Cherise Sinclair - If only

The bastard’s eyes went wide, fearful, then furious. Insane. “Burn it. Burn it all.” He pulled a match from his pocket, flicked it with his thumbnail, and it lit.

Jesus fuck, Vance thought, if Sally shoots him… Gasoline everywhere.

Galen yelled, “Sally, hold!”

But Somerfeld was crazy enough to burn the place with himself in it. No way to win.

Fuck that. Vance dived at the bastard, rammed into him—chest to chest—knocking him back. Glass shattered as they slammed into the bay window—and out.

Somerfeld hit the ground with a grunt of pain.

Vance landed beside him, the impact yanking at his cuffed arms. The pain that ripped through his wounded leg took his breath away. Sent his brain spinning.

He groaned, opened his eyes, and saw fire. His shirt. On fire.

“Fuck!” Unable to use his hands, Vance rolled frantically, smothering the flame in the damp grass.

Panting, hurting everywhere, he rolled back over, trying to sit up. And froze.

Somerfeld’s gasoline-splattered clothing had also ignited. And burst into a conflagration. He shrieked, slapping at the fire before he ran, straight down the drive. Flaming.

“Drop and roll, roll!” Vance shouted, trying to get to his feet. The chain clanked, reminding him he was hobbled. Could never catch the poor bastard in time.

The sirens on the approaching emergency vehicles didn’t drown out the screaming. Somerfeld fell, finally fell, directly in front of the police car, the first vehicle down the lane.

From the following fire engine, firefighters jumped out. They surrounded Somerfeld, spraying him down.

More vehicles. Cops and FBI agents raced toward the house.

A knife of pain ripped through Vance’s leg. Shit! He jerked around. “What the—”

Galen was tying a makeshift bandage around his thigh. “Nice tackle, bro. Still got some skill there.”

As Vance hauled in a breath, he started to shake. Too fucking close. “Nice battle plan given the short notice, bro,” he returned.

Galen switched his attention to unlocking the handcuffs around Vance’s wrists, swearing under his breath at the torn skin.

As Vance pulled his arms around to the front, his shoulder joints hurt almost as much as the returning circulation in his hands. “I’m too fucking old for this,” he muttered, wanting to scream like a little girl. Jesus, he hurt.

“Tell me about it.” Galen turned.

Vance followed his gaze. The paramedics were loading Somerfeld into the ambulance with an IV. He must still be alive.

“Halt!” a cop shouted from the driveway.

What now?

Sally, halfway around the house, skidded to a sudden stop. She lifted her hands and obviously realized she still held the pistol. “Shit! Hey, I’m the good guy. Girl. Whatever,” she yelled. She carefully set the weapon on the sidewalk.

As the cop approached her, one of the FBI agents trotted toward the front door.

“There’s another woman inside,” Vance called. “And be careful. It’s set up to burn.” He nodded approval when a fireman yanked the FBI special agents back and went in first.

Glancing at Galen, Vance asked, “How’d you get here before Sally?”

“Came through the window.”

Vance saw the streaks of blood where shattered glass had ripped clothing and the flesh beneath. If Somerfeld hadn’t gone out the window first, Vance would probably be as ripped up. “You must’ve missed the hole we left.”

“Forgot to aim.”

“Vance!”

He looked up in time to be attacked by a hysterical whirlwind who plastered his face with kisses and “I love you; I love you; I love you” before she spun away to smother Galen with the same.

When she slowed, Galen grabbed her and kissed her hard enough to silence her. Whatever he murmured in her ear made her tear up. Then he handed her back to Vance.

Vance pulled her into his arms. Warm woman filled with love. Risked her life to save him. Kept her head. He ignored the pain in his leg as the paramedics tried to cut away his jeans. He held her, kissed her hair, cupped her chin, and knew exactly what his partner had said.

“I love you, Sally.”

We’re all alive. Sally stood in an emergency-room cubicle beside the stretcher cart where Galen lay. Galen is alive. She kept repeating the reassurances to herself. Vance is alive. Didn’t help. She still couldn’t stop shaking. She was so dreadfully cold.

His shirt already off, Galen was talking to the skinny doctor setting out a suture kit. Beside Sally, a nurse in pink flowered scrubs pulled on sterile gloves.

Vance was in another curtained-off room, but his ER doctor hadn’t let Sally stay with him.

This doctor was nicer.

With a gauze pad, the nurse started to wipe the blood away from the horrible rents in Galen’s skin. All over his beautiful chest. The white gauze turned red. The nurse picked up another. So many long, gaping slashes.

Black shimmered around the edges of Sally’s vision. Blood kept trickling down his side. Her mouth tasted like tin and—

“Christ!” Galen’s voice danced through the mist. Someone cursed. Metal clanged as it hit the floor.

Hard hands caught her as her legs went soft and black clouds filled her head.

“Down you go, baby girl.” Somehow on his feet, Galen backed her up, sat her in a chair, and relentlessly pressed her head down until her forehead rested on her knees.

She actually felt blood surge back into her brain. After a minute, she muttered, “Enough.” He released her and set a hand on her shoulder, helping her sit up. “I’m okay.” Aside from being really embarrassed.

His dark eyes held amusement. “You’re far, far better than just okay, imp,” he said softly. “But I want you out of here. I’ll find you after I’m stitched up.” He turned to the nurse, and even shirtless with blood streaking his chest, he was a force to be reckoned with. “Please get her something to drink, miss. And help her to the waiting room.”

“Of course.”

A few minutes later, she was tucked into the corner of the ugly sitting area. Plastic chairs ringed the room. A television on the wall displayed a sitcom. A woman held a towel to a cut on her face. Children were coughing. Crying.

Trying to not think about the past hours, Sally stewed about something less…traumatic. Like her future. Just look how she’d frozen up when Vance got shot. Because of the blood. She’d almost passed out seeing Galen bleed.

And I want to work in law enforcement?

Sally shook her head. Even if she concentrated on computers, she’d still come face-to-face with blood and death, whether in the hallways or picking up equipment.

Did she really want a job like that? No. With a sigh of both regret and relief, she mentally crossed off law enforcement from her list of potential employers. She’d find job where she wouldn’t see dead people. Or blood.

But…

But what if Galen or Vance came home looking like they did today? Coldness took root in her belly, spreading outward. This was what they did. Day after day. How could she let them leave the house, knowing what they might face?

More chills ran over her body as she saw again the splattering blood, the pained grunt Vance had made at the bullet’s impact. He’d been hurt, and she hadn’t been able to help him. What if she wasn’t even there next time? With a moan, she buried her head in her hands.

“Sally.”

Master Z’s smooth, deep voice pulled her from the dark places.

Shaking herself back to reality, Sally inhaled the scent of cleaners overlying the foulness of excrement and infection. She rubbed her fingers together, feeling the tackiness of old blood on her hands. The television was blaring. But she was back in the present. She looked up.

Master Z stood in the door of the waiting room, holding a brown paper grocery sack.

She frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“Dan called.” After putting his sack on a chair, he lifted Sally to her feet, holding her steady as her legs wobbled. “Galen has hospital paperwork to fill out before he can leave. But Vance has been admitted for the night. Shall we go see him?”

“Please.” And as if she had the right, she burrowed into his arms. He tucked her in closer, holding her firmly—anchoring her—and she knew that no matter what would go wrong, she had a refuge. A place of safety her father had never given her.

When she finally stepped back, her legs felt as if they belonged to her body again. “Thank you,” she whispered.

His gray eyes softened. “You’re one of mine, little one. Don’t forget it again.”

As tears pooled in her eyes, he touched her cheek gently, picked up his sack, and led her from the room.

Endless corridors later, he opened a hospital door and guided her inside.

Vance lay in the bed. Under his dark tan, his color was almost gray.

Her feet froze in place on the ugly linoleum floor. But after an eternity, his chest rose and fell. He was sleeping. She clenched her hands as she fought the need to wake him, to know—know—that he was alive.

“Sit there,” Master Z murmured and gently pushed her down in a chair by the bed. “Galen should be up in a minute.”

“He’s coming.” Dan and Kari walked into the room. “He wouldn’t let them admit him,” Dan grumbled. “Wouldn’t even accept the loan of a wheelchair. Stubborn bastard.”

Finally Galen came in, leaning heavily on an ugly metal cane, and Sally rushed to his side. She started to grab him, remembered the stitches, and—ever so carefully—put her arms around him.