his body.
The front door bashed open and hit the wall. O’Malley turned toward the noise.
There was a pop, a hole in the wall. Someone barely missed shooting a hole in O’Malley’s heart.
No time to think, shout or plead. He wrapped one arm around her waist and his free hand around her pistol. He yanked her toward the kitchen, aiming at the target, blindly pulling the trigger.
Chapter Two
Bits of drywall stung Darby’s cheek. She landed with a heavy thud on top of the agent who had saved her life. With her snug against his body, his strong arm circled her waist and hauled her into the kitchen. He anchored her to his rock-hard chest, continuing to point her gun at the opening to the hall—his hand wrapped firmly over hers, committing her to action.
The agent’s arm pulled so hard and fast, her breath escaped her body. She couldn’t move. Or had time slowed to a frame-by-frame? Her eyes blinked. A strand of hair floated across her face, moved by the man behind her.
And still the agent held her locked to his long body. Her legs nesting between his.
Waiting.
A quick intake to fill his lungs. She did the same, but his grip around her middle didn’t lessen. No sounds came from the front room. She heard nothing but his matching heartbeat against her back.
“You hit?” Warm air circled her ear, shooting tingles down her spine in spite of their situation.
The still-unnamed agent released his death grip and her hand holding her weapon fell to her leg. She shot to her feet with him quickly following. His eyes locked onto hers while his fingers explored her body.
“Are. You. Hit.”
A rough, impatient voice countered the concern in his eyes. Her side was coated in blood—his blood. The look she’d seen in his eyes for a split second let her know they had something in common…he’d seen death, too.
“I’m fine.” She was anxious to get her eyes back on the crazy SOB who had busted through her door, gun blazing. “Stay here.”
Five years of training kicked into gear. Scanning the room and beyond for potential harm, she kept an eye on her unarmed hero. He should have stayed in her kitchen, but he took her flank through the dining room door.
Chest-high bullet holes in her hallway were more than enough evidence that the creep bleeding inside her living room had been shooting to kill. The perp half-sat, half-leaned against her freshly painted—now blood-spattered—wall. Alert. Smug. Shot in the thigh.
“Dallas P.D. Show me your hands.” For someone unaccustomed to being shot at, her voice and grip were surprisingly steady. She covered her mystery man as he frisked the shooter. Dealer? Doper? Someone had followed the man who saved her life to her house.
Her DEA agent picked up the weapon several feet from the shooter and slipped it in the back of his jeans. Her agent? Definitely not a safe way to think. He had saved her life, but she couldn’t completely trust him yet.
The agent had a photo of Pike and the reverse side was a hand-drawn map to her house with doodles around the edges. Doodles to anyone else, but it was a code she and her brothers had used since childhood. The message told her to stick with this man until Michael contacted her. Sent before Michael was shot with Pike’s weapon. Sent before he was found comatose on police academy property. She had no reason to trust her brother and even less to trust the outsider carrying the message, but did she have a choice?
“Who wants her dead?” the agent demanded. He smashed the shooter’s hands on top of the wound. “You’ll want to keep pressure on that.”
The shooter sucked air through his teeth in a long hiss.
Blood seemed to be everywhere. But it wasn’t. Not this time.
Her hands were covered. No. Her hands were clean.
Swallowing hard did nothing to stop the tremors trying to overtake her body. She took several deep gulps of air, closing her eyes and ignoring the fact that her home was now a crime scene. But closing her eyes didn’t keep the image of Pike’s death from appearing.
Pike was lying in her arms. Bleeding. Nothing blocked the memory of your partner’s life fading away. The tortured look of pain as he struggled to tell her his last secrets would be with her forever.
His screams echoed through the parking lot. Wait, Pike hadn’t screamed. Her vision focused on the open mouth of her attacker. His painful roar bounced off the bare walls of her home.
What was the source of his agony? He hadn’t been in that much pain when they’d entered the room.
“Tell me.” The agent’s powerful voice sounded different, more guttural, more vicious. “I only have seconds to find my answers, man. But I can leave you in pain for a long time.”
The shooter screamed again when the agent’s fist pushed the shooter’s hand deeper into the bullet wound. Darby rushed forward. This couldn’t be happening. Cops were the good guys.
“Get back.” The agent flipped a badge toward her. “He’s a cop. A cop who just tried to kill you.”
“All right, all right,” the shooter yelled. “We’re cleaning up loose ends.” He hissed through the pain.
The agent didn’t stop.
“I swear,” the shooter cried. “I was supposed to make it look like a break-in, find the stuff Pike had given her and get rid of the girl.”
“We can sort through this train wreck with the correct authorities.” Darby should stop him. But she was unwilling to drag the agent from the only person in the room with answers. “There’s got to be a logical reason—”
The decision was made for her when the shooter passed out.
“He’s a cop. They’ll haul us to jail. We won’t find our answers while stuck in a holding cell until someone clears this mess up. They might finish what this guy started.” He stood and tossed the badge on top of the shooter’s chest. “You coming, O’Malley?”
The lights from the ambulance arriving outside flashed through the curtains. Her insides stopped shaking. “We have to call this in.”
“Lucky thing that ambulance is out front.” He gently turned her around by the shoulders and nudged her toward the kitchen. “We have to go. Now. I’ll drive.”
He slid past her and swiped her keys from the counter before she could object to anything.
“We can’t leave the scene of a shooting.”
“We don’t have time for a discussion. The EMTs are here.” He yanked on her right arm, keeping her from returning to the front of the house. “That dirtbag tried to kill us. He admitted they’re after Pike’s package.”
“I’ve got this man,” the first EMT shouted, coming through the doorway. “This is a badge. Call dispatch, officer down.”
It took a second to register the vise grip around her upper arm.
