Silent Rescue. Melinda Di Lorenzo

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ hit Brooks straight in the gut. More painful than a gunshot wound, and far more lasting, too.

      He refused to let it overwhelm him. “Parler slept with my informant. He got himself killed. And the girl, too. The man’s ‘goodness’ is questionable at best.”

      This time, the blank air went on for so long that Brooks thought momentarily that his partner might’ve hung up. He knew better, though. Masters was simply giving him a chance to retract his statement. To let his brain catch up to his mouth. But he wasn’t going to give in to the silence.

      I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a killer.

      He didn’t realize he’d spoken the words aloud until Masters answered him.

      “I know that, man. Anyone with his lid screwed on tight knows that. But when the chief’s favorite rookie winds up dead...”

      The other man’s voice carried on, but Brooks had tuned him out again, this time because he really didn’t want to hear what Masters had to say.

      His gaze drifted back toward the striking brunette, but she and her lover were gone.

      Maybe to take their tryst to the next level. Maybe to—

      Brooks’s musings cut off as he spotted them on the corner of the road.

      The girl’s mouth was open in a silent cry, her body bent away from the man, who held her elbow tightly. Too tightly. The man lifted his other hand then and pressed it to the small of the woman’s back. Something metallic glinted in the small space between them.

      Brooks leaped to his feet. His thighs slammed into the table hard enough to send the espresso cup rolling off. It smashed to the ground, and his jacket snagged on the chair again, leaving him stuck.

      “Small?” Masters’s voice was full of concern.

      “I have to go.”

      “C—”

      Whatever his partner had been about to say was lost as Brooks clicked the hang-up button. He abandoned his jacket, dropped the phone into his pocket and took off at a run.

      Because he recognized that glint for what it was.

      A gun.

      * * *

      Without warning, the man with the gun slid an arm around Maryse and pulled her back into a darkened doorway. He clamped a hand over her mouth, pushed the weapon into her back and warned her to keep quiet as a blurred figure went running by. Even with the freezing air surrounding her, and the thick winter coat acting as a buffer, the cool metal drove into her and made her shiver.

      She wanted to recoil away from it. Almost as much as she wanted to recoil away from the man wielding it. The single glance she’d stolen before he bundled up his face was enough to make her chest squeeze with fear. His eyes were dark, angry slashes. His mouth no better. A terrible, star-shaped scar covered one cheek.

      Maryse closed her eyes for just a second and reined in another shiver.

      What were you expecting? she chastised silently. A kidnapper who looked like Santa Claus?

      But truthfully, it didn’t matter what he looked like, any more than it mattered he had a weapon. The uncertainty of her daughter’s fate and the hope that this man would lead Maryse to her were more than enough to keep her quiet.

      After several long minutes, he forced her back to the sidewalk. And as he led her through the warren of streets, she swore she could feel the cool metal barrel digging a little farther into the small of her back with each step.

      Hold on, she told herself. Means to an end. This man knows where Cami is.

      She resisted an urge to ask about Camille’s safety. He’d made it clear he didn’t want to hear the sound of her voice. When they’d left the hotel doors, she’d uttered a single word and he’d pinched her so hard that it still smarted.

      Trying to distract herself, she glanced up at the nearest building and tried to place it. But it was too late to orient herself. They’d already managed to weave through a half dozen streets that blended together.

      Rue Rouge.

      Rue Laurent.

      Rue...who knew what?

      The corners came quickly, and the buildings were piled atop one another, each looking as drearily the same as the other.

      Please, she prayed silently, just let her be okay.

      In spite of her resolve not to show any emotion, tears pricked at her eyes. It got worse when she glanced up and saw a discarded doll hanging from the edge of a balcony. Normally, that kind of thing made her smile. This time, it made her cringe. Unconsciously, she slowed to stare. And it earned her yet another sharp jab.

      “Go,” growled the gunman.

      Maryse stumbled a little as they reached yet another corner, this one unmarked by any street sign at all. In her boot, one of her ankles twisted. Even though she tried to bite down and keep it in, a little cry escaped her lips.

      Weakness, she chastised herself.

      Not something she should be showing. Not if she wanted to negotiate her daughter’s release. The smallest chink in the armor could jeopardize that chance. So she ignored the searing pain that shot up her leg from her twisted ankle, and she let the man behind her push her on.

      But they only made it four more steps—not quite all the way across the road—when he abruptly released her arm. As he let her go, he barked out something gutturally unintelligible. For a second, she thought he’d switched to speaking in French. Puzzled, Maryse spun to face him.

      Then stepped back as he flew toward her.

      What the—

      Her thought cut off as her mind worked, trying to make sense of what she saw.

      His eyes were wide, his mouth open. A crimson drop fell from one corner of his lips. Then his body hit the ground, and she figured it out.

      Not French, she realized. And not English, either.

      The sound he’d made hadn’t been words at all. Just a last utterance.

      As if to confirm it, his coat flapped open, revealing an increasing pool of red, with a narrow hole in the center.

      A gunshot wound.

      Maryse’s gut twisted, and she doubled over. The motion saved her. A bullet whizzed by, then slammed into the ground just a few feet in front of her.

      With her heart in her throat, Maryse righted herself, turned and fled toward the buildings on the other side of the road. She pushed her back flat against the icy structure just as another bullet hit the cement, this time mere inches from her boots.

      Sure it had come from above, her gaze flew up, searching. Was that a pinprick of red light, up in the window of the low-rise up the road? Did the curtains just flash? But everything was still now.

      She СКАЧАТЬ