In the Teeth of the Wind (30 page)

jerking in violent spasms. His curses rang out promising vile death for the man who was fondling the

woman Conor loved, and his mindless shrieks of denial as Rhianna was dragged down to the floor of the

barn were terrible to hear.

"Rhianna!"
Conor howled in agony.

Mick Sullivan listened to Conor's scream of anguish and cried. He could only guess at the torture

pushing his friend close to the edge of sanity and be thankful it was not his own wife being brutalized by

Luis Quinterras.

Danny Keane could not look away from the scene on the straw-covered floor of the barn. He was as

outraged as the others, but his sympathy was for Coni. The strangled sounds of grief pouring out of the

man Danny had loved for twenty-odd years numbed him to the savagery of what was happening to

Marek.

Tim-Pat Collins was also weeping. Not from the rape, taking place before his very eyes, but from the

reprieve he had been given. He was not a coward, but neither did he want to die. Not here; not like this.

If he was going to die, he sure as hell didn't want to do so while strung up like a side of beef in an

abattoir.

"Rhianna!" Conor's voice was a hoarse whisper of pain and his eyes wild, face as pale as death, when

Quinterras crawled off Rhianna and stood up to adjust his clothing. The tenuous thread of sanity had

snapped in the Irishman's mind and he could do no more than hang in his bonds.

"Just in case you're wondering, Coni, I fit in quite well," Quinterras taunted. "A rather tight squeeze,

but I fit in well enough."

Rhianna had turned to her side on the floor, her knees drawn up to her chest. It had taken every ounce

of her self-control to will herself not to make any sound at all during her violation. She had forced herself

to stare stonily at the dilapidated roof overheard - never once moving her gaze to Quinterras's sweating

face as he pumped his vile flesh into her - and detach herself from what was happening. She had even

managed to block out Conor's agonized cries of sorrow and the panting gasps of excited breath from

Quinterras's slobbering mouth. The only real pain she felt was in her arms because her hands were tied

behind her and the rocking motion of the Colombian's body had driven splinters and shards of straw into

the soft flesh of her bare arms.

"Now," she heard Quinterras say in a satisfied tone, "I'm going to start butchering your friends!"

Conor seemed beyond hearing. He was staring unseeingly across the barn, his mouth slack, his eyes

glazed as he watched Rhianna.

Luis Quinterras turned and walked toward Daniel Keane. "Let's do the queer first!"

Danny's breath caught in his throat. Mick Sullivan went deathly still although behind his gag, his lips

were moving in a silent entreaty to God. Jamie only stared with disbelief, cursing the help that had not

arrived in time for Rhianna.

"He's not paying attention,
Padrino,"
Victor said.

Quinterras turned, the gleaming stiletto gripped in his fist. A snarl of rage exploded from his mouth as

he took in the lax expression on Nolan's still face.

"No!" the Colombian hissed. He rushed to his enemy and once more ensnared a fistful of Conor's

brown curls. "_You must see this!_" He jerked viciously on the Irishman's hair. "_You have to see this,

Nolan!_"

What happened next seemed to take place in slow motion. As though it came from far, far away,

Jamie heard the explosion as the SWAT team burst through the barn door, spraying bullets from their

assault rifles into the bodies of three of Quinterras's men. He heard Quinterras shout an order to the

black man he realized must be the chauffeur who had brought a younger Luis to Nellis Briggs many years

before. He watched in stunned disbelief as the black man moved behind Conor and put the muzzle of a 9

mm semi-automatic against the Irishman's head. He saw Quinterras hit the floor, roll, and come up at

Conor's right side, the stiletto going up to hack away the ropes confining Nolan's wrists.

"_Back off!_" Quinterras ordered the SWAT team. Conor's body sagged into the Colombian's arms.

He placed the stiletto right at Conor's jugular, the tip going just far enough beneath the flesh to cause

blood to flow. "_I'll kill him!_"

Boucharde held up his hand, praying none of the SWAT team would take it into their mind to try for a

head shot on the black man. "Let's talk about this," the FBI agent said.

"_There's nothing to talk about!_" the Colombian screamed. He was moving toward the back of the

barn, dragging Nolan along with him, measuring his steps so the black man's gun stayed against Conor's

temple.

"You'll never get away with this," the SWAT team commander warned as Darlington's men began

cutting down the prisoners. "You're surrounded."

Quinterras' mouth twisted in a sneer. "We're driving out of here and you can't stop us." He swung his

attention around the room where the rest of his enemies were being untied. "It isn't over."

Jamie massaged his abraded wrists. He kept his eyes on Quinterras. He would have moved away

from his rescuers, but the Colombian's head snapped toward him. "_Stay back, Cullen!_" Quinterras dug

his blade further into Conor's flesh, widening the cut already there. "I_'ll slit his fucking throat from ear to

ear if you don't!_"

"You don't think we're going to let you hurt him anymore, do you, Luis?" Cullen asked calmly.

"You've got no choice!" the Colombian snarled.

Mick and Danny moved forward, their faces filled with burning vengeance. Neither man noticed Joe

Cortesio and Dave Donne flanking them nor the guns gripped resolutely in the cops' hands.

"No matter where you go, we'll hunt you down," Mick said. "You're a dead man, Quinterras."

"There will be nowhere safe for either of you," Danny added.

"As long as we have this one," the black man scoffed, "you can do nothing!"

"Irish," Rhianna called out from her place in Trip's arms. "Are you all right?"

Conor heard her voice and looked up, his face filled with a strange, resigned quality. He swung his

gaze about him taking in the hard faces of the men of the SWAT team, the concerned faces of the men

from the 64th Precinct, the determined faces of the four men with whom he'd gone to school. He found

himself looking into the eyes of the woman he loved: the woman he had caused to be so brutally violated.

She would forgive him, but he would never forgive himself. She was a strong woman and could live with

the rape. He was a weak man and could not. For as long as he lived, he would replay the violation of his

woman over and over and over in his mind, knowing he had not been able to prevent it from happening.

He had failed her.

Just as he had failed Bridget, the mother of his son, so many years before.

"Irish?" Rhianna asked, her voice trembling.

Conor Nolan smiled.

It was the smile, that froze Jamie with fear. It was the smile of a man who had stepped over the

boundary between insanity and reality. It was the calculated smile of a man who knew what he was going

to do and knew there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.

"_Coni, no!_" Jamie screamed, flinging himself forward even as Conor lurched against Quinterras,

piercing the side of his own throat with the lethal tip of the Colombian's stiletto, impaling his jugular on the

dagger's blade.

"Coni!"
Danny Keane shrieked and had to be restrained by Tim-Pat.

Dark arterial blood gushed from Conor Nolan's throat and splattered Luis Quinterras in the face. The

Colombian jerked away from the unexpected intrusion and stumbled back just a fraction of a second

before his head exploded beneath the impact of the SWAT team commander's rifle, a hollow point bullet

ripping out of the barrel to end the drug lord's life.

Victor Busbee roared as the Irishman's body sagged down beside him. He brought up his gun,

squeezed off a shot, hitting DEA agent James Cullen in the left shoulder before that man slammed into

him, and found himself toppling backwards beneath the weight of Cullen's hurtling body. The black man's

gun fired again, this time into the barn's roof, then was kicked from his hand as Mick Sullivan reached

them.

"_I will kill you!_" Busbee shrieked, flailing against the hold of the two men as he was dragged to his

feet_. _"I will kill you for hurting my _padrino!_"

Rhianna scrambled away from Trip, rushed to Conor's prone body and wanted to scream when she

saw the pool of blood beneath his head. Mindless of the pulsing wetness still spurting from his wound,

she cradled his head in her lap - knowing he was dying - and smiled tearfully down into his ashen face.

"I knew you'd come for us, Rhee," she heard him whisper. "I knew you'd bring the cavalry."

"Why?" Rhianna cried, her heart shattering in her chest. "Irish, why? We would have gotten him."

"I didn't want anyone to get hurt. I had to end it, baby," he said with effort. "I caused it. I had to end it.

I'm sorry I couldn't stop him from - " Tears ran down his temples and into his hair. "Oh, God, Rhee. I am

so sorry. I failed you, my lady. I can't live with that."

"It's not your fault!" she protested. Her chest heaved with emotion; tears fell onto his pale face.

"Is that bastard dead?" Conor asked, his eyes moving past Rhianna's beloved face to Jamie's. His old

friend hunkered beside him. "Did they kill him for what he did to her?"

"Yes," Jamie answered, taking Conor's hand. "He's dead."

For the first time Nolan noticed the blood soaking Jamie's shirt. "You're wounded," Conor said,

sighing.

"Went straight through," Jamie assured him. "Don't worry about it."

"I've found your son, Irish," Rhianna said, knowing she only had a moment left with him.

Conor turned his fading gaze back to Rhianna. "Yeah?" At her nod, he smiled. "Tell him I never

stopped looking, will you?"

"I swear it," she said.

Once more Conor's attention shifted to Jamie. "Take care of my lady, huh, Cullen?"

Jamie could do no more than nod. His own cheeks were wet with tears.

"Rhianna?" Conor whispered and those around him heard the death rattle in his throat.

"Yes, baby," she returned, pushing the damp hair back from his forehead.

"Don't cry."

The light went out of Conor Nolan's eyes and his head tilted to one side.

"Irish?" Rhianna questioned. Her trembling fingers stroked Conor's cheek. "Irish?"

Triplett turned away. He stared into Joey Cortesio's grieving eyes. The Italian's shoulders were already

sagging against the weight of his sorrow. Trip put an arm around him.

"Get that bastard outside," Darlington growled, his gray stare steady on the last of Quinterras's men.

"What about the woman?" Mick Sullivan asked Victor Busbee, held fast between Donne and Sullivan.

"Where is Erica Bochner?"

"Fuck you," the black man snarled. He looked at the Irishman's still body and laughed. His next words

were a personal affront to every lawman there. "Enjoy yourself in hell, pig!" He chuckled again.

It was the last sound Victor Busbee ever made for Danny Keane straightened up, grabbed Joey

Cortesio's gun and emptied it into the black man's belly before anyone could stop him.

One*

Joey Cortesio felt his wife's hand tightening in his as the last shot was fired. The opening skirl of the

bagpipes brought Sonia Cortesio's other arm around his waist, penning their clenched hands between

them as she turned her body to his. Staring over her head, listening to her quiet sobs as Conor Nolan's

casket was lowered into the ground to the accompaniment of the haunting strains of "Amazing Grace,"

Joey was amazed that he had remained dry-eyed throughout the entire service. From the moment he had

helped carry his partner's body into St. Mary's church, through the homily and eulogy, the

motorcycle-escorted ride to Our Lady of Sorrows cemetery, to the removal and folding of the American

flag draping Irish's casket, he had managed to keep his tears inside.

He had hidden them when Rhianna told him Irish's son would not be attending his father's funeral.

"He's in the hospital with a kidney stone, but he will be here as soon as he can," she'd explained.

He had hidden them at the church as he marched down the aisle with Mick Sullivan, Jamie Cullen,

Tim-Pat Collins, Dave Donne, and Trip.

He had hidden them when he and the others took their sad burden from the hearse and carried their

fallen friend to his final resting place.

He had hidden them as the rifles rang out over the still morning air, their twenty-one gun salute sharp

and piercing and the cordite smell sickening.

He had hidden them - and his bitter anger - when Captain Darlington had presented the red, white,

and blue symbol of Conor James Nolan's commitment and dedication to the protection of his fellow man

to the dead officer's sister.

But Joey knew the moment was fast approaching - that moment every cop there was dreading - when

he wondered if he would be able to hold onto his composure. Even as he steeled himself for the

inevitable, Caitlin Greiner stood up from her seat under the funeral home's green canvas awning. With the

flag from Conor's casket a neat triangle in her black-clad arm, she took the cup of dark soil from the

priest's hand and sprinkled it into the open grave.

"God!" Joey's whimper came from his very soul and the tight rein he'd held on his emotions came

loose. He squeezed his eyes shut, resolutely shaking his head as his wife spoke gently, calmly to him. "I