Wilder Days. Linda Winstead Jones
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“Shock,” Del snapped, “I hate to interrupt, but there’s a bomb taped to the underside of the chair. How about take a peek and see how much time we have left.”
The man Del called Shock complied, dropping down and sticking his head beneath the chair. The single word that came out of his mouth did nothing to soothe Vic’s nerves.
“I hate bombs,” he said as he returned to an upright position and began to decisively and expertly cut away the duct tape that bound Vic and Del together and to the chair. “Hate ’em.”
“Tilt detonator?” Del asked.
“Yup,” Shock said as he continued to cut.
“How’s our time?”
“Shorter than I’d like.”
As Shock moved behind Vic, he whistled through his teeth. “You’re bleeding,” he said without slowing his chore.
“It’s not too bad,” Vic said, her voice not rising as much as she’d intended.
Shock just made a noise, something between a groan and a hum.
When she was free, Vic thought about standing. And couldn’t. Her legs shook. Her hands trembled. She glanced down at the gashes on her fingers as Shock cut the last of Del’s bonds away. Blood dripped down her palm, across her wrist.
When Del was free, he put his arms around her, assisted her to her feet and led her from the room. Quickly. Shock was right behind, doing his best to hurry them along. Del, one arm securely around Vic’s waist, pulled her so quickly her feet barely touched the ground as they flew down the stairs.
She wasn’t exactly thinking rationally. Halfway down the stairs, she came up short. “My cell phone is still up there.”
“Screw the cell phone,” Del grumbled as he dragged Vic off her feet and down the rest of the stairs.
They ran through the double front doors, into the bright summer sunshine. Vic apparently wasn’t running fast enough to suit Del; he dragged her along. A moment after they left the building, Shock appeared at her other side.
“Let’s go,” he said as he added his arm around her waist.
The two men pulled her along, her feet off the ground, her heart caught in her throat. They had reached the parking lot and were running hard toward the two cars at the far end when the explosion rocked the building behind them. The noise was deafening, the blast of heat unnatural even on this summer day. Shattering glass was loud, a strangely pretty, dangerous sound. Shards landed in the parking lot, just behind them. As she heard the glass land on the asphalt, Vic was glad Del and Shock had grabbed her up and hurried her along. They didn’t look back, not until they reached the cars.
Vic’s heart sank as she studied those cars, a black Jaguar and an electric-blue Dodge Viper. Those two vehicles together surely cost more than her house. Del Wilder, a drug dealer. She couldn’t believe it. “At least they didn’t take your Jag,” Shock said.
Del responded without emotion. “Even Tripp and Holly are too smart for that. They want to disappear and a Jag is definitely not a ride that makes you invisible.”
Vic listened, but her mind was elsewhere. She had almost told Del about Noelle, she had almost confessed to him that they had a child together. That could never happen. Never. If someone would try to get to Del through her, what would they do if they knew he had a daughter?
They watched the building burn.
“Did they get your Glock?” Shock asked.
“Yep,” Del answered.
Shock mumbled an obscenity, then turned to Vic and smiled, presenting a grin that was all teeth and gums. “Name’s Albert Shockley, ma’am,” he said. “But you can call me Shock. A name should suit a person, you know? I don’t know what my mother was thinking when she named me Albert.” He waited a moment. “And you are?”
“Vic,” she said, the name barely passing through her lips.
Shock’s smile faded a little, and he turned a suspicious glance to Del, who continued to watch the spreading fire.
“Vic,” Shock repeated. “Now, that’s just not right. Vic is a name for a fat, smelly guy, not a pretty lady. Gotta be short for something.”
“Victoria,” she whispered.
Del tore his attention away from the burning warehouse and took her hand in his, studying the cuts on her fingers. Again, he cursed.
“It’ll be okay,” she said, trying to draw her hand from his tight grasp.
Del held fast. There was no withdrawing her hand from his, not unless he wanted her to. “Baby,” he growled, “nothing is okay.”
Chapter 2
Vic hadn’t looked him in the eye since they’d left the warehouse parking lot, and the only words she’d spoken had been lifeless directions to her South Huntsville home. He’d bandaged her hand quickly, using the first-aid kit he always had in the trunk, while Shock had checked the Jag inside and out for nasty explosive devices. Shock had found nothing, and they’d gotten out of there while the fire raged. They were gone long before the volunteer fire department could arrive.
Del steered the Jag in and out of shaded portions of the street, driving slowly since there were kids everywhere. They played ball, rode bikes, attempted tricks on skateboards and in-line skates. It was a nice neighborhood. The homes were nothing like the antebellum house in Old Town where Vic had grown up, but nice just the same.
“Here,” she said, pointing to an empty driveway. Del turned sharply and came to an abrupt stop before a midsize, middle-class Colonial home. Two stories, neatly landscaped, nothing special that might reach out and grab a person. It was just…a house.
“Thanks,” Vic said as she opened the passenger door and stepped out of the car. Still, she didn’t look directly at him.
Del cursed beneath his breath. She’d survived the crisis and now she was falling apart. Women did that, or so he’d been told.
He left the car and headed for Vic’s slow-moving form, tempted to put his arm around her as he had when they’d run from the warehouse. She looked like she needed the support, but he didn’t touch her. He stayed close, though, just in case.
She stepped onto the porch and reached out to touch the doorknob. The door easily swung open. Finally, she looked up at him. “They didn’t lock the door.” From the tone of her voice, it was clear she found this the most egregious of the Mayrons’ sins.
“Should anyone be here?”
Vic shook her head.
Del drew the Colt pistol Shock had pressed upon him before they left the warehouse, taking care that the weapon was not visible to anyone passing on the street. “Stay here,” he said softly as he left Vic waiting on the front porch.
His search of the house was quick, efficient and productive in an unexpected way. No one was waiting for Vic’s return. Tripp and Holly, who were not the most brilliant of the criminals he’d run across in his career, had been sloppily confident that there was nothing wrong with their plan. They actually thought that Del would take their warning that they would know if he told anyone where he was going seriously.
After talking to Holly and hearing Vic say her name and then cry out, Del had written a quick note and slipped it to Shock quietly, in case the caller had been telling the truth and he was being watched. He’d suspected all along that threat was false; he knew the other agents in the office too well to suspect that they’d be involved in anything like this. But he couldn’t take the chance that he was right about them all. Not with Vic’s life at stake.
The quick check of her neat home revealed something interesting. The men’s shirt she wore was the only piece of men’s clothing in the house. There was no