The Marshal's Witness. Lena Diaz

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ her throat lost some of its dry, scratchy feel, she offered the nurse a weak smile. “Thank you.”

      The nurse patted her hand and motioned to the man the doctor had called David. They both left the room.

      The doctor flashed a light in her eyes and listened to her heart. “Do you remember the explosion?”

      Explosion? Oh, no. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut as horrific images assaulted her. The boom she’d thought was thunder, so loud her eardrums ached. The blast of heat. Burning, tearing pain as something ripped into her flesh. A sickening crack. A moment of intense agony when something hit her head with the force of a battering ram.

      She gasped and opened her eyes. “I remember.”

      “Excellent.” He didn’t seem to notice her distress. “The headache you’re experiencing is from a cracked skull. That was your most serious injury, but you’ve got enough stitches in you to sew a patchwork quilt. Minor burns, scrapes. You had a collapsed lung when you were taken to the ER. Your face—”

      She tried to focus on his words, but in her mind’s eye she saw Ryan Jackson back at the courthouse, running toward her, shouting her name. Why? What had he seen?

      “—multiple contusions,” the doctor continued. “I’ve kept you heavily sedated to control the swelling in your brain, but you’re past the danger point now. I expect you’ll make a complete recovery.”

      She twisted her fingers in the sheets, noticing for the first time that they were pink, covered with cartoon fairies and flowers. The walls were painted in soothing pastels. “Where am I?”

      He sighed impatiently. “Cohen Children’s Medical Center,” he repeated, “in Long Island. Apparently some very bad people are after you. Your bodyguard transferred you here once you were stable. He seems to think that no one will look for you in a place like this.”

      “Long Island? Bodyguard?”

      The doctor looked past her toward the other side of the room. “You have five minutes.” With his crisp order lingering in the air, he strode out the doorway.

      Bewildered by the doctor’s abrupt departure, Jessica turned her head and met the icy stare of Marshal Ryan Jackson, sitting in a chair across the room.

      Something about that look filled her with dread.

      She recoiled against the sheets before she could stop herself. The mocking look on his face told her he’d noticed her reaction.

      “You’re as pleased to see me as I am to see you.” His harsh voice raked across her nerve endings, making her head pound harder. He slowly unfolded his long, muscular body from the chair and crossed the short space to stand by her bed.

      She could feel the heat from him, smell the light, clean scent of his soap. In another lifetime he would have been appealing. But her attraction to him was eclipsed by the anger rolling off him in waves.

      She fought the urge to squirm farther away and concentrated on asking what she desperately needed to know. “What happened? The other marshals, how badly were they hurt?”

      His lips flattened. “All dead. The only reason you’re alive is because you didn’t get into that van, and because Marshal Gavin shielded you with his body.”

      She covered her mouth, swallowing hard against the bile rising in her throat. She’d spent nearly every waking minute with those marshals for twelve months. She knew what foods they liked, what shows they watched, what made them laugh or curse.

      Her heart twisted painfully in her chest and she shook her head in denial. She immediately stilled when the throbbing in her head worsened. “What happened?” she whispered, gritting her teeth against the pain.

      “Someone, presumably one of DeGaullo’s men, blew up the van using a damn toy, a remote-control car. I saw the car a few seconds before the blast.” His jaw tightened. “My warning came too late. Except for you. Ironic, isn’t it? A woman who dedicated her life to cooking the books for the mob survives, while four decent, honorable men die.”

      She jerked back from the raw fury and accusation in his voice. The sudden movement caused a wave of nausea. She sucked in a deep breath and bit back the sharp retort hovering on her tongue. Ryan Jackson didn’t know her, or why she’d made the choices she’d made. He’d just seen his colleagues die, and he obviously blamed her, at least partially. She could understand that. She’d probably feel the same way.

      “When are the funerals?” She struggled for a calmness she was far from feeling. “I want to go.”

      “You can’t go to their funerals.” He spoke in short, clipped tones.

      Anger flared inside her, overriding her sympathy for him, overriding her horror over what had happened. “I don’t care what you think of me, but I have to go to their funerals. I owe them that.”

      He reached toward her arm. Before she could move away, he gently lifted her wrist and unwound the IV tubing that had become tangled around one of her bandages.

      “Whether I would have allowed you to go to their funerals is a moot point. In spite of your miraculous survival, you didn’t come away unscathed in the blast. You’ve already been here for quite some time, and the doctor said you’ll be here several more weeks, maybe longer. The funerals were held a few days after the explosion.”

      She clasped her hands on the railing beside her, hatred for DeGaullo filling her like a living thing. He’d hurt so many people, including the one person she’d opened up to about her past—Natalie—and now he’d stolen her right to pay her respects to the men who’d died protecting her. “How long has it been since the explosion?”

      He pulled up her covers and arranged the call button so she could easily reach it. He tugged at the wrinkles in her blanket, smoothing them out.

      She frowned at his actions. It dawned on her, from the faraway look in his eyes, and the way his expression had softened, that he probably didn’t realize what he was doing. His movements seemed automatic, like he was operating on autopilot.

      The lines around his eyes were deeper than before. He looked tired, almost haggard. Silver threads shone in his dark hair, as if he’d aged several years since she’d met him at the courthouse.

      His hands stilled. He straightened, his eyes frosting over, his cold mask back in place. “Two weeks. The funerals were two weeks ago.”

      He yanked his hand back and crossed to the window. A moment later, he squared his shoulders and turned around to face her. “I’m the lead field agent on your case now. When you leave here, I’ll take you to a new location, settle you into another new identity.”

      Her mouth dropped open and she stared at him. She shook her head in denial, no longer caring that it made the pain worse. “No. I won’t agree to that. You’re too angry. You obviously blame me for what happened. I’ll tell the Justice Department that I won’t—”

      “You think I want to be assigned to this case?” His jaw went rigid as he stepped back to her side. “You’re not an innocent bystander who happened to witness a crime. You chose to cover up your boss’s crimes for five years. The only reason you went to the Feds was because DeGaullo killed your friend, and you knew you were next. As far as I’m concerned, you’re almost СКАЧАТЬ