’s brothers, all older than her except for Jeffrey, the baby of the family. Bering, the eldest, waited anxiously just beside his father. On the other side of the old man was Richard, her second brother. Behind those two came Stephen, and finally, trailing, came Jeffrey.

As always, Jeff was a peripheral member of the group. Even though he worked at Phillip’s law firm alongside his brothers, he was the black sheep of the family. Idealistic and sometimes naive to Andres’s way of thinking, Jeff continually disavowed what he considered the other McKinneys’s base materialism. He spent his vacations helping migrant workers and went his own way, a way that was usually the opposite of what Phillip McKinney wanted.

Which was exactly why Andres had liked Jeff and had called him to inform the family of the shooting. He couldn’t stand the rest of them.

Shaking hands and greeting the officers, most of whom he seemed to know, Phillip McKinney was almost on top of Andres before he noticed him. He didn’t have time to prepare himself, so instead a cascade of emotions, genuine and unedited, crossed his expression at once. First surprise then anger, and finally a wary edginess, all of which he hid as soon as he could behind a stony mask.

Andres stared back from behind his own facade. He’d never known if the old man was aware of the investigation he’d conducted against him or not. Regardless, they’d hated each other from the very moment they’d met. Phillip had told Lena that Andres wasn’t good enough for her, but the real truth was a lot more complicated. Phillip had had Lena to himself since her mother died and he didn’t want to share her, with a husband or anyone else. It was power and control and love, all mixed together.

Phillip recovered fast. “How is she?” Silky smooth and deep, his voice was his trademark. It now held a tinge of something Andres had never heard before. Fear? Concern? Love?

“Lena’s in surgery,” Andres answered. “The bullet entered her body just beneath her left breast. They reinflated her lung in ER, then took her into the operating room.”

Phillip sagged. It wasn’t a physical response, but just as Andres had caught the tremble in his voice, he saw this as well. Phillip seemed to falter a bit, to pull inside himself, then the moment passed, almost, it seemed, before it had happened.

He tilted his head toward the double doors behind them that led to the operating room. “How long have they been in there?”

Forever.

Andres glanced at his watch. “An hour and a half.”

Bering spoke for the first time. He lived in his father’s shadow, never quite measuring up, never quite making the grade. He compensated for this with a blustery attitude and a burning desire to replace his father in the practice. “An hour and a half? And no one’s been out with an update?” He shook his head at Andres’s obvious lack of status, then turned to Stephen. “Go find somebody who knows what’s going on. Get a doctor out here.”

Phillip nodded his approval and Stephen scurried off through the crowd. Wearing a self-satisfied expression, Bering said something about coffee and bustled over to a small kitchenette in one corner of the room, Richard going with him, offering help. Andres remained where he was, his black eyes meeting Phillip’s blue ones with the coldest of gazes. Something passed between them. It definitely wasn’t a truce—the war between them was too involved for that to ever happen—but the moment was understood by them both. This wasn’t the time or place.

Jeff broke the tension by moving up to where Andres stood. He extended his hand, then his eyes widened as Andres lifted his own, now swathed in bandages. “You were hit?” Jeff asked in surprise. “Why didn’t you tell us—”

“No, no. I wasn’t shot.” He dismissed the inquiry with a shake of his head. When Carmen had arrived at the hospital with fresh clothes for him, she’d taken one look at his hand and forced him to have someone take care of it. He’d bruised three knuckles so badly the doctor had insisted on wrapping them. “It’s nothing.”

Behind him, Bering and Richard returned, Carmen helping them distribute the coffee they’d brought. Earlier Andres had been annoyed by her presence. Now he was glad. She handed out packets of sugar, then she made conversation and kept things cordial. Andres was suddenly grateful; he wasn’t sure he could have kept up the facade for much longer.

Stephen returned with the doctor a moment later. They stepped to one side, isolated by a bumper of space from the waiting officers. “They’re still in surgery,” the man said, holding up his hands as if to ward off their questions. He was young but looked exhausted, his jaw dark with stubble, his shoulders a weary slump beneath his pristine white coat. “I’m Dr. Maness, Dr. Edwardson’s assistant. She’s still operating. The bullet’s currently lodged in the diaphragm behind the patient’s lung on the left side. It nicked the lobe before it stopped.”

His gaze went to Phillip, then on to the other men until it came to Andres. Despite Phillip’s age and obvious status, the doctor seemed to sense Andres was the man he should be addressing. Andres hardly noticed this, though. All he felt was a rush of anxiety as their eyes met and locked.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor continued. “You’re just going to have to be patient. If you want something to do, then go downstairs.” He let his gaze go over all of them this time. He wore thick glasses and his eyes were bleary and sad behind them. “There’s a cafeteria…and a chapel.”

ANDRES DIDN’T LOOK for either place. He certainly wasn’t hungry and he’d given up searching for comfort from above a long time ago. Instead he went outside. He wanted isolation and some distance from the crowd upstairs, stopping first at the hospital gift shop to buy a pack of cigarettes. He hadn’t smoked in as many years as he hadn’t prayed, but the craving had hit him and there was nothing to do but satisfy it.