Caught by You. Kris Rafferty

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СКАЧАТЬ seemed incapacitated or unconscious.

      “You scared me.” He studied her face. “You sure you’re okay?” She nodded quickly, but wasn’t sure. “You scared me, dammit!”

      “You already said that.” She swallowed hard, flinched with pain, and did her best to slow her breathing.

      Vincent barked out a laugh, eyes wild, smiling. “We’re alive. Did not see that happening!”

      He laughed again and cupped the back of her neck, pulling her in for a hearty kiss. His lips were warm and tasted of coffee. It was nice and confusing. When he released her, she couldn’t help but want another one, and fade into the pleasure of not thinking. Then she saw Eric over Vincent’s shoulder. The killer was clawing his way to the store’s entrance. Vincent saw him, too.

      “Dammit!” He released Avery and chased after him.

      It was over. It was over. So why did she still feel the terror?

      The customers were reviving, and their shock had found a voice. Shouts, phone calls. Avery flinched as no less than five iPhones aimed at her and flashed. Jim groaned at her feet, clearly reviving. She stomp-kicked his head without a second thought, assured herself he’d lost consciousness again, and then leaned against the wall. Her numbness was wearing off, and reaction was setting in. She wanted to faint, but there was no time.

      Nate took off his belt, offering it to Vincent to help tie the robbers. Vincent glanced back at her, as if assessing her state of mind. She did her best to hide her emotions, but her panic was growing. People kept taking pictures, evidence that would end up in court. Prosecutors. Newspapers. Social media. Vincent was a Fed. All ingredients for disaster. Avery could be held for questioning, when she needed to run with her sister.

      When Vincent turned back to Eric again, Avery grabbed her purse from under the counter and slipped into the kitchen…and immediately saw Sam. He’d been shot dead and now lay in a pool of blood by the phone, its receiver hanging—swinging—over his body. Married, three kids. It wasn’t fair.

      Avery hurried past, forcing herself not to think, but to escape out the door to the alley beyond. She would not cry. She would not cry.

      Chapter 3

      Vincent was still riding an adrenaline high as he muscled Eric and his brown-haired psycho-playmate to a table. The restaurant looked as if a bomb had gone off, and it gave him pause. Benton wasn’t going to be happy. Vincent was supposed to chat with Avery Coppola, not tear the place up. Chairs were on their sides, tables knocked over. Everyone was sporting masks of horror. He kind of felt bad for them, remembering what it was like back in the day, when death and dying had the ability to shock him. After four years in Afghanistan and ten at the bureau, he’d come to process violence differently. Nuisance nightmares, insomnia, and a continually renewed appreciation for life. All life, whether it be innocents, or monsters like Eric and his crew.

      He soon had Eric and the brown-haired guy trussed up tight with the borrowed belts, and as he stepped back to peruse his handiwork, he promptly slipped on blood. Either Charlie’s or Eric’s, but he found his equilibrium quick enough so as not to take a spill, but not before irritating his bum shoulder. He rolled it, and then cracked his neck, trying to work out the kinks.

      He glanced at the diner’s counter. “Damn.” Where was Avery Coppola?

      He’d had one job; keep her at the restaurant. If Coppola’s men were trolling the neighborhood and caught up with her, there was a good chance she’d soon be dead like Charlie here. He glanced at the body, and the bloody mess on the floor and wall. Epic fail. Deming wasn’t gonna let him live this down.

      Then he remembered the cook, and thought maybe Avery had gone to tend to him. Dead or alive, though, odds were she’d be calling out for help, maybe even screaming, but he wasn’t hearing anything like that from the kitchen, so Vincent jumped over the counter and landed next to Jim’s unconscious body. After tying him up with twine he found in a nook and cranny by the register, Vincent took a moment to notice Jim’s injuries. Broken nose. Clearly a fractured skull, because mother nature didn’t do that to a head on purpose, and he was covered in defensive knife wounds. Vincent lost count quickly, but the slices were shallow, non-life threatening, and covered Jim from face to calves, as if the druggie’s every blow or kick had been tapped off by a slice.

      Shit. When the hell did this happen? Jim looked as if he’d had an epic battle with a multiarmed warrior, and Vincent didn’t remember Avery having a knife fight with anyone, least of all Jim. She’d disarmed the guy, yeah, but…then again, he’d been busy taking out Eric and the other dude. Still. Something was off here.

      When his knots were secure, Vincent hurried through the swinging door leading into the kitchen and pulled his iPhone from his pocket. He dialed Benton. The line connected. “You won’t believe who just foiled a robbery and subdued a murderer.”

      “What are you talking about? We’re almost done here,” Benton said.

      “Avery Toner Coppola, with some help from little ole me.” Vincent stopped walking when he stood center kitchen, and glanced left and right. The grill area was empty. He pulled his gun, moving farther into the kitchen, looking for surprises. “Finish up at the apartment, because our girl is in the wind, and probably heading your way.” He turned a corner and found the cook, did a three-sixty scan and saw he was still alone, then allowed his gun to hang at his side. “Diner’s cook is dead. Do me a favor? Call an ambulance and local law enforcement. It’s a circus here.”

      Benton swore so long he started repeating himself. “Find her.”

      “Can’t.” Vincent crouched next to the cook, noting the GSW to the head. “I can’t leave the scene until the Sheriff arrives. Presently, I’ve got three perps tied up and waiting to be processed. Once the cops arrive, I’ll give them an excuse so I can slip away.” Benton hung up mid-expletive. “Then I’ll track her down,” he finished his thought aloud, though no one heard it but him. He peered out the back door and found it led to an alleyway. No Avery in sight.

      So, she’d run. He wasn’t surprised, nor did he blame her. She was a woman with something to hide.

      And he’d kissed her. What the hell was wrong with him?

      * * * *

      When the fetid vapors from the back alley hit Avery, she was in shock, and autopilot took over. Images of Sam with a bullet hole in his head tormented her. And Jim. If ever a man deserved to die, Jim did. Yet, when she’d brought her foot down for that last strike, she’d aimed for Jim’s head, not his neck. Sam deserved to be avenged. He did. But Avery couldn’t do it. Experience taught her though vengeance was sweet, it ate your soul. Nothing could bring Sam back. Not even killing Jim.

      She scrubbed unwelcome tears from her cheeks and told herself to stop crying. When that didn’t work, she clenched her hands until her six rings cut painfully into her bruised and swollen skin. She’d been right to wear them all these years, instead of hiding them out of sight. They’d helped in the fight, helped her survive—gifts that kept on giving—but surviving had put her in a spotlight. Quiet waitress, winning a fight with a knife-wielding druggie? That was the headline, and it would go viral. People were looking for her, and this incident would help them find her. Find Millie.

      She slipped her iPhone from her uniform’s pocket, and saw it was eleven in the morning. She dialed her little sister. When the line connected, Avery told herself to keep her voice calm.

      “Millie, grab the go-bag. СКАЧАТЬ