“Cop whore. Going to mess you up.”
He kicked her, so she doubled up in agony as her fingers fumbled for her weapon. Parts of her, separate parts of her went numb, and still she could feel the violent impact of his feet, his fists. She could smell her own blood.
He plucked her up, as if she were no more than a child’s doll. This time she heard—felt—something rip.
Someone screamed. She felt herself hurled into the dark as she fired.
McNab put on music. She’d sounded tired when she’d called, so he went for some of her Free-Ager flutey shit. Since he’d finished packing the lot—including sheets—they were going to bunk in her sleepbag. He thought she’d get a bang out of it. Last night in the old place, all cuddled up together on the floor, like kids camping out.
It was just totally frosty.
He poured her a glass of wine. He liked doing it for her, thinking how she’d do it for him when he caught a late night. It was the sort of thing cohabs did. He supposed.
It was the first official cohabitation for both of them. They’d live, he decided, and learn.
He was thinking maybe he’d go to the window, toss her out a noisy kiss as she walked up, when he heard the screaming.
He raced out of the kitchen, leaping over packing boxes and across the living area to the window. And his heart stopped dead.
He had his weapon in one hand, his communicator in the other, without any memory of grabbing either, and was running out the door. “Officer needs assistance! All units, all units, officer needs immediate assistance.”
He shouted out the address as he bolted down the stairs. Praying. Praying.
She was half on the sidewalk, half on the street. Facedown, with blood, her blood, staining the concrete. A man and a woman were crouched beside her, and another was huffing toward them.
“Get away. Get away.” He shoved blindly at the nearest. “I’m a cop. Oh God, oh Jesus God, Dee.”
He wanted to scoop her up, gather her in, and knew he didn’t dare. Instead he pressed shaking fingers to the pulse in her throat. And felt his heart hitch when he felt the beat.
“Okay. God, okay. Officer down!” He snapped it into his communicator. “Officer down. Require immediate medical assistance this location. Hurry, goddamn it. Hurry.”
He touched her hand, struggled not to squeeze it. Got his breath back.
“Be on the lookout for a black or dark blue van, late model, heading south from this location at high speed.”
He hadn’t seen it clearly enough, not enough. He’d only seen her.
When he started to strip off his shirt to cover her, one of the men pulled off his jacket. “Here, cover her with this. We were just coming out, across the street, and we saw . . .”
“Hold on, Dee. Peabody, you hold the hell on.” Still gripping her hand, and seeing now she had her weapon in the other, he looked up at the people around him. His eyes went flat and cold as a shark’s.
“I need your names. I need to know what you saw.”
Eve’s heart was knocking on her ribs when she shoved off the elevator and strode double-time down the hospital corridor. “Peabody,” she said, slapping her badge on the counter of the nurse’s station. “Detective Delia. What’s her status?”
“She’s in surgery.”
“That’s not telling me her status.”
“I can’t tell you her status because I’m not in surgery.”
“Eve.” Roarke put a restraining hand on her shoulder before she simply leaped over the counter and throttled the nurse. “McNab will be in the waiting area. We should go there first.”
She struggled to draw a breath, even out her terror and temper. “Get somebody to go into surgery and get her status. Do you understand me?”
“I’ll do what I can. You can wait down the hall, to your left.”
“Easy, baby.” Roarke murmured to her, slid his arm around her waist as they went toward the waiting area. “Try to take it easy.”