Quarter to Midnight, page 40
She did that on purpose, Gabe thought, incredibly impressed.
Quickly she restrained his hands, then roughly flipped him to his back. “Who are you?” she demanded coldly.
The man pursed his lips, saying nothing. She gripped her gun and shoved it to his temple. “All three of the others are dead. Start talking or you’re next. Who. Are. You?”
“Maybe he has ID in his wallet,” Gabe said mildly.
Molly’s gaze flicked up to him, then she laughed. “Shit.” Gripping the shoulder of the arm she’d shot and making the man moan, she rolled him to his side so that she could get his wallet. “Here’s his license. Gabe, you’re a genius. He used a fake ID when he posed as Paul Lott, so who knows if this one’s real—but if it is, he’s Nicholas Tobin.” She set the license aside. “Never heard of you. Who hired you?”
Tobin shook his head. “Kill me if you want.”
But there was fear in his eyes. Molly hadn’t missed it, either. “Gabe, can you check on my sister? You okay over there, Chels?”
“Yes,” Chelsea said, the word coming out on a sob.
Now that the danger had passed, Gabe focused his attention on Molly’s sister. She’d slid down the door and was huddled on the floor, her face pressed against her knees, her arms wrapped around her legs. The gun was on the floor at her side, and her body shook with sobs that broke his damn heart.
“Chelsea?” He knelt beside her, afraid to touch her. “I’m Gabe. Are you hurt?”
She shook her head without lifting it. “No. He . . . Oh my God.”
He chanced a touch, gently stroking her hair, the same golden color as Molly’s. “I know. I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault,” she choked. Then shuddered out a breath and lifted her chin. And stared. “You’re . . . Are you . . . Are you the chef?”
He had to smile. “I am. Gabe Hebert. I’m . . . well, I’m working with Molly.”
She braved a smile back, but it was faint. “Nice to meet you, Gabe. I’m Chelsea.”
He stroked her hair once more. “Where’s Harper?”
She swallowed hard. “Behind the door.” She tried to stand but was apparently suffering the same rubbery legs that he had. He extended a hand and helped her to her feet, waiting as she opened the bedroom door and rushed inside. “Harper? Baby?”
There wasn’t a sound. Then Gabe heard it.
“Mommy?”
It was coming from the closet. Chelsea ran and flung the door open and once again, Gabe thought his heart would break. Harper had hidden herself under a pile of clothes. The clothes were shaking. Chelsea began pulling them off her until she revealed a small girl with golden curls, her eyes clenched shut, her little tearstained face scrunched up in fear.
She held a steak knife in her trembling hands.
“Honey,” Chelsea murmured. “It’s Mommy. Give me the knife.” She slowly reached for the utensil, and the child gave it up willingly.
She’d had the knife in her room, Gabe realized, and his breaking heart cracked wide open. She’d been assaulted before and was prepared to defend herself.
She was only eight years old.
Suddenly the rage geysered out of him and he stalked from the room, ready to kick the sick sonofabitch Tobin in the head. Bad enough that the child had been hurt by her own father, but to be terrorized by this asshole . . .
Molly wasn’t in the living room. But Tobin lay on his side, hands still restrained. His ankles had been bound as well and Molly had trussed him up with what looked like a phone charging cord.
“Molly?” Gabe called.
“With Lucien,” she called back.
Good. No one was around to see him kick Tobin’s brain in.
But then Molly rushed back into the room and his cell phone began to buzz. It was a number he didn’t recognize, so he let it go to voice mail.
“We need to go,” Molly said grimly. “Burke called 911 and the cops still aren’t here. Something’s wrong, and I don’t want to wait around for more of these goons to come for Chelsea and Harper.”
“What about Lucien?”
“He says he’ll be okay, and André is on his way.”
“But Lucien’s bleeding.”
Molly stopped in front of him, meeting his gaze squarely. “Lucien will last until André gets here and the medics come. He’s sitting up, he’s lucid, and he’s telling us to go. With all of these gunshots, someone else will have called 911 by now. The cops are coming, and I don’t know if they’ll be good guys or not. We need to go. Now. Once we get Chelsea and Harper to safety, I’ll come back for Lucien.”
Gabe pointed at Tobin. “What about him?”
“André will take care of him. Come on. There’s a fire escape in the back. I might need help getting Chelsea and Harper down it.” She rushed to the bedroom, ignoring Tobin like he didn’t exist, Shoe at her heels. “Chels, pack your meds. We’re getting out of here. Now.”
Gabe stopped, though, kneeling to whisper, “I would have killed you and not lost a wink of sleep.” Although he wasn’t so certain that was true. It was one thing to want to and quite another to have to live with having done so, as Molly could attest. He might have actually killed the guy downstairs, but adrenaline had the thought muted for the moment. He’d have to deal with that later. “Who are you working for?”
The man just grinned. “Enjoy the hours you have left, Hebert. There won’t be many.”
Gabe didn’t answer, but knew they had to do something in case Tobin escaped again. He dug Tobin’s cell phone from his pants pocket and held it up to the man’s face before he could close his eyes.
The phone unlocked, and Gabe went straight to his texts. The most recent was the most damning, with instructions to head to Molly’s address and invite the sister and niece for a “ride.”
“Who’s Jackass?” he asked, noting the name attached to the sender.
“None of your fuckin’ business,” Tobin snarled, struggling against his bonds, but to no avail. “Put my phone down. You’re not allowed to look at it.”
Ignoring him, Gabe took screenshots of the text, the sender’s contact information, and the screen in Tobin’s settings that listed all of the model numbers and stuff. He thought about what else that Antoine might need. Oh. Tobin’s phone number would be nice.
He found that screen, took a screenshot, then sent all of the screenshots to Molly’s burner. Then he wiped his prints from the phone. Using Tobin’s own shirt to grip it without leaving more prints, he shoved it back into Tobin’s pocket.
He knew that Antoine could probably unlock the phone without Tobin’s face, and that they’d get a lot of information from it, but he didn’t want to tamper any more with a crime scene than he’d already done. He didn’t want to do anything that could corrupt the DA’s case against the bastard. His father had drilled that into him. Good police work resulted in solid cases, which delivered unappealable convictions.
He’d have to trust that André would do the right thing. That the system would still somehow work. His father had given his entire life in the service of others. Surely that had to count for something.
Surely there were other cops who would do the same.
“Gabe?” Molly called urgently. “We need to go.”
He took one last look at Tobin, allowed himself one last fantasy of killing the man, then he followed Molly to the fire escape.
Chelsea was waiting at the fire escape, balancing a trembling Harper in her arms along with a small overnight bag. Shoe hovered at her side, his nose pressed to the back of Harper’s leg.
Gabe took the bag. “Can I carry Harper?” he asked.
Chelsea shook her head. “She’s too scared.”
Molly went down the first few steps, her gaze searching the darkness, her gun clutched in her hand. “Come on,” she hissed. “Now.”
Chelsea started down the fire escape, but the stairs were steep and she wobbled. Spurred by Molly’s urgency, Gabe scooped the child from Chelsea’s arms. “Go,” he told her. “Harper, I’m a friend of your aunt Molly’s. My name is Gabe. This is Shoe. He’s a good dog. We’re going to get you downstairs, then I’ll give you back to your mom. Okay?”
Harper’s nod was faint, but clear, so Gabe hefted her to his hip and started down the stairs. Shoe followed, slowing when his paws skittered on the grated steps. “Good boy,” he murmured when Shoe took the final four stairs in a single leap, his tail wagging.
When they got to the bottom of the stairs, he looked for Molly, who emerged from the garage, scowling. “Our borrowed car is gone,” she said harshly.
“Somebody stole it?” Gabe demanded. “Who was left to do that? We took care of all of them.”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to take my chances that there’s someone down here to catch us. Come on. We’ll take Chelsea’s car and hope they don’t know our license plate numbers.”
21
Central Business District, New Orleans, Louisiana
THURSDAY, JULY 28, 1:35 A.M.
Gabe had taken only two steps toward the garage when he heard the quick tap of a car horn. Spinning toward the street, he saw their borrowed car—and Farrah getting out of the driver’s seat to wave them over.
Molly put her arm around Chelsea, urging her along. “It’s okay. She’s a friend.”
Gabe followed, poor little Harper’s arms wrapped around his neck so tightly that he was having trouble breathing. But he let her. She was eight years old, and she was terrified.
She was just recovering from the last bastard who’d touched her. Her own father. She’d already heard two gunfights—when her father shot her grandfather and when her father had been shot by her aunt, who’d been protecting her mother. Now this? How would she ever feel safe again? He hoped like hell for a miracle, for Harper’s sake. He knew few children her age and had no idea how their minds worked. Had no idea how much they could experience and . . . bounce back? Was that even possible?
Molly helped Chelsea into the back seat and Gabe handed Harper over as gently as he could. The child clung for a heartbreaking moment before leaping into her mother’s arms. Molly got in after them and Shoe jumped in, all on his own, quickly moving over their feet to be closest to Harper. By the time Gabe was in the front seat, the dog had laid his head on Harper’s knee.
Such a good dog.
“Buckle up,” Farrah said. “We’re out of here.” She pulled away from the curb as a call came through on her phone. She answered, putting it to her ear. “I got them. They’re okay. They came out down the fire escape.” She glanced at Gabe, with a slight shake of her head. “Made more noise than a herd of elephants. I could hear them over the car’s engine, but I didn’t see anyone around, so I don’t think anyone else did.”
Gabe winced. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Farrah just smiled, handing him the phone. “André wants to talk to you. Take a deep breath, Gabe. Everyone is okay.”
Everyone but the bodies they’d left behind and poor Lucien, Gabe thought with a flutter of fear now that they were away from the scene. He thought about the man he’d shot. How he’d fallen. How much he was bleeding.
He suddenly knew exactly how Xavier had felt Monday night. I might have killed someone.
In fact, it was highly likely he’d done so.
But he didn’t regret it. Not for a single moment. Because Molly was still breathing. “Hey,” he said to André. “Where are you?”
“In Molly’s apartment. I must have come up the stairs as you went down the fire escape. I nearly had a heart attack when I found the place empty. Do you have any injuries?”
“No. Thank God.”
“Ask him about Lucien,” Molly said from behind him.
“He’s fine,” André answered, evidently hearing her. “He’s still bleeding, but Molly got the worst of it stopped before you guys ran.”
Gabe should have known Molly wouldn’t leave her colleague injured without trying to fix him up. “Good. I’ve been feeling guilty for leaving him.”
“You did the right thing. Lucien can’t make it down the stairs without a stretcher. Don’t worry, I’ve got medics coming. Tell Molly that I found him on his hands and knees in her living room, holding his gun on that bastard she left hog-tied. He’d crawled in from the hallway.”
“I’ll tell her. What happened, André? Burke called the cops. Why didn’t they come?”
“Good question,” he said grimly. “I’m going to find out. And Mr. Tobin won’t be escaping again. I promise you that.”
Gabe really wanted to believe him. He knew that if it was at all under André’s control, it would be true. “Thank you. Where are we going?”
“Back to our camp,” André said. “I’ve called on a few guys I trust to stand guard. And Farrah’s become very proficient with a rifle recently. Don’t let her sweet smile fool you. That woman of mine is brave.”
“Never a doubt,” Gabe said truthfully. “Does Burke know where we are?”
“He will. I’m calling him as soon as I hang up with you. I’m waiting for my team to arrive to secure the scene. There’s quite a lot of blood here.”
“None of it ours. Just Lucien’s and the pr—” He cut himself off from saying pricks because there was a child in the car, and his mother had raised him right. “And the men who came after Chelsea and Harper.”
“I’ll need your statements soon, but for now take a breath and try to relax. I’ll make sure that Lucien gets to the hospital, but after that I have a lot of work to do. I may not call you for a while. And I’ll need to interview you and Molly sooner versus later. I’ll try to do it at our camp, but I may have to bring you two downtown. Can you ask her if there are security cameras?”
Gabe turned in his seat to see Molly stroking Harper’s hair with a hand that trembled. “André wants to know if there are any security cameras in your building.”
She nodded. “Several. One in the garage, one in the stairwell, and one at each landing. The feed is saved to a hard drive in the building owner’s apartment, which is the unit below ours.” Her hand abruptly stopped stroking Harper’s hair, flying to cover her own mouth. “Oh God. Mr. Wilkins. I didn’t even check on him. He’s an old man. Can you have André see if he’s okay? If he’d heard the gunshots, he definitely would have tried to help us. That he didn’t? I . . . Please, just ask André to check on him.”
“I’ll do that right now,” André promised when Gabe relayed the information. “So that I’m prepared, who is responsible for the three bodies I had to step over on my way up the stairs?”
Bodies. Shit. “Is the man in the garage—” He broke it off, not wanting to say dead around Harper.
“Dead?” André asked. “He is.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Gabe swallowed hard, bile burning his throat. I killed a man. “The, um, the man in the garage was mine, but I was aiming for his shoulder.”
“Damn, Gabe.” André sounded impressed. “The guy on the stairs?”
“Lucien.”
“And the guy on the landing outside Molly’s place?”
“Molly.”
“That she didn’t kill the bastard on her living room floor was a testament to her good nature,” André muttered.
“His ID says he’s Nicholas Tobin.”
“I know. I saw it. He said that you tampered with his phone.”
“I did not.” He wasn’t going to admit what he had done. He wasn’t sure if texting screenshots from a killer’s phone was illegal—although he’d killed a man, so how could anything be worse than that?
I killed a man. Oh my God.
“Okay,” André said simply. “I’ll check on the building owner downstairs and let you know. Is there anyone living upstairs?”
Gabe asked Molly, and she shook her head. “Tell him that the third-floor unit is unoccupied right now.”
Gabe relayed it, then thanked André again when he said the medics had arrived for Lucien. Ending the call, he gave Farrah back her phone. “He said he’d call when he could.”
“I know the drill,” Farrah said with the sweet smile that André had mentioned.
Pressing his fingers to his temples against a headache, Gabe looked to the back seat and found a little pocket of peace. Shoe had all but climbed into Harper’s lap and she was petting him, her face pressed into the fur at his neck.
“Good boy,” Gabe said softly, and Shoe’s tail wagged. “He bit the man who was in the apartment.”
“Good boy,” Farrah echoed. “He’s a hero.”
Molly managed a tired smile and stroked Shoe’s back. “He really is.”
Gabe was startled by a buzzing in his pocket and retrieved his cell phone. Three missed calls, all from the same number that was calling him now. New dread settled on him like a shroud. “Hello?”
“This is Val, and Patty is okay.”
Tears stung Gabe’s eyes. No more, please. “What happened, and what number are you calling me from?” Although he was afraid that he already knew.
“We’re at the hospital. Patty has a mild concussion.”
Gabe scrambled to sit up straighter. “I’ll come there now.”
Farrah shot a concerned glance his way. “Go where?”
“Patty’s in the hospital,” he said, hearing his own fear.
“No, you will not come to the hospital,” Val snapped. “For all we know, that’s what they’re hoping you’ll do so that they can shoot you on your way inside. I said that she’s okay, and I’m not lying to you. She’s had a CT scan and everything.”
“A CT scan?” Gabe asked, his voice ratcheting higher. “What happened?”
Two hands covered his shoulders, kneading softly. Molly. Hell of it was, her touch really helped. She was uniquely able to settle him.
“They sent two men after Patty,” Val said. “I stopped them.”
There was so much to unpack from those two sentences. “Where are they now?”
Quickly she restrained his hands, then roughly flipped him to his back. “Who are you?” she demanded coldly.
The man pursed his lips, saying nothing. She gripped her gun and shoved it to his temple. “All three of the others are dead. Start talking or you’re next. Who. Are. You?”
“Maybe he has ID in his wallet,” Gabe said mildly.
Molly’s gaze flicked up to him, then she laughed. “Shit.” Gripping the shoulder of the arm she’d shot and making the man moan, she rolled him to his side so that she could get his wallet. “Here’s his license. Gabe, you’re a genius. He used a fake ID when he posed as Paul Lott, so who knows if this one’s real—but if it is, he’s Nicholas Tobin.” She set the license aside. “Never heard of you. Who hired you?”
Tobin shook his head. “Kill me if you want.”
But there was fear in his eyes. Molly hadn’t missed it, either. “Gabe, can you check on my sister? You okay over there, Chels?”
“Yes,” Chelsea said, the word coming out on a sob.
Now that the danger had passed, Gabe focused his attention on Molly’s sister. She’d slid down the door and was huddled on the floor, her face pressed against her knees, her arms wrapped around her legs. The gun was on the floor at her side, and her body shook with sobs that broke his damn heart.
“Chelsea?” He knelt beside her, afraid to touch her. “I’m Gabe. Are you hurt?”
She shook her head without lifting it. “No. He . . . Oh my God.”
He chanced a touch, gently stroking her hair, the same golden color as Molly’s. “I know. I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault,” she choked. Then shuddered out a breath and lifted her chin. And stared. “You’re . . . Are you . . . Are you the chef?”
He had to smile. “I am. Gabe Hebert. I’m . . . well, I’m working with Molly.”
She braved a smile back, but it was faint. “Nice to meet you, Gabe. I’m Chelsea.”
He stroked her hair once more. “Where’s Harper?”
She swallowed hard. “Behind the door.” She tried to stand but was apparently suffering the same rubbery legs that he had. He extended a hand and helped her to her feet, waiting as she opened the bedroom door and rushed inside. “Harper? Baby?”
There wasn’t a sound. Then Gabe heard it.
“Mommy?”
It was coming from the closet. Chelsea ran and flung the door open and once again, Gabe thought his heart would break. Harper had hidden herself under a pile of clothes. The clothes were shaking. Chelsea began pulling them off her until she revealed a small girl with golden curls, her eyes clenched shut, her little tearstained face scrunched up in fear.
She held a steak knife in her trembling hands.
“Honey,” Chelsea murmured. “It’s Mommy. Give me the knife.” She slowly reached for the utensil, and the child gave it up willingly.
She’d had the knife in her room, Gabe realized, and his breaking heart cracked wide open. She’d been assaulted before and was prepared to defend herself.
She was only eight years old.
Suddenly the rage geysered out of him and he stalked from the room, ready to kick the sick sonofabitch Tobin in the head. Bad enough that the child had been hurt by her own father, but to be terrorized by this asshole . . .
Molly wasn’t in the living room. But Tobin lay on his side, hands still restrained. His ankles had been bound as well and Molly had trussed him up with what looked like a phone charging cord.
“Molly?” Gabe called.
“With Lucien,” she called back.
Good. No one was around to see him kick Tobin’s brain in.
But then Molly rushed back into the room and his cell phone began to buzz. It was a number he didn’t recognize, so he let it go to voice mail.
“We need to go,” Molly said grimly. “Burke called 911 and the cops still aren’t here. Something’s wrong, and I don’t want to wait around for more of these goons to come for Chelsea and Harper.”
“What about Lucien?”
“He says he’ll be okay, and André is on his way.”
“But Lucien’s bleeding.”
Molly stopped in front of him, meeting his gaze squarely. “Lucien will last until André gets here and the medics come. He’s sitting up, he’s lucid, and he’s telling us to go. With all of these gunshots, someone else will have called 911 by now. The cops are coming, and I don’t know if they’ll be good guys or not. We need to go. Now. Once we get Chelsea and Harper to safety, I’ll come back for Lucien.”
Gabe pointed at Tobin. “What about him?”
“André will take care of him. Come on. There’s a fire escape in the back. I might need help getting Chelsea and Harper down it.” She rushed to the bedroom, ignoring Tobin like he didn’t exist, Shoe at her heels. “Chels, pack your meds. We’re getting out of here. Now.”
Gabe stopped, though, kneeling to whisper, “I would have killed you and not lost a wink of sleep.” Although he wasn’t so certain that was true. It was one thing to want to and quite another to have to live with having done so, as Molly could attest. He might have actually killed the guy downstairs, but adrenaline had the thought muted for the moment. He’d have to deal with that later. “Who are you working for?”
The man just grinned. “Enjoy the hours you have left, Hebert. There won’t be many.”
Gabe didn’t answer, but knew they had to do something in case Tobin escaped again. He dug Tobin’s cell phone from his pants pocket and held it up to the man’s face before he could close his eyes.
The phone unlocked, and Gabe went straight to his texts. The most recent was the most damning, with instructions to head to Molly’s address and invite the sister and niece for a “ride.”
“Who’s Jackass?” he asked, noting the name attached to the sender.
“None of your fuckin’ business,” Tobin snarled, struggling against his bonds, but to no avail. “Put my phone down. You’re not allowed to look at it.”
Ignoring him, Gabe took screenshots of the text, the sender’s contact information, and the screen in Tobin’s settings that listed all of the model numbers and stuff. He thought about what else that Antoine might need. Oh. Tobin’s phone number would be nice.
He found that screen, took a screenshot, then sent all of the screenshots to Molly’s burner. Then he wiped his prints from the phone. Using Tobin’s own shirt to grip it without leaving more prints, he shoved it back into Tobin’s pocket.
He knew that Antoine could probably unlock the phone without Tobin’s face, and that they’d get a lot of information from it, but he didn’t want to tamper any more with a crime scene than he’d already done. He didn’t want to do anything that could corrupt the DA’s case against the bastard. His father had drilled that into him. Good police work resulted in solid cases, which delivered unappealable convictions.
He’d have to trust that André would do the right thing. That the system would still somehow work. His father had given his entire life in the service of others. Surely that had to count for something.
Surely there were other cops who would do the same.
“Gabe?” Molly called urgently. “We need to go.”
He took one last look at Tobin, allowed himself one last fantasy of killing the man, then he followed Molly to the fire escape.
Chelsea was waiting at the fire escape, balancing a trembling Harper in her arms along with a small overnight bag. Shoe hovered at her side, his nose pressed to the back of Harper’s leg.
Gabe took the bag. “Can I carry Harper?” he asked.
Chelsea shook her head. “She’s too scared.”
Molly went down the first few steps, her gaze searching the darkness, her gun clutched in her hand. “Come on,” she hissed. “Now.”
Chelsea started down the fire escape, but the stairs were steep and she wobbled. Spurred by Molly’s urgency, Gabe scooped the child from Chelsea’s arms. “Go,” he told her. “Harper, I’m a friend of your aunt Molly’s. My name is Gabe. This is Shoe. He’s a good dog. We’re going to get you downstairs, then I’ll give you back to your mom. Okay?”
Harper’s nod was faint, but clear, so Gabe hefted her to his hip and started down the stairs. Shoe followed, slowing when his paws skittered on the grated steps. “Good boy,” he murmured when Shoe took the final four stairs in a single leap, his tail wagging.
When they got to the bottom of the stairs, he looked for Molly, who emerged from the garage, scowling. “Our borrowed car is gone,” she said harshly.
“Somebody stole it?” Gabe demanded. “Who was left to do that? We took care of all of them.”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to take my chances that there’s someone down here to catch us. Come on. We’ll take Chelsea’s car and hope they don’t know our license plate numbers.”
21
Central Business District, New Orleans, Louisiana
THURSDAY, JULY 28, 1:35 A.M.
Gabe had taken only two steps toward the garage when he heard the quick tap of a car horn. Spinning toward the street, he saw their borrowed car—and Farrah getting out of the driver’s seat to wave them over.
Molly put her arm around Chelsea, urging her along. “It’s okay. She’s a friend.”
Gabe followed, poor little Harper’s arms wrapped around his neck so tightly that he was having trouble breathing. But he let her. She was eight years old, and she was terrified.
She was just recovering from the last bastard who’d touched her. Her own father. She’d already heard two gunfights—when her father shot her grandfather and when her father had been shot by her aunt, who’d been protecting her mother. Now this? How would she ever feel safe again? He hoped like hell for a miracle, for Harper’s sake. He knew few children her age and had no idea how their minds worked. Had no idea how much they could experience and . . . bounce back? Was that even possible?
Molly helped Chelsea into the back seat and Gabe handed Harper over as gently as he could. The child clung for a heartbreaking moment before leaping into her mother’s arms. Molly got in after them and Shoe jumped in, all on his own, quickly moving over their feet to be closest to Harper. By the time Gabe was in the front seat, the dog had laid his head on Harper’s knee.
Such a good dog.
“Buckle up,” Farrah said. “We’re out of here.” She pulled away from the curb as a call came through on her phone. She answered, putting it to her ear. “I got them. They’re okay. They came out down the fire escape.” She glanced at Gabe, with a slight shake of her head. “Made more noise than a herd of elephants. I could hear them over the car’s engine, but I didn’t see anyone around, so I don’t think anyone else did.”
Gabe winced. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Farrah just smiled, handing him the phone. “André wants to talk to you. Take a deep breath, Gabe. Everyone is okay.”
Everyone but the bodies they’d left behind and poor Lucien, Gabe thought with a flutter of fear now that they were away from the scene. He thought about the man he’d shot. How he’d fallen. How much he was bleeding.
He suddenly knew exactly how Xavier had felt Monday night. I might have killed someone.
In fact, it was highly likely he’d done so.
But he didn’t regret it. Not for a single moment. Because Molly was still breathing. “Hey,” he said to André. “Where are you?”
“In Molly’s apartment. I must have come up the stairs as you went down the fire escape. I nearly had a heart attack when I found the place empty. Do you have any injuries?”
“No. Thank God.”
“Ask him about Lucien,” Molly said from behind him.
“He’s fine,” André answered, evidently hearing her. “He’s still bleeding, but Molly got the worst of it stopped before you guys ran.”
Gabe should have known Molly wouldn’t leave her colleague injured without trying to fix him up. “Good. I’ve been feeling guilty for leaving him.”
“You did the right thing. Lucien can’t make it down the stairs without a stretcher. Don’t worry, I’ve got medics coming. Tell Molly that I found him on his hands and knees in her living room, holding his gun on that bastard she left hog-tied. He’d crawled in from the hallway.”
“I’ll tell her. What happened, André? Burke called the cops. Why didn’t they come?”
“Good question,” he said grimly. “I’m going to find out. And Mr. Tobin won’t be escaping again. I promise you that.”
Gabe really wanted to believe him. He knew that if it was at all under André’s control, it would be true. “Thank you. Where are we going?”
“Back to our camp,” André said. “I’ve called on a few guys I trust to stand guard. And Farrah’s become very proficient with a rifle recently. Don’t let her sweet smile fool you. That woman of mine is brave.”
“Never a doubt,” Gabe said truthfully. “Does Burke know where we are?”
“He will. I’m calling him as soon as I hang up with you. I’m waiting for my team to arrive to secure the scene. There’s quite a lot of blood here.”
“None of it ours. Just Lucien’s and the pr—” He cut himself off from saying pricks because there was a child in the car, and his mother had raised him right. “And the men who came after Chelsea and Harper.”
“I’ll need your statements soon, but for now take a breath and try to relax. I’ll make sure that Lucien gets to the hospital, but after that I have a lot of work to do. I may not call you for a while. And I’ll need to interview you and Molly sooner versus later. I’ll try to do it at our camp, but I may have to bring you two downtown. Can you ask her if there are security cameras?”
Gabe turned in his seat to see Molly stroking Harper’s hair with a hand that trembled. “André wants to know if there are any security cameras in your building.”
She nodded. “Several. One in the garage, one in the stairwell, and one at each landing. The feed is saved to a hard drive in the building owner’s apartment, which is the unit below ours.” Her hand abruptly stopped stroking Harper’s hair, flying to cover her own mouth. “Oh God. Mr. Wilkins. I didn’t even check on him. He’s an old man. Can you have André see if he’s okay? If he’d heard the gunshots, he definitely would have tried to help us. That he didn’t? I . . . Please, just ask André to check on him.”
“I’ll do that right now,” André promised when Gabe relayed the information. “So that I’m prepared, who is responsible for the three bodies I had to step over on my way up the stairs?”
Bodies. Shit. “Is the man in the garage—” He broke it off, not wanting to say dead around Harper.
“Dead?” André asked. “He is.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Gabe swallowed hard, bile burning his throat. I killed a man. “The, um, the man in the garage was mine, but I was aiming for his shoulder.”
“Damn, Gabe.” André sounded impressed. “The guy on the stairs?”
“Lucien.”
“And the guy on the landing outside Molly’s place?”
“Molly.”
“That she didn’t kill the bastard on her living room floor was a testament to her good nature,” André muttered.
“His ID says he’s Nicholas Tobin.”
“I know. I saw it. He said that you tampered with his phone.”
“I did not.” He wasn’t going to admit what he had done. He wasn’t sure if texting screenshots from a killer’s phone was illegal—although he’d killed a man, so how could anything be worse than that?
I killed a man. Oh my God.
“Okay,” André said simply. “I’ll check on the building owner downstairs and let you know. Is there anyone living upstairs?”
Gabe asked Molly, and she shook her head. “Tell him that the third-floor unit is unoccupied right now.”
Gabe relayed it, then thanked André again when he said the medics had arrived for Lucien. Ending the call, he gave Farrah back her phone. “He said he’d call when he could.”
“I know the drill,” Farrah said with the sweet smile that André had mentioned.
Pressing his fingers to his temples against a headache, Gabe looked to the back seat and found a little pocket of peace. Shoe had all but climbed into Harper’s lap and she was petting him, her face pressed into the fur at his neck.
“Good boy,” Gabe said softly, and Shoe’s tail wagged. “He bit the man who was in the apartment.”
“Good boy,” Farrah echoed. “He’s a hero.”
Molly managed a tired smile and stroked Shoe’s back. “He really is.”
Gabe was startled by a buzzing in his pocket and retrieved his cell phone. Three missed calls, all from the same number that was calling him now. New dread settled on him like a shroud. “Hello?”
“This is Val, and Patty is okay.”
Tears stung Gabe’s eyes. No more, please. “What happened, and what number are you calling me from?” Although he was afraid that he already knew.
“We’re at the hospital. Patty has a mild concussion.”
Gabe scrambled to sit up straighter. “I’ll come there now.”
Farrah shot a concerned glance his way. “Go where?”
“Patty’s in the hospital,” he said, hearing his own fear.
“No, you will not come to the hospital,” Val snapped. “For all we know, that’s what they’re hoping you’ll do so that they can shoot you on your way inside. I said that she’s okay, and I’m not lying to you. She’s had a CT scan and everything.”
“A CT scan?” Gabe asked, his voice ratcheting higher. “What happened?”
Two hands covered his shoulders, kneading softly. Molly. Hell of it was, her touch really helped. She was uniquely able to settle him.
“They sent two men after Patty,” Val said. “I stopped them.”
There was so much to unpack from those two sentences. “Where are they now?”
