for?”
Before he could answer, the drunk Fiona had ousted not more than hour ago picked that inopportune time to burst through the door, clamoring for a beer.
Fiona pushed back from the bar and said, “You don’t need to be in here, Chuck. I’m not going to serve you.”
Ignoring Fiona, Chuck staggered behind the bar. “Just one more brewsky.”
Fiona scowled at him and pointed at the door. “You’ve had enough, now leave.”
“Aw, come on, Fee-Fee.”
He was pushing his luck now. “Go home, Chuck.”
“After you give me another drink,” he slurred, bringing his foul breath with him as he leaned forward and pointed a bratwurst finger in her face.
“Do what the lady asks or you will have to answer to me.”
Fiona glanced at Scorpio who now stood by the stool, looking and sounding like a dark knight bent on coming to her rescue. And they’d said chivalry was passé. What did they know? Regardless, even if she didn’t have a black belt in karate, or any color of belt for that matter, she was quite capable of taking care of herself. “He’s harmless,” she assured him before regarding the drunk again.
When Chuck clutched Fiona’s collar in both beefy fists, Fiona grabbed his wrists and shouted, “Back off!” thrusting her knee upward toward the intended target, but Chuck moved back before she could do any damage. No, not moved back. Yanked back by Scorpio who had somehow scaled the bar and now had the drunk pinned against the counter. He muttered something in a language that Fiona couldn’t understand, but she didn’t think he was telling Chuckie to have a nice night.
He shot a glance at Fiona. “What do you wish me to do with him?”
“Just put him out the door. I’ll call the police if he comes back in.”
Chuck looked as if he might blubber as Scorpio grabbed him by the nape and guided him toward the exit. Fiona felt like blubbering, too, as she watched her one opportunity to have some adventure walk out the door, probably never to return.
Darn. Another night in Dullsville.
As Darin stepped into the warm night, he silently cursed the drunk, cursed the fact that he’d been caught off guard by the FBI operative’s gender. He’d expected a man when Kent had told him the agent would operate under the code name Leo, not an attractive woman with hair the color of a sunset, large green eyes and perfect breasts that he had not been able to ignore. But he must ignore her if he intended to complete his mission. He had no time for a liaison or lover even if he’d entertained those thoughts when he had first set eyes on her. That was before he realized she would serve as his partner in apprehending Birkenfeld, not his partner beneath tangled sheets.
As soon as he deposited the drunk in the parking lot, he would return inside to the agent and discuss their plans before Birkenfeld’s scheduled arrival in one hour. He would also attempt to keep his eyes off her attributes, though that might prove difficult. But if all went well tonight, Darin would be back on the plane tomorrow morning and Birkenfeld would be back behind bars. And he would leave the woman behind without discovering if the fiery passion she seemed to possess held true in bed. Under different circumstances, he might attempt to find out.
Darin guided Chuck down the steps while the drunk whined, “Don’t hurt me, man.”
He had no intention of hurting him unless he attempted to harm the agent, although he suspected the woman could handle this troublemaker. After all, she had been trained by the best.
As they reached the walkway at the bottom of the steps, a passing man with a shaved head, his eyes lowered to the ground, muttered, “Excuse me.”
Darin’s blood ran cold at the sound of the voice.
With one hand on the drunk’s neck, the other poised on the gun beneath his jacket, Darin turned and said, “Roman Birkenfeld.”
The man spun around and their gazes connected. Recognition dawned in the demonic doctor’s beady eyes before he shoved Chuck into Darin and took off.
Pushing the drunk aside, Darin gave chase, adrenaline pumping through his veins, his heart pounding with every step as he closed in on the criminal, but not before Birkenfeld disappeared around the back of the building.
Flattening himself against the brick wall, Darin moved into the dimly lit alley, his gun drawn, and came upon two figures struggling on the ground. He saw the shock of red hair then the silver glint of a knife poised above the woman’s chest as she fought to hold Birkenfeld’s arm at bay, shouting, “Get off me, you jackass!” Memories of another place, another time, another woman assaulted him.
Sheer instinct drove him forward to grab Birkenfeld by the arm. In a split second of stupidity, Darin took his attention from the fugitive in order to make certain the woman was not injured, allowing Birkenfeld the opportunity to strike.
The knife hit home, slashing first across Darin’s left thigh, then his side. Anger overrode the pain but he couldn’t see well enough to take a clean shot without risking shooting the agent who’d entered the fray, pummeling the back of Birkenfeld’s neck but doing little to hinder the criminal’s knife-wielding. Darin kicked out, landing the toe of his boot in Birkenfeld’s ribs, and at the same time the blade cut across the back of his right ankle. The blow proved to be too much, dropping Darin to the gravel surface. The gun, wrenched from his grasp at the impact, skittered across the pitted pavement, leaving them both vulnerable.
Darin heard the sound of harried footsteps and rolled to his belly, fumbling for and finding the gun, but not soon enough to prevent Birkenfeld from escaping into the night before he could fire off a round.
He eased onto his back, his chest heaving from labored breaths, his head swimming from the wounds and the tactical errors he had committed. The mistakes of his past seemed bent on recurring whenever a woman’s safety was involved.
Turning his head to his right, he found the agent on her knees next to him. At least she was alive. “Are you hurt?” he managed.
“I’m fine.” She gave him a visual once-over, pausing at his thigh. “Oh, God, you’re bleeding!”
Darin worked his way into a sitting position to assess the damage. The guard light above them provided enough illumination to see the slit in the T-shirt on his right side below his ribs. Fortunately, the jacket had provided enough protection against severe damage to his flesh. His thigh injury was worse, a dark stain fanning from the perimeter of the gash in his pants, indicating blood. But his ankle ached more and he suspected Birkenfeld’s knife had done the most damage there. Nothing that would not heal, but it would hinder his pursuit, at least tonight.
He muttered several oaths in Arabic directed at his carelessness.
“I’ll call an ambulance,” the agent said, her voice surprisingly calm.
Darin clasped her wrist before she could stand. “No hospitals. No doctors.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you nuts?”
“I’ve had worse injury, I assure you. Did you not have your gun drawn when you encountered Birkenfeld?”
“Birkenfeld?”
Obviously
