Ciaran (Bourbon & Blood) (7 page)

Loralei uttered his name on a gasp and pressed back against him, taking him deeper. With Ciaran, it had always been wild, unfettered, bordering on a violent free-for-all as they wrestled all over the bed and tried to best one another. But this was different. Hindered by her injuries, careful not to cause further harm, they came together slowly, their bodies rocking gently against one another. His hands moved over her breasts, her hips, in soft, gentle strokes.

Loralei pressed against him, savoring the heat and the sweat that slicked their skin. His mouth moved to her neck, his lips and teeth teasing her flesh as he surged into her again and again.

Their breathing became labored, their movements more fierce, but the deep connection she felt to him, cradled against him as he carried them both to the edge, was unlike anything she’d ever felt. Her thighs trembled and her belly quivered as the pleasure built. She cried out as she peaked, her muscles clenching rhythmically as he pressed deeper into her. His body tensed against her, a shudder wracked him, and then he followed her over that knife’s edge of pleasure.

In the aftermath, neither of them spoke. For the moment, they were cocooned in their own little world, in the pleasure that had been given and taken in one another. His arms closed around her, holding her to him, and she snuggled against the hard wall of his chest, content for the moment to simply savor the closeness and let their convoluted history simmer in the background. She’d take what she could, and when he walked away from her again, as she was certain he would, she’d be strong enough to watch him do it with her head held high. At the very least, she’d be strong enough to fake it.

M
att stared
at the screen of his laptop with bleary eyes. He’d been awake for more than twenty-four hours, and at least twenty of those hours had been pure hell.

“Burning the midnight oil, Crawford?”

Matt looked up to see Jenkins walking toward his desk. He was relatively new to the force, transferred in from Western Kentucky. He was also one of the prime suspects in leaking the information about Loralei’s whereabouts. “This mess with my sister is making me crazy…If I don’t get it figured out soon, I’m gonna lose it.”

Jenkins nodded as he refilled his coffee cup. “Heard about the boyfriend’s place getting shot up. That’s a real clusterfuck. Any leads?”

“Our drug dealer in custody has suddenly decided that there really is honor among thieves…he’s clammed up as tight as Fort Knox. I have a string of Russian first names and a couple of bars where they might be holed up, but no luck pinning them down anywhere, so far.”

Jenkins nodded again. “Too bad you can’t just beat it out of him.”

Matt chuckled in response. “Yeah. It’s not the Wild West anymore.”

“Your sister safe for now?” Jenkins asked.

The opportunity had literally fallen into his lap, which made Matt even more suspicious. “Yeah. She and Ciaran are laying low at my apartment for now…but that’s just between us.”

“Not a problem, man. I’ll keep it quiet. I’m heading out to get some sleep. You should too. You look like hell.”

“As soon as these reports are done…Hell, I might crash here. Better than being a third wheel in my own damn house,” Matt joked.

Jenkins chuckled. “I hear that,” he agreed as he walked away.

When the man was out of sight, Matt closed his computer and grabbed his keys and jacket. Heading out the back door, he climbed behind the wheel of Kaitlyn’s little sports car. She was a pain in the ass, but she had amazing taste in automobiles. It was the flashiest undercover vehicle he’d ever been in, that was for damn sure.

The drive to his apartment didn’t take long. While Lexington traffic was a beast in the daytime, at night the city went dead quiet. Rather than let himself in, he settled down to watch and wait. Grant, on a recon basis only, was watching Loralei’s house, staked out in his mother’s Volvo. Alvarez, the other cop who had yet to be vetted, had been told that Loralei and Ciaran had returned to her house not long before his conversation with Jenkins.

Taking his cell from his pocket, Matt tapped the speed dial number for Grant. “Anything?” he asked immediately.

“A skunk,” Grant replied. “Two possums. A couple of drunken frat boys and a homeless guy who pissed on someone’s shiny new Beemer.”

Matt grinned. “Please tell me it was the door handle. That shit makes my day.”

“It was,” Grant said, and there was a note of glee in his voice. “Call me crazy. I haven’t seen fuck-all here, Matt. Are you sure Alvarez is dirty?”

“No. But I’m not certain he isn’t, and I can’t take any chances with Loralei…she’s all I’ve got. Well, except for you and your wife, who I think might actually have warmed up to me.”

Grant chuckled. “Kaitlyn doesn’t do warm, Matt. Hate to break it to you. She tolerates you, but that’s pretty much her stance on all humans over the age of fifteen. But she hasn’t chewed your ass yet, so you might be on her good side. If she has one.”

Matt shook his head. Kaitlyn DuChamps-Ashworth was like a badger trapped in a supermodel’s body. Vicious and beautiful all at the same time, but she’d move heaven and earth for Loralei, so she was okay in his book.

“Fuck,” Grant said softly. “A car just pulled up in front of Loralei’s house. Dark tinted windows, late model Escalade, two guys getting out while the third keeps the engine running.”

“Stay down, don’t let them see you,” Matt said and started the car.

Grant sighed. “I think it’s too late for that. One of the guys just pointed this way and shouted something in Russian.”

“Get out. Put that fucking mom-mobile in gear and get the fuck out.”

Matt could hear the revving of the engine and the squealing of tires.

“They’re right on me, Matt,” Grant said. “I’m heading towards campus; I can lose them down some of those side streets maybe.”

Matt gripped the wheel tighter as he sped off toward Loralei’s house. “Find a fucking cop…even a damn campus rent-a-cop!”

He heard the sound of breaking glass, and then nothing. The call had been disconnected. Speed dialing dispatch, he identified himself and began barking commands.

I
n the upstairs
bedroom of Loralei’s house, Dimitri closed the laptop. The idiot woman needed better security and stronger passwords. The framed photo of her ugly dog bearing his name had been a dead giveaway to the password of her computer. Now, he’d managed to track the location of her phone by reporting it “lost,” which had the added benefit of turning it off entirely. If she attempted to use it, it would simply give her an out of service message.

Ivanko had taken care of the cop’s friend, albeit temporarily. Still, it would give the cop something else to worry about while they tracked down his little sister. There was a slim chance the cop might figure out why they had taken the other man’s phone and warn the Irishman, but it was a risk they had to take.

“Let’s move,” Dimitri said, rising quickly to his feet. “We don’t have much time.”

“We could let it go,” Ivanko said. “This girl is bad news for us. Every time we get close to her it goes to shit. Just ask Sergei.”

“I’ve no time to talk to a fucking corpse. She can identify Sergei, even if he is dead, and in turn, he will be linked to us. She must be eliminated. When the cop is on bereavement leave, the case will be transferred to Jenkins, and we will all be safe,” Dimitri reminded him. “Or do you wish to question my leadership further?”

Ivanko backed down, thoroughly chastened. “No. I will follow whatever you command me to do.”

Dimitri nodded. “Find the bitch and kill her. Leave the Irishman to me.”

B
y the time
Matt reached the scene, first responders were already there. Margaret’s Volvo was wrapped around a streetlight, and Grant was sitting on the sidewalk while EMTs taped a cut above his eye. In all, it could have been, and he’d honestly expected it to be, much worse.

Taking a deep breath, Matt climbed out of his car and walked over to where Grant was getting first aid. He pointed to the nasty gash over his eyebrow. “How’d that happen?” Matt asked. The airbags in the car had deployed, so there shouldn’t have been any way of him busting his head open.

“Fucker hit me with the butt of his gun,” Grant said on a grimace.

“Kaitlyn will kill me for getting your pretty face messed up,” Matt said, unable to express his relief at seeing his best friend of nearly three decades reasonably unharmed. “Why didn’t you call me back?”

“They took my damn phone,” Grant said.

On his own phone, Matt pulled up the app to locate lost phones and plugged in the number. According the map, the phone was only yards away from them. He called it and then followed the ring tone. It had been tossed carelessly into the bushes near the backdoor of Loralei’s home.

Matt stooped to pick up the phone. As he closed his hand over it, he realized why they'd taken it to begin with. It was impossible to track a phone without the number, and having accessed Grant's, they had all the information they needed to be able to track Loralei. Fear exploded inside him.

“
I
’m taking
one of the cruisers,” he said to one of the uniformed officers, tossing the phone to him. . “Get him home safe!”

Matt climbed behind the wheel of the cruiser and hit the lights, even as he was speed dialing Loralei’s number. He had a sick feeling in his gut. Shit was about to get real.

C
iaran awoke
, the small cabin silent save for the even sounds of Loralei breathing next to him. It was wrong. There was such a thing as too quiet.

Outside, there was no sound. No birds called, no branches rustled. Everything was still.

On the nightstand, his phone blinked at him, the little green light alerting him to a message. Carefully and silently, he retrieved the device and scanned the text.

It was a warning from Matt, but it had come too late. Whoever was coming for them was already there.

Still lying back against the pillows, not wanting to be up, moving around, and making himself an even bigger target, Ciaran spoke softly.

“Loralei, it’s time to wake up,” he uttered.

“No,” she mumbled in response and snuggled deeper into the pillows.

“I don’t think you have a choice, love. They’re here,” he warned.

Her eyes opened, suddenly alert and wide awake. “How do you know? Did you hear something?”

“No. That’s the problem. The whole house is quiet…power has been cut. Truck is probably disabled. I would have done that first if it were me,” he replied, still keeping his tone barely above a whisper.

“What do we do?” she asked.

He hated to see her fear, hated to see the uncertainty in her eyes as she pondered their uncertain fate. It would be the last time, he swore, that she would have to feel that way.

Ciaran reached over the edge of the bed. The first article of clothing he found was her sweater, followed by his pants. He hauled them both up. “Put that on, but no large movements…Move slowly, deliberately. Try to make as little noise as possible,” he whispered.

“Do you think they can see us?” she asked.

“I don’t know…but I wouldn’t bet against it.”

While Loralei donned her sweater, he slipped into his discarded jeans. Denim was hardly body armor, but he found himself reluctant to face off in a fight to the death with his dick hanging out.

There was no doubt for him that it would be a fight to the death. These weren’t the kind of people who understood mercy on either end of it. Leaving them alive was inviting them to come back.

He’d stashed his guns just beneath the bed while Loralei had slept. Now, closing his hand around the hilt of one, he checked the clip and then flipped the safety to the off position. All the while, he listened. There was a slight scuffling sound on the porch, something that, had he been asleep, he might never have heard.

“When I tell you,” he whispered, “I want you to hit the floor and crawl to that fucking kitchen. The island is the only cover we have.”

“Do you really think they’re not going to just shoot through these walls?”

“These walls are twelve-inch-thick logs. They’ll stop a bullet or, at the very least, make it ineffective. So just concentrate on getting to the kitchen where there’s no direct path from any window in here.”

“What about you?” she asked, her eyes wide with fear, tears shining in their depths.

“I’m going to end this in a less-than-law-abiding manner. Somehow, I don’t think your brother will mind,” he said as he grabbed one of the other guns he had at the ready. He pressed it into her hand.

“Ciaran, I don’t want to lose you now,” she said, even as she automatically checked the clip and flipped the safety off before looking up at him again. “If you screw up again, I want to have a chance to kill you myself.”

He would have laughed. By God, he wanted to. “You’ll get your shot, mavourneen,” he vowed.

“I’m counting on it,” she said evenly.

He held up three fingers and began to count off. By the time he hit two, a tiny green dot from a laser site was dancing around the room, trying to find a target.

At one, Loralei did as he’d asked. She crawled toward the kitchen even as the first short shattered the glass at the back half of the cabin. Ciaran moved quickly, getting into position against that wall, ready and waiting for whoever came through that window first.

When the first volley of gunfire ended, the bed was shredded. Bits of fabric and the innards of the mattress flitted about the room like a macabre snowfall.

What came next left him reeling. It wasn’t a person who came through the window. Instead, they tossed in a small green canister.

“Fuck,” he whispered and immediately turned his head away while covering his ears.

Even with his eyes squeezed tightly shut and his fists muffling the sound, the stun grenade was brutally effective at leaving his senses utterly worthless. All but blind and deaf from the concussive force and the flash, his stomach was rolling from the accompanying dizziness. Since he couldn’t see shit in front of him, the gun was all but useless.

Somehow, he got to his feet, but he was still staggering when the first man came through the remnants of the broken-out window. The first blow landed, the punch sending him back against the wall. Immediately, he dropped to a crouch and his fist shot out, landing a crippling blow to the other man’s balls. It was a cheap shot, but effective, and he couldn’t afford to fight fair. They weren’t.

“
Xyocec
!” the man cursed as he lifted his weapon to fire.

Ciaran never gave him the chance. With his limited vision, the only shot he had was to stay in close contact with the other man and fight by feel.

They grappled for control of the gun, of each other. Ultimately, Ciaran managed to get the assailant in a hold he couldn’t break. Snapping someone’s neck wasn’t the simple thing it appeared to be in movies. Muscles tensed and resisted. The fight for survival and the adrenaline it produced had left them more evenly matched than he liked. Ciaran had the skill, but the other man was stronger, bigger.

Using his legs for more leverage, he tightened his hold around the man’s neck and applied more force with his opposite hand. With continued pressure and an unrelenting need to protect Loralei and get them both out alive, Ciaran didn’t stop until he heard that unmistakable sound. Whether the man was dead or alive, he wouldn’t be a problem anymore.

Working to get to his feet again, he paused, still on his knees, when he felt the barrel against his temple. The flash of the grenade had decimated his peripheral vision and left him open. The second Russian had slipped in while they fought. Ciaran realized then that it had been the man’s intent all along. The other one had been sacrificed like a pawn.

“You are smarter than I gave you credit for, Irish.”

“Not bloody smart enough,” Ciaran snapped.

The Russian shrugged. “It cannot be helped. You are like the Americans say… a Boy Scout. You play by the rules. And men like me, we make the rules. We always win.”

“How the fuck would you know?” Ciaran shot back. “You never shut up long enough to find out!”

The Russian laughed. “It is a shame to put a bullet in your head. You have a way with words.”

Ciaran didn’t ask him not to. It was clear to both of them that the plan was already locked. “Just fucking get on with it then.”

L
oralei felt
as if she were underwater. The sounds were muffled. She could barely make out the words through the ringing in her ears, and even when she could, they hardly made sense. Her stomach churned, and the urge to throw up was insistent.

Somehow, with some strength of will she hadn’t known she possessed, she managed to get to her feet. Her eyes burned as she tried to take in the scene before her. The flash of light had been so intense that even know, minutes later, she was still seeing spots and halos.

Only a few feet from her, she could see two figures. There was no discerning who was who for her. Her vision was too distorted to tell them apart, except for one thing.

“High or low?” she demanded.

The Russian’s voice carried, the deep tones penetrating the fog left by the grenade. “You’ve been very difficult to track down, little shop girl.”

“Ciaran,” she said. “High or low?”

“High,” Ciaran finally answered.

Loralei balanced her hands on the counter and squeezed the trigger. The first shot went wide. She knew it instantly. Shifting slightly and planting her feet for stability, she fired again. The dim figure of the man who had been standing jerked backwards, and a word that was clearly a curse, even if she didn’t understand it, escaped him.

Within seconds, she heard another shot, this time fired by someone else. It didn’t take a lot of imagination to assume that Ciaran had finished him off. She wasn’t sorry either.

Loralei sank to the floor and immediately threw up. The dizziness, the unimaginable pain in her head from the flash and concussion of the grenade, was just too much. Added to the fact that she’d just shot a man, and the man she was hopelessly in love with had just killed two men, vomiting and crying seemed like a perfectly legitimate response.

In the distance, the wail of sirens cut through the ringing. “Matt,” she whispered.

“He’s coming,” Ciaran answered. “And you won’t have to hide anymore.”

She didn’t answer, just closed her eyes, pressed her face against the cool wooden boards of the floor, and prayed for the waves of nausea to pass.