A Righteous Kill (5 page)

And likely Vicodin.

Hero pictured the gentle dimpled smile of her wrathful savior. Probably gentleness didn’t come easily to him. Or smiles.

Speaking of… somewhere beyond her soft nebulous, the masculine voices started to churn with aggression. Hero decided to surface so she could mediate. She allowed herself a long-suffering inward sigh before opening her eyes. Good, they were functional, if somewhat blurry.

Telling Conner to mind his manners worked, for once, she noted smugly. So, she’d found a silver lining to this whole business of being in a hospital bed. Of this, she would take great advantage.

As soon as her vision cleared, Hero used the shocked silence to search the familiar faces for
him.
Ah, there he was, looming in the corner. The avenging angel with tempting mocha skin and glittering black eyes.

God, she was going to sculpt him naked someday. And, if he didn’t let her see him naked? She’d just have to use her imagination, her very
vivid
imagination. She was probably going to try to get him naked, though.

“Hi.” She attempted an engaging smile but her numb face refused to cooperate. What did they have her on, anyway? This was some good shit. Hero refrained from taking anything inorganic into her body, but this counted as a medical emergency. And, in truth, she was kind of enjoying herself. It didn’t matter, she’d do a juice cleanse upon her release from this fine establishment and get any harmful chemicals out of her system.

Tall, dark, and dangerous was adorable when flustered. “Hi,” he responded in that silky baritone of his. He cast a sheepish glance at Rown and her father. A smile fought at the corners of his lush lips and showed off that one great dimple on the left cheek of his chiseled face.

She wished he didn’t have his suit jacket on, then she’d be able to tell if all that width was pure shoulder and not padding.

“Christ, she’s high as a kite.” Rown rolled his eyes.

No she wasn’t.

“No, I isn’t,” she insisted. Her nose itched like crazy, but her hands felt like they were weighed down with bricks. With all her attention focused on lifting one of them, she effectively ignored everyone. She smiled triumphantly—probably—as her right arm lifted and she directed it toward her nose. It frustrated her when she poked herself in the eye. You’d think finding your own nose on your face would be easy. “Well, maybe a little,” she admitted. If not being able to feel your extremities meant you were high. Holy balls! Those bandages were huge! Only the very tips of her fingers were visible and the bandages were tight enough that she couldn’t wiggle any of them.

But her nose didn’t itch anymore, so she shrugged. Mission accomplished.

“That might not be a bad thing right now, Berowne,” her mother said softly and petted her hair.

Hero loved her mama and told her so.

“I love you too, my darling.” Her mom kissed her hair. Hero also loved that whenever her mother said “darling” it still sounded like “
dar link
.” She wished her mother didn’t look so sad, though. That everyone didn’t. She was fine. She was safe now, and would just focus on recovery. No need to dwell on anything unpleasant. They should be celebrating. She survived, beat the odds. That was kind of a big deal.

“Ms. Connor, are you in any pain?” Dr. Karakis squeezed his way past Rown and Andra to the left side of her bed. Seeing as how everyone else was on her right, he’d taken the path of least resistance. Smart guy, her doctor. Handsome too, kinda.

“On a scale of one to ten, rate the pain you’re in,” he ordered gently, while checking her monitors and IV, looking satisfied.

“I can’t even tell I’m attached to my body, doc.” She tried the smiling thing again. Probably she was doing okay at the smiling. She had enough practice. Didn’t your muscles just retain the memory of stuff you did all the time? “You’re doing a
great
job,” she encouraged Doctor Karakis. He really was a nice man. She wondered why she’d never met him from her volunteer work. She remembered to thank him for his time.

A choked noise drew her attention. Her father had started to cry. Why was he doing that? She was fine. Couldn’t he see?

“It’s okay, Pop,” she tried to reassure him. “Don’t cry.” It made this whole thing really awkward.

Andra had tears running down her face too and Andra
never
cried. Even at sad movies. She usually served as Hero’s human Kleenex as she was a big ole’ baby. Her brothers just stood around and looked grim. So business as usual, then.

She missed Knox. He would have smiled at her. He was the only other one that was also as good at smiling.

“I need a number,” Doctor Karakis gently prodded, “for your chart.”

“Oh, of course.” Why hadn’t she thought of that? “
Liiiiiiike,
a two, and mostly because I just poked myself in the eye. Also, my throat is sore.”

“That’s because of the breathing tube,” the doctor explained patiently. “It was difficult to keep you breathing on your own, at first, and you needed it during surgery.” Hero found it hard to ignore her families’ horrified reaction. She didn’t want to hear this stuff yet. She just wanted to ride out her sweet drug-induced mellow.

Motioning him closer with her head, mostly because her hands were still refusing to work, she was pleased when he bent down to her.

“Why don’t you take everyone out there and tell them how okay I’m going to be,” she suggested in a conspiratorial whisper. He hadn’t yet told
her
she was going to be okay. But, likely someone would have mentioned it if she were dying. “Also, you can tell them exactly how to pamper me while I get better.”

She attempted a wink, but her eyelid just trembled and she had to blink rapidly.

Dr. Karakis patted her on the shoulder and offered her a warm smile that deepened the attractive brackets around his mouth. “I’ll be in the consultation room to the right. How about
you
tell them to meet me there? Maybe they’ll listen to you.” His wink was successful.

Show off.

“It’s very important that you don’t strain your abdomen, understand? I’ll leave the rest to tell you later.” He nodded to the room at large and strode out the door and to the right.

“Mama…” Hero blinked up at her mother.

“I know,
Malyshka
.” Her mother kissed her forehead and nuzzled her cheek. She felt warm and soft and familiar. She stood and threw her statuesque shoulders back and regarded her brood. “We’re going to get information from the doctor,” she commanded. Coming from Mom with her husky voice reinforced by steel, it sounded like there might be water-boarding involved during the procurement of said information. But there wouldn’t be. Mom was smooth.

“We’ll be right back in, wee one.” Pop kissed her. His graying ginger bristles didn’t tickle her cheek like they usually did. Stupid numb face. But he smelled like Irish Spring soap, engine grease and Guinness. All was right with the world. He followed Mom out the door.

Demetri held his glossy, black, shoulder-length hair back from his face and bent to kiss her. His jacket clinked and creaked.
He
smelled like leather and asphalt and nighttime. “You’re such a bad ass,” he murmured, pressing his broad forehead against hers.

Hero ignored the darkness and vengeance lurking in his eyes. “I had you for an example,” she whispered.

The corner of his mouth lifted in his signature devastating half-smile. “I’m glad you’re going to be okay.” He slapped Connor’s shoulder as he passed him on his way to the door. “C’mon, big guy.”

Her eldest brother loomed at her feet, all rumpled and bleary, like he’d also been roused from a pill-induced sleep. Which was more than likely. His hands curled into fists and he might as well have been chewing on nails. Hero tried to understand him. But they rarely agreed on anything. In his mind he exacted death and formed a battle plan. He was gathering intel and securing the high-ground. He’d never come home from the war. It still raged within him. “I swear to God, I’m going to—”

“Not now.” Andra grabbed his arm.

His jaw ticked. “Later then,” he promised.

Andra patted Hero’s forearm. Her fingers were moist from wiping the tears off her cheeks. Red patches of skin crept up her elegant neck as she fought her emotion. Andra was a blotchy crier like her. Huh. You learned something new every day. “I’m just going to make sure the poor doctor is okay,” she sniffed.

“Maybe he’s single,” Hero suggested through tingling lips. Uh oh, maybe the drugs were beginning to wear off. No good could come of this.

“Why don’t
you
go for him, then?” Andra visibly brightened and hid her worry behind a prolonged blink. Andra could play anyone like Darol Anger’s fiddle and could read a person with Shakespearean accuracy. She’d honed her acting skills in the courtroom and, at this moment, Hero was glad. “You’ve got to be the hottest patient he’s had in a long time. Plus, you look pathetic enough to pull the sympathy card.”

“I have too many tears in me.” Hero held up her bandages for inspection. Hey, it worked! “I’ll give you the advantage point, this time.”

Andra blinked again, but her smile remained. The corner of her lip caught the tear that escaped. But bless her for trying.

“Now, go arbitrate,” Hero demanded, before she ended up crying too. If she started now, she’d not stop until her bones wrung dry.

Andra collected Connor on her way out.

Now she was almost alone with
him.
If she could only get rid of Rown. She looked up at her brother who stood with his arms crossed over his chest and glared down at her.

Didn’t seem likely. Dammit. Hero frowned right back. If he said something to harsh her buzz, she’d never forgive him.

“Who’s your friend?” she spoke first, looking past Rown to the mysterious man who regarded her with what she imagined to be a fascinated expression. Some people would say he looked at her like she was crazy. But she was an optimist. Life was all about perspective, right?

He gave her a startled blink, but quickly recovered and cleared his throat. “I’m Special Agent Luca Ramirez.” He stepped out of the dark corner toward the foot of the bed. He moved like a panther might. Sleek. Predatory. Deceptively loose-limbed and relaxed, until you were lying with your throat torn out wondering what just happened. “I have a few questions for you.”

“Absolutely not,” Rown snarled.

She didn’t like where this was going at all.

“She doesn’t want to go there right now,” Rown said.

“You know the longer I wait, the less likely it is we catch this guy.” Agent Ramirez stepped toward her.

“Tough shit.” Rown stepped closer, as well, her wall against reality and the horror that faced her in remembering it.

“What’s with you, man?” Luca threw his hands out. “What if someone else is already in danger and she holds the key to apprehending this sick bastard? You of all people should appreciate that.”

“That someone else isn’t my sister,” Rown said. “She almost
died
tonight, for chrissakes and she’s tripping balls. Nothing she says can be admissible in court. You can wait until tomorrow.”

Hero shrugged. She didn’t want to face this. Not now, not
ever
. But Agent Ramirez had a point. The dill weed. What if she decided to be an ostrich and another woman died? She’d have that on her conscience.

“It already is tomorrow,” she sighed and motioned to the dim silver light at the window that threatened dawn. “And I’m only going to feel worse.” She’d attended this dance before, she knew the steps. A brief relationship with horseback riding had left her with screws in her hip and some herniated disks. You felt the best the moment after you woke up. It was all downhill from there. She took a deep breath, knowing that she was most definitely not high enough for this. There was no such thing. “Tell me what you want to know.”

***

Luca looked from a glaring Rown to Hero’s expectant, affable expression. How did this pretty, cherubic woman belong to such a hardcore family? Maybe it was just the drugs talking. Hell, for all he knew, she was a criminal or a prostitute and her good nature was chemically induced. Either way, she was feeling talkative and the investigator in him smelled blood in the water. With each passing moment, John the Baptist slipped farther and deeper into his impenetrable lair. The bastard probably spent the night somewhere celebrating a job well done before lining up the next kill.

According to the criminal profiler, their killer was a single white male, mid-thirties to late-fifties. Charming, unassuming and socially adept, but lived alone. He would be a religious fanatic, obviously, with a job or obsessive hobby related to the study of history, theology, or the humanities. Unlike most serial killers, he would be the opposite of a sociopath. He’d feel very strongly regarding his victims. His neurosis and emotions would run very deep. He’d probably have delusions of grandeur or megalomania.

This was JTB’s first official fuck-up, and Luca planned to be all
over
his shit. Rown could just get over it.

“If you could start from what you were doing before you were taken,” he prompted. “Just do the best you can and tell me everything you remember, even if it doesn’t seem important.”

“Don’t worry.” Her voice’s airy levity was replaced by something deeper, more haunted. “I remember everything.”

Chapter Four

“Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow.”

~William Shakespeare, Macbeth

“I remember thinking how incredibly strong he was.” The medications caused the pupils of Hero’s eyes to constrict to the size of pinpoints. The vivid color stood out even more striking against her pallor.

Luca got lost in them for a moment before remembering himself. He didn’t dare look at Rown as he cleared his throat. “Can you describe your attacker at all?”

She sighed and rested her head back against the pillow, closing her eyes as if to conjure an image. “I never saw his face, but he wasn’t a big guy, you know? Not like you or my brothers. I remember looking at him from where I was… tied to a-a beam and thinking:
How could someone so
average
be so incredibly strong?”