Superior Collision Page 9

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m good.” Liar, liar. She was a mess—Joe Pompa, Jared Manning, her case, and the sergeant all churning around her mind. Her head and her eyes went all syphon on her. She braced her free hand on the wall next to her bed so she wouldn’t keel over.

  Shannon gave a little sigh and she pictured him stretched out on a bed that wasn’t hers. Naked. Thick biceps. Pecs, abs, hard thighs…

  Her stomach fluttered and she hollered at herself not to go there.

  “I had a great time tonight.” The smile was evident in his voice.

  Just like that, her body loosened and she felt lighter. Was able to breathe easier, too. Taylor focused on his words. “Me too. Really. Thanks.” She straightened from the wall and sat on the side of the bed she always slept on. Imagined Shannon on the other side, then screamed at herself for it.

  “I’m glad you called,” he said.

  “I’m glad you called me back.”

  “Always.”

  Taylor believed him. Her stomach fluttered and her pulse picked up.

  He started talking, like he had when he’d been at her place. About anything and everything, his mom, his niece, his day at court and the frustrating trial. All things he hadn’t said before, giving her more insight into what she already knew.

  Shannon Crowley was a great guy.

  She concentrated on his words, relaxing into her comforter and pillows. Taylor closed her eyes and let his deep voice wash over her.

  It didn’t matter what he was saying. It mattered that he wasn’t pressuring her to say anything back.

  She laughed at a funny story he told about a traffic stop a few years back, and an unwanted nickname from his partner. Made worse by the bunch of cops he worked with. “Should I just start calling you Angel?”

  Shannon growled, and she grinned.

  “Is that a no?”

  “I can’t believe I told you that. I can’t believe I told you I’m into the girliest exercise ever, either.”

  Taylor laughed again. “What can I say, people always spill their guts to me.” She gripped her phone tight to her ear and felt…great.

  He chuckled. “I don’t doubt it. You’re good at your job.” He paused. “You should laugh more often, Special Agent. I like the sound of it.”

  Her heart skipped and she sucked in a quick breath. “Thanks,” she whispered, but it had a breathless edge she didn’t like.

  What was this man doing to her?

  She should hang up.

  Now.

  Instinct told her losing control was bad.

  Shannon Crowley was tempting, and she didn’t need tempting in her life, especially not right now.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Just do me a favor and stay in the car.” Taylor tried not to glare or bark at Holman. The last thing she wanted to do was take a long drive to interview a man she couldn’t look in the eye. The forced tagalong made it worse, even if it was his idea. Maybe that was the worst thing of all. “I need coffee.”

  “Will it make you nicer?”

  She paused, her hand still on the Charger’s handle. Taylor smirked and met his gaze. “So, look who’s a smartass? We might get along after all.”

  Holman arched a fair eyebrow. “Really? I see you as more stiff and proper than sarcastic.”

  Taylor blinked. What the hell?

  Basically, his words were the polite way of saying she had a stick up her ass. Nothing she hadn’t heard before. Although, she certainly hadn’t seen her new partner as a guy with balls who could speak his mind when she was in bitch-mode.

  She smiled, slowly. Then got out of the car without another word.

  Taylor heard Holman’s laughter as she headed toward the convenience store’s double glass doors. If the kid could keep her on her toes maybe she wouldn’t have to plot his demise more than once or twice a week.

  The cappuccino machine was calling her name. Taylor threw the clerk a nod when the man greeted her. He was cashing out a trucker-looking guy who winked when she walked by.

  They had a four hour drive to Texarkana, and she wanted to get there and get back, so she’d ordered Holman to meet her at six. The kid had complied, looking sharp and smelling annoyingly good.

  Not as good as Shannon had last night.

  She shuddered and forbade herself from further thought of the sergeant.

  It didn’t work.

  Taylor had more than enjoyed spending the evening with him, not to mention talking to him on the phone until almost ten. She’d showered and obsessed about the shower he’d mentioned, and had had naughty thoughts about kissing him in her shower, touching him. Shannon touching her back.

  Things that could never happen.

  He was obviously interested in her in a way she couldn’t handle. She’d have to shut him down gently. Never should’ve asked him to dinner. Shouldn’t have called him, either.

  She sighed. It wasn’t something she’d be fond of doing, but she’d have to. Taylor wasn’t about to hop in bed with him, no matter what her hormones wanted her to do.

  What she’d had with John, she’d never have again.

  What am I even thinking? She’d spent one evening—two if she counted the accidental dinner—with the man. He’d kissed her, not asked her to marry him.

  She’d run an extra mile on the treadmill that morning to try to forget about the previous two nights, but it hadn’t worked for shit. Shannon Crowley’s amber eyes and charming dimple wouldn’t stop haunting her.

  Taylor cursed at herself as she plucked a container from the rack.

  The bell above the door sounded once more, but she didn’t look up from the liquid salvation filling her twenty-four ounce cup. The scent of French Vanilla enveloped her senses and her mouth watered. She was looking forward to the first sip.

  “Give me all the money! Hurry, man!”

  Taylor released the button on the cappuccino machine. She backed up and whirled around, ducking behind a rack of sweets. She couldn’t see the counter from where she was in the back of the store, but she was pretty sure they couldn’t see her, either.

  “Seriously, this isn’t a water gun, get moving.”

  A hooded figure wearing all black waved a small revolver around. It looked to be a snubnosed thirty-eight caliber. Or maybe a twenty-two.

  A holdup before seven a.m.? Really? So much for my French Vanilla.

  The poor clerk shoved money into a plastic bag from his own counter while the robber ranted.

  The doorbell sounded and Taylor cursed again. More people were the last thing this situation needed.

  “Get out! Now! Or I’ll shoot your ass!” The robber waved his gun at the would-be shopper. “If you call the cops, I’ll find you and kill you!”

  A feminine shriek sounded, then the door’s bell again as she no doubt made a hurried exit.

  Taylor scanned the aisles she could see. No one else seemed to be in the store.

  Good.

  She drew her Glock from her waistband holster, holding her breath as the leather creaked and the snap of the strap resounded in her ears.

  “Hurry! You’re taking too long. What’re you reaching for? Don’t move! I’ll shoot you!”

  Oh God, don’t be a hero, she ordered the clerk, praying he didn’t have a gun under the counter.

  “N-n-nothing, man!” The clerk’s hands flew up. He dropped the bag of money to the floor behind the counter.

  Whether on purpose or by accident, it gave Taylor the chance she needed to slip closer.

  The thug cursed and jumped over the red Formica top after his prize.

  The clerk backed up, keeping his palms up. His eyes widened when he saw her.

  She pressed her index finger into her lips and shook her head. Then she raised her forty and called, “Federal Agent! Come out slowly, and drop the gun!”

  Of course, the thug stayed low, popping his gun up and taking a wild shot.

  Taylor dove to the floor, cursing. Her ears rang fro
m the loud burst of the small weapon. She slid behind the nearest display.

  He took another shot and a window shattered.

  Sirens sounded in the distance.

  The runner had probably called nine-one-one. Or maybe Holman had.

  The clerk was nowhere in sight. He’d probably slipped down the hallway and into the back. Hopefully he had a way out of the building from there.

  Her phone was vibrating wildly in her right pocket, but Taylor ignored it. She flexed her hands on the grip of her gun. “We don’t have to do this the hard way,” she yelled.

  Another gunshot was the only answer.

  Three down, two to go.

  Unless he had another weapon, the small revolver should only have two more bullets. Hopefully he didn’t have extra ammo or a speed loader.

  “Come on out, so we can talk,” Taylor urged.

  “Yeah, right, bitch. So you can shoot me?”

  “No one has to get hurt here.” As she spoke, she moved forward, her guard—and her gun—held high. She wasn’t going to get anywhere yelling around the corner, and was betting, maybe praying, that the guy only had two more shots.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” the robber yelled, popping to his feet and hopping over the counter. He aimed the revolver at Taylor’s chest.

  “Put the gun down. This doesn’t have to go down like this.” She swallowed and kept her voice as even as she could. She hadn’t been on the wrong side of a gun barrel since that night.

  Unwanted memories ambushed her. Joe Pompa yelling, waving around his brother’s forty-caliber Sig, while he had Detective Jared Manning pinned to his chest, using him as a human shield.

  No. Focus.

  Taylor couldn’t afford distraction. She had a gun in her face.

  “Freeze! FBI!”

  The gunman startled at Holman’s voice, but he didn’t take more than a half-second to recover. He charged Taylor, putting his knee into her stomach.

  Pain rushed up, air breached her lips, and she fought against doubling over. Her Glock went flying. Before she could blink, metal bit at her temple and a strong arm seized her chest.

  The bastard was tall, and she was only five-one. His arm was like a vise, holding her so hard she couldn’t breathe. Her arms were pinned to her sides, to boot.

  Holman cursed. “Let her go!”

  “I’ll kill her.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  Unfamiliar panic flipped Taylor’s stomach. The longer she couldn’t catch her breath, the more her head spun. She blinked to clear her vision. Moisture burned the corners of her eyes and she gasped for air.

  Get it together. Now.

  She never lost her cool in a stressful situation.

  “I will kill her.” To illustrate his point, now he ground the revolver’s short barrel into her cheek.

  Taylor struggled, but he held her tighter. “If you have a shot, take it,” she pushed out to her partner. Sirens wailed, not far off now.

  “You bitches called the cops,” the thug barked.

  She winced when spittle hit her face. Taylor tried to lean away from the gun’s muzzle, but the man jerked her against him. It put more compression on her aching chest, and she had to pant to get any air.

  “You shot the window out, they were gonna come anyway. Think this through. The longer you have her, the worse this is going to be for you. Let her go, we can work this out.”

  “I’ll just kill you both and it’ll be fine for me.” With each word, the guy squeezed Taylor. His forearm inched up, until he held her across the throat. His large hand clamped down over her shoulder, pinning her to him.

  She had to cough to breathe. Her face was hot, searing. Taylor could smell the guy’s sweat and feel his overheated body through her jacket. He was so strong—probably on something, even though his voice wasn’t slurred, or his movements unsure.

  “How you doin’, partner?” Holman asked, but his eyes stayed trained on her captor.

  “Could stand here all day,” Taylor croaked.

  Her partner smirked.

  The rush of booted feet made her wince. Cops would just freak the robber out even more.

  “Police! Freeze!”

  A few uniformed members of Dallas’ finest entered the store the same way Holman had—through the large broken window. One aimed at her and the bad guy, and the other aimed at her partner.

  The robber started to scream, pressing the revolver into Taylor’s head so hard pain bit back. She had to blink through the pressure to see anything.

  “I’ll kill her right now. I’ll shoot all you fucking pigs!”

  “FBI!” Holman shouted, but he didn’t move. “He’s got my partner. I got this, back off.”

  Taylor wiggled, trying to take advantage of the hollering cops and her captor’s movements. Tried to make space between them.

  He cursed and slammed her backwards.

  Her head bounced off his shoulder. It made her head spin, her vision dance. She tightened all her muscles. She refused to pass out.

  “Stop moving, bitch, or it’s over.”

  “You heard what the man said, back off, guys,” one of the officers yelled, but the cops didn’t leave. They retreated, still aiming at Taylor and her captor. Some hovered just inside the store, and a few others right outside the broken window.

  The distance calmed the thug, but he smacked his lips and screamed obscenities. He kept moving his gun back and forth, holding it on Taylor, then her partner, only to start the cycle over.

  “Carrigan, hold tight. I got this.” Holman’s voice was hard, but even. Her partner was unmovable. A machine.

  Her heart thundered, and it had little to do with the robber’s iron grip. Holman was asking her to trust him.

  Right here. Right now.

  Could she?

  Taylor gasped as her captor took a step back, made her stumble, and once again his forearm took her breath, the pain constricting her throat and blackening her vision for a few seconds.

  She locked gazes with Holman. Would’ve nodded if she could.

  “Now!” Taylor and Holman shouted at the same time.

  The robber squealed at the same time the gunshot from Holman’s forty rang in her ears, blocking out all other sound with the strength of the boom. All she could hear was a high-pitched tone that took all her attention.

  The arm around her disappeared and Taylor fell to her knees, her arms pin-wheeling for anything to steady her but only cutting through air. Pain shot into her thighs and she braced herself on the floor, on all fours.

  Cops shouted and boots rushed passed her.

  “He’s down, hit in the shoulder!” one of the DPD cops yelled. He kicked the shiny revolver away from the robber.

  “Ambulance on the way,” another answered.

  A hand appeared in her line of vision.

  Taylor looked up, into her new partner’s very blue eyes. Then she slid her hand into his much larger one, and let him pull her to her feet. When her legs wobbled, he gripped her upper arm. She let him stabilize her. She had to cough to regulate her breathing. The burning in her chest and lungs hadn’t let up completely.

  “Are you all right?” Holman demanded.

  She nodded, and rubbed her throat.

  His gun was holstered at his side, but she’d missed him doing it. He reached out, tilting her chin up. “You’re probably going to bruise.”

  Taylor tugged away, but it was too fast and made her head spin. She wanted to snap, Don’t touch me, but she didn’t. “I’m fine,” she barked.

  “There’s my partner.”

  She glared up at his ghost of a smile, but from Holman’s expression, he didn’t give a shit.

  Chaos ensued then—cops and medics coming and going, and bystanders filling the parking lot. The clerk was back from wherever he’d been. A few moments later, a guy pulled into the parking lot demanding to know what’d happened and shouting that he was the owner of the store until the cops at the perimeter let him through.

 
Two detectives arrived and asked her and Holman to give a statement.

  There were two ambulances on scene. Taylor watched the robber get loaded up into the one on the right. He was bitching and moaning about his shoulder and declaring to sue the FBI.

  “Yeah, yeah, shut up.” The cop who climbed into the ambulance scowled as he took a seat next to the gurney.

  One of the medics slammed the doors shut, shaking his head.

  She glanced at her watch and stood beside Holman as he spoke to the detective who’d already grilled her. Soon, the female investigator thanked them, gave them her card and said she’d be in touch.

  Taylor was about to head back to her Charger when she remembered her cappuccino. “I’ll be right back!”

  She dashed into the store, grabbed a new cup and started the process over. They would have to go back to the office now. There was no way Baker wouldn’t bench Holman for a few days to conference with DPD on the investigation. He’d have to turn his weapon in, too.

  The Dallas detectives had smartly deferred to the FBI, but Taylor would’ve been fine with them handling things. She had bigger fish to fry.

  It was almost nine by now, but she still needed caffeine.

  Stupid situation was going to put her behind on what she needed to do for her case, but she’d try to persuade Baker to let her work without Holman. Maybe she’d get a few days reprieve from her new partner.

  Doubtful.

  Her boss had been pretty clear yesterday, as much as Taylor hated to admit it. She was supposed to go everywhere with Holman. But if she had to camp out at the office, she wouldn’t allow Baker to put her on admin leave, too.

  It shouldn’t be a long-drawn-out thing anyway. Along with her, five or six Dallas uniforms had witnessed the shooting. That should help expedite things. Not to mention the store video surveillance. She hoped to God it’d been recording.

  On her way out, she slapped a five dollar bill on the counter next to the register, ignoring the cops who gave her funny looks.

  When she got back to the Charger, Holman was glaring at her, arms crossed over his broad chest as he leaned on the car.

  “What?” she asked. Taylor shrugged and took a sip of heavenly French Vanilla. Flavor exploded on her tongue and she closed her eyes, inhaling her cappuccino’s scent.