Deeper Than The Ocean by Julie Ann Walker
Chapter 31
12:12 AM…
I’m happy.
It was a strange thing to realize at midnight while taking a leak, but that’s exactly what Wolf did.
Suffusing his entire being was a sense of joy the likes of which he’d never felt before. The kind of profound wonder that came from having spent the day making love to the woman he loved, then napping, whispering about childhood memories, eating ice cream in bed, and making love again.
Washing his hands, he studied his reflection in the mirror. His features were both shadowed and highlighted by the dim glow of the night-light Chrissy kept plugged into the outlet by the sink.
Amazin’, he thought. I don’t look any different, and yet I’m changed.
He remembered a quote by Carl Jung. “The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.”
There was definitely a reaction,he thought, smiling like a dope. Chrissy and me…we’re like cesium and water. Explosive. And now totally altered so that—
Thump! A noise from the porch.
It sounded like Officer Parsons—the policeman who’d taken over from Rick Ryan for the nightshift, the first guy who’d stood duty outside Chrissy’s hospital room—had knocked over one of the rocking chairs.
Standing stock-still, Wolf closed his eyes and listened. It was an old hunting technique his uncle had taught him. When you take away one sense, the remaining senses heighten.
He heard the buk-buk-ba-gawk of a chicken in the yard next door. The beep, beep of a scooter horn a few blocks over. And far in the distance, the music from Duval Street. Otherwise, nada.
Relaxing, he reached for the hand towel and thought, I should probably go see if Parsons needs anything.
He remembered well the times he’d had to keep tabs on a tango through the dead of the night or had been assigned a graveyard shift security detail for some highfaluting politician in a foreign country. What he would’ve given had someone offered to spot him something cold to drink or volunteered to give him a bathroom break to break up the monotony and help keep him awake.
After pushing aside the little curtain concealing the stackable washer and dryer tucked into a corner cabinet in Chrissy’s bathroom, he found his jeans and pulled them on. They’d been sitting in the machine for hours, so they were wrinkled as hell. But he didn’t reckon Officer Parsons would care.
And he certainly didn’t care. Every one of those creases was a reminder that he and Chrissy had been having way too much fun to worry about folding clothes.
Closing his eyes, he relived a couple of the more memorable moments. Like when she rode him slow and lazy, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her eyes half-lidded and watching his face as she took pleasure from him and gave pleasure to him in equal measure. Or when she’d dripped ice cream onto his nipples, watching them furl, and then licking them clean.
He’d done up the last button on his fly when the bathroom door slammed shut. His erotic musings dried up quicker than a cow pond during a drought, and his heart lurched in his chest. Then he remembered how the door to the bedroom he used at his grandmother’s place sometimes did the same thing when a cross draft created a vacuum inside the house.
Except…
The windows in Chrissy’s little cottage were closed and locked.
A hot feeling slid through his veins. He knew it well. Adrenaline. The body’s magic battle elixir.
“Chrissy?” He reached for the doorknob. It turned easily, but the door wouldn’t budge.
An ear-piercing scream shattered the quiet of the house, and it was like Death himself dragged the point of his scythe up Wolf’s spine.
“Chrissy!” he yelled. If adrenaline was hot in his veins, then fear was ice-cold. He shoved a shoulder against the door and pushed until his bare feet slipped on the tile floor.
Thump! Crash! Another scream!
“Chrissy! Goddamnit! Answer me!” He used his shoulder as a battering ram, slamming into the door over and over, but making zero progress budging it.
Damnit! It wasn’t like it was possible to lock the door from the outside. What the hell was—
He didn’t finish the thought. He knew why he couldn’t get out of the bathroom.
Some sonofabitch was on the other side of the door holding it closed by bracing his feet against the opposite wall. Wolf had performed the same maneuver one time in Aleppo to ensure two unarmed women stayed safe in a bedroom while the rest of his Team took out the three tangos who’d been making pipe bombs at the kitchen table.
“You motherfucker! Let me go or I’ll scratch your eyes out!” He heard Chrissy’s snarl. She said something else, but he couldn’t make it out. Her voice was muffled like something had been shoved into her mouth.
“Yeah, yeah! Look at her, man! Hot damn! Hot damn!” The words came from the other side of the door, and the sound of the man’s voice was enough to have Wolf baring his teeth and growling.
“She’s a feisty bitch,” came an answer from somewhere down the hall. “We’re going to have some fun with her.”
Molten fury burned away Wolf’s fear until he became rage itself. There was a murderous frenzy in his eyes when he took a deep breath and backed up the entire length of the bathroom. The muscles in his body coiled until his whole being shook with pent-up power.
“Can’t wait,” the cretin holding the door said. “I’ll meet you in the car after I off this fucker.”
“You’re welcome to try,” Wolf snarled and exploded across the bathroom, throwing all his weight against the door in a violent show of force that didn’t give a thought for self-preservation.
It felt like he hit a brick wall, but his maneuver worked. He overpowered the asshat on the other side. The door burst open so quickly, Wolf bounced off the hallway wall and was catapulted back onto his ass.
There were no lights on in the house. But the streetlight shone in through the living room windows and provided enough glow for Wolf to see Chrissy’s kicking bare feet as they disappeared around the corner. It looked like she’d been tossed over someone’s shoulder.
Outrage propelled him to his feet. But he hadn’t managed a step before the door-holding asshole screamed from behind him, “Die, you piece of shit!”
Displaced hair ruffled the hairs on Wolf’s arms and his lizard brain knew what was happening before his rational mind even registered it. He turned in time to see a man lift a knife high over his head. His assailant was dressed in black and wearing a ski mask, so he blended into the shadows. But the knife caught the light and glinted evilly.
Instinct, and years of training, kicked in.
Wolf caught his attacker’s wrist on the down stroke. Then everything slowed down. His heart went metronome steady, his breaths turned measured, and his moves became automatic.
The secret to combating someone with a knife was to control the knife hand and use your free hand to pummel the shit out of your attacker’s body and face. Which was exactly what Wolf did.
Landing punch after punch, blow after blow—which wasn’t as simple as the movies made it seem, since he had to be careful not to break the delicate bones in his hand against the asshole’s jaw—the two men fought for control of the blade.
Ski Mask proved he’d make a good punching bag. Even though he grunted and groaned with each brutal hit, he didn’t drop the knife. And the longer the battle wore on, the more Wolf’s muscles burned with fatigue.
Time to up the ante.
Along everyone’s shinbone ran a long nerve. Hitting that nerve had always caused Wolf’s opponent to seize up in pain.
When he kicked Ski Mask, the man let loose with a shrill yelp and his fingers relaxed enough for Wolf to wrestle the blade from his grip. Neatly spinning the knife around, Wolf stabbed his attacker in the gut.
The man’s scream was bloodcurdling, but Wolf barely heard it. And he certainly felt no remorse. Long ago, he’d learned in the game of kill or be killed, there was no room for hesitation or compassion.
Wrenching the blade free, he shoved his assailant aside and ran into Chrissy’s room to grab the Glock he’d left atop the dresser.
Used to be I’d take my sidearm with me wherever I went, even into the shower, he thought. Civilian life has made me soft.
Ski Mask lay on his side in the hallway, his hands pressed against the blood seeping from his wound. Wolf barely spared the man a glance as he jumped over him and raced toward the living room.
Bursting through the front door, he leapt onto the porch’s top step in time to see a man shove Chrissy into the back of a sedan. She was stark naked and, even though Wolf had only gotten a brief glimpse, he’d seen her hands were secured behind her back with a bright orange zip-tie. Her feet were free, however, and she used them to her advantage, landing a hard kick against her assailant’s thigh and making the man grunt.
Attagirl, Wolf thought with no small measure of pride. Christina Szarek was no wilting lily. She was fully capable of giving as good as she got.
Despite her efforts, however, the man was able to slam the door behind her, and that was the last Wolf could see of her. The windows on the car were tinted near black, making the interior indiscernible.
“Stop right there!” he yelled, lifting his Glock and sighting down the barrel. “You make one move toward that heater you got shoved in your waistband and I swear on all that’s holy, I’ll make sure the next thing you are is an organ donor!”
The man looked toward the porch and slowly raised his hands.
Like his partner in crime, he was dressed in black, his face obscured by a ski mask. But unlike the scarecrow Wolf had fought in the hall, this dude looked like a busted can of biscuits. He was hugely muscled. But those muscles were covered by a thick layer of fat.
“Maybe I should’ve been more clear!” Wolf yelled when Biscuits took a step toward the driver’s side door. “You so much as move another inch and I’ll end you!”
“You think you can hit me on your first try?” Biscuits bellowed, taking another step backward.
Wolf realized two things then. One, the bastard wasn’t going to stop. And two, Wolf was bored of their conversation.
“Let’s find out!” he called at the same time he curled his finger around the trigger.
He was mid-squeeze when he felt a yank on his leg. Boom! The tip of the Glock glowed bright orange as the bullet left the barrel, but he knew his shot ranged wide.
Glancing down, he saw Officer Parsons lying at his feet. The policeman had one hand wrapped around the hem of Wolf’s jeans, the other was pressed to his throat. Bright red blood oozed between his fingers, and his eyes were wide with fear—apparently Ski Mask had more luck employing his blade against the police officer than he’d had trying to use it on Wolf.
Wolf registered all of this in a fraction of a second. But a fraction of a second was all it took for Biscuits to grab his gun. Even though Wolf had been out of black ops for a while, he would always recognize the sound of a round being chambered.
“Shit!” He leveled his weapon once more, but his distraction meant Biscuits had gotten the drop on him.
He heard the crack of the discharge right before he felt the bullet slam into his shoulder. It was a glancing shot, but it was more than enough to spin him around.
By the time he caught his balance and took aim, Biscuits was already in the driver’s seat and leaving rubber on the pavement as he fishtailed down the road.
“Shit!” Wolf yelled again, squinting against the darkness to try to catch the plate. He only got the first three characters before the sedan screeched around the corner and he lost sight of it.
His instinct was to search Officer Parson’s pockets for the guy’s truck keys and give chase. But SEALs never left a man behind. And Parsons was a brother in arms, even if their uniforms were different.
Grabbing one of the beach towels Chrissy had left drying over the porch railing, he wadded it up and pressed it over Parsons’s neck.
“Use this to keep pressure on the wound,” he instructed. Then he snatched the radio clipped to the officer’s bulletproof vest and gave his own shoulder a cursory glance.
He was bleeding pretty good, but the damage appeared even more shallow than he’d originally suspected.
Good. I’m goin’ to need both arms to strangle that fat fuck once I find him, he thought.
Depressing the button on the policeman’s radio, he spoke quickly. “Officer down! Officer down! Send paramedics to…” He rattled off Chrissy’s address and explained to the dispatcher what had transpired, ending by giving her a brief descriptions of the two perpetrators. “I may have killed the skinny one. I stabbed him in the gut. But I hope like hell I missed anything vital, ’cause I need him to answer some questions.”
The dispatcher tried to ask him something, but he didn’t have time for an interrogation. He dropped the radio and nearly ripped the front door off its hinges in his mad rush to get back inside.
“You have no idea how happy I am you’re still alive,” he snarled when he saw Ski Mask lurching across the living room, headed for the kitchen.
The guy broke into a run, but Wolf caught him at the back door by grabbing the ends of stringy hair hanging out from underneath the mask. Spinning the asshole around, he used his forearm to pin the guy’s neck against the door. In his free hand was the blade he’d taken from the bastard.
Knives were better for close quarters questioning. They were easier to handle, and in the right hands they were far more effective than a gun at getting a guy to talk.
Wolf had the right hands.
“Where’s he takin’ her?” he demanded, his gaze utterly murderous.
“Fuck you!” Ski Mask spat and Wolf slipped the knife into the man’s stomach a good half inch.
Ski Mask howled but didn’t dare move for fear the blade would sink farther.
“I just got shot in the arm,” Wolf bit off, trying not to gag on the hot, cigarette breath that seeped from the bastard’s rotten mouth. “And it’s makin’ me cranky. Now, talk before my dark side gets the better of me and I decide to apply five pounds of pressure and slice into your spleen. You’ll bleed out in thirty seconds.”
“Fuck you!” Ski Mask screamed again and Wolf pressed on the knife, feeling it slice through tissue like a hot pin sinking into butter. “Okay, okay!” the man squealed. “The marina! He’s takin’ her to the marina!”
“Which boat?” Wolf demanded, twisting the knife a little. “Which slip?”
Ski Mask’s eyes rolled back in his head and Wolf stopped his tormenting. He couldn’t have the man passing out on him. Not before he got his questions answered.
“Answer me!” he bellowed into the man’s face.
Ski Mask focused and gave Wolf what he wanted. And even though it would’ve felt good to free the world from the likes of the murderous, smelly bastard, the better angels of Wolf’s nature won out.
Pocketing the knife, he grabbed the Glock from his back waistband. “Move!” he told Ski Mask, gesturing with the pistol. “Walk out onto the front porch.”
Twenty seconds later he had Ski Mask secured to the porch railing with Parson’s handcuffs and was digging through the now unconscious cop’s pockets for the keys to the truck parked by the curb.
After he found what he was looking for, he checked Parsons’s pulse and found it faint and fluttering. “Hang on, man,” he said. “Help is on the way.”
Snatching the police radio from where he’d dropped it, he made one last call to dispatch. “This is Wolf Roanhorse on Fleming Street. Officer Parsons is unconscious and barely breathin’. I’m headed to Bight Marina. That’s where Suspect One told me Suspect Two is taking Chrissy. The boat is the Catch of the Day, and it’s in slip ten. I need backup. Call Detective Dixon, and tell him to get me some damned back up!”
“Sir,” the dispatcher’s voice crackled over the radio. “Do not engage in—”
Wolf didn’t hear what else she said. He was already running down the porch steps and jumping into Parsons’s truck.