Chapter 17
Seventeen
Raven
Beverly Hills late on a Sunday evening is dead. A few cars on the streets, a handful of pedestrians, nothing more.
Between each of the roads around Rodeo Drive lies a service street, flanked with small parking lots, dumpsters looming in the dark shadows, and rear entrances to each of the buildings. Along with cameras, every few yards.
Declan and I wait at the mouth of one, while Cammy slowly drives the van down with no lights on, the rest of the crew within.
“Almost done here.” Tasha’s voice crackles in my ear, over our comms.
Declan is carefully avoiding looking at me, his shoulders tight under his jacket. We haven’t exchanged a glance on the ride over, let alone spoken to one another.
No distractions at all.
“Got it,” Tasha says. “Camera’s looped, alarm dead. Go.”
The rear doors of the van open, Cole and Dario spilling out. Kurt slides back the side door and jumps down. They’re all wearing balaclavas, covering their faces.
Cole’s carrying a battering ram, a heavy steel cylinder three feet long. From where we wait, the door’s out of sight, but the crunch carries down the alley.
There’s no one around, and I doubt it will even be heard on the street.
“Three minutes.” Tasha’s voice is crisp.
Timing is everything on this one. We have to assume there’ll be alarms Tasha couldn’t find.
My heart’s beating heavily, anticipation and adrenaline flooding me. But it doesn’t come with the buzz of being alive that I usually get on a job. Instead, something feels wrong.
Friday, we agreed as a crew to keep this job as short as possible. But now I’m having second thoughts about all of it, a sense of disquiet taking me. I just want to be done and get out. Back to Tasha’s.
I’m sure it has nothing to do with Declan, sitting on his bike a few feet away.
Like he can hear my thoughts, he pops his visor halfway open, and flicks the button on his mic. Turning it off. “Are you going to tell me what the hell happened last night?”
We’re doing this now?
I turn off my own mic. “We’re on a job.”
“Two-thirty,” Tasha says.
“We have two minutes,” Declan insists. “Long enough for you to explain.”
It really isn’t.
“I was with Tasha.” True. “My phone was off.” Also true… eventually. “Didn’t see your messages.” Still can’t bring myself to look at them.
“Let’s assume I believe you ever turn your phone off—”
“Two minutes.”
“—we did agree to meet. Had you forgotten?”
Of course I hadn’t forgotten. I thought of nothing else all day yesterday, all day today. “It might’ve slipped my mind.”
He pushes his visor all the way up, until I can see his eyes. Locked on me. He doesn’t say anything, just stares.
“One-thirty.”
“I can’t tell if you’re lying to me, just that genuinely uncaring, or if you’re deliberately pushing for a punishment.” He pauses. “I think it’s the latter, but right or wrong, you’re getting one anyway.”
Fuck.
I can’t speak. My pulse spikes, stomach flipping, nipples tightening so fast they ache.
Anticipation. Adrenaline. Arousal. Each playing off the other.
My supporting leg trembles, and I have to lock my knee.
“You don’t get to punish me.” I find my voice at last, but the words come without the defiance I was hoping for. Instead, I sound timid. I hate that.
“One minute. Looking good. Bikes in thirty.”
“No?” Declan inquires. “I think I do. I think you’d enjoy it.”
My heart skips a beat, and I forget how to breathe.
Arrogant bastard.
Then my anger kicks in, because that’s easier than the alternative.
I’ve known the guy barely two weeks and slept with him twice. Where the fuck does he get off thinking he has permission to punish me? And why does some stupid, traitorous part of me like that he’s said it?
How often has he punished that blond woman in Thousand Oaks?
“I would not,” I hiss back.
“Want a wager?” He flicks his mic back on and snaps his visor down, the conversation apparently done.
I angrily follow suit. What the fuck is with this guy?
“Thirty seconds. Go.”
That’s my cue. I roll into the service street, keeping my speed low, not drawing attention. Plenty of time to reach the van for when the men exit.
Cammy’s voice snaps out, as soon as I move. “Car in the entrance, turning in.”
It’s not where we are, it’s at the other end of the street. It could be anyone—someone taking a shortcut, or going to a different building. But we all know it isn’t.
“Security response,” she confirms within seconds.
Shit. They’re fast.
I’m only feet from the van, and beyond it, the car’s bearing down. It has a strip of amber lights on its roof, and I don’t have to see the logo on its sides to know it’s there.
It swerves to a stop a dozen feet from us, blocking the street, the door opening, a man in a uniform leaping out. His hand goes for a holster.
“Weapon.” The word’s a reflex.
“Weapon!” Cammy’s voice blends with mine.
Kurt and the guys will be out here in seconds. Cammy’s in the van, still as a statue, and with my headlights in the guard’s eyes, I don’t think he’s even seen her. Instead, he’s focused on me.
The man takes a firing stance, legs braced, weapon aimed two-handed. “Security!” he shouts, voice high and tense. “Get off your bike, or I’ll shoot!”
The cops won’t fire without probable cause—in theory—but this guy is trembling, his weapon shaking. I could be dead in a second, assuming he could even hit me the way his gun is waving in the air.
I’m still rolling toward him, not even level with the van, coming up on my left, the rear of the shop on my right. What else is there to do?
His weapon discharges, the muzzle flashing bright, the bullet going God knows where.
“Jesus, Raven!” Cammy gasps over her mic. “Are you all right?”
I don’t know if he was trying to hit me, or if it was just a warning, but I’m fine… for now. That damn gun is making figure-eights in the air, and his eyes are so wide, their whites reflect in my headlights.
He fires again, and something skims my arm. A second later, there’s a burning, searing pain. There’s nothing I can do but duck low on my tank and hope.
Then Declan shoots past, engine revs high, taking the narrow gap between me and the van, accelerating hard.
He jinks, putting himself between me and the security guard, and the man fires again.
And again. Declan jerks in his seat then slams his front brakes on, pulling a stoppie, the rear coming up fast. But his bike’s at an angle, not straight, and the back tire swings around through the air, the wheel crunching into the man.
He cries out, rebounding into the side of his car, then crumples to the ground.
Declan’s tire lands, bike perfectly under his control, and only then does he wince, slumping in his seat.
“Declan…” The word’s torn from me.
“Holy fuck, Declan!” Cammy cries. “That was awesome!”
Kurt and the others burst out a second later, taking the scene in at a glance.
Cole reaches Declan first. “Where are you hit?”
“Thigh,” he grunts out. “Side.”
“Turn the van,” Kurt tells Cammy over the mic, the security car blocking our exit. She starts backing up while Dario rushes me my bag. I strap it on without looking, eyes only for Declan.
“You’re hurt,” Dario says. He’s looking at my sleeve.
Declan’s head snaps up, visor fixed on me.
“Bullet skimmed me. Forget it.” I’m far more worried about him. A thigh wound… if it hit near the femoral artery… is he bleeding out?
He did that for me. He went past, putting himself in harm’s way for me.
I’ve spent two days trying to get away from this man. Now I can’t breathe until I know he’s all right.
“How bad?” Cole presses. “Bullets still in?”
“The one on my side went through,” Declan replies through clenched teeth, still focused on me. I can’t see his eyes, but I know where they’re looking. “The one in my thigh’s still there. Lateral aspect.”
“Can you ride?”
“He can’t fucking ride!” I say. “Put him in the van!”
“I can ride,” Declan replies, ignoring me.
Kurt looks at me. “No blood in the van.”
I glare at him with his stupid rules. “He’s been shot.”
“And I can ride,” Declan argues. “Let’s get going, because I’m bleeding and it fucking hurts.”
“Goddammit, don’t be stubborn!” But Cole is helping him on with his bag, and everyone is ignoring me. I appeal to Kurt, knowing it’s futile even as I try. “Are you seriously going to let him ride?”
“It’s his call,” Kurt swings into the van as Cammy completes her three-point turn, and Dario and Cole leap in a minute later. “Get out of here, you two.”
They drive off the way we came in, while Declan steers his bike around the security car, heading out west, per our plan.
I snap my visor down, cursing, and follow him.
“Stubborn fucking asshole.”
“Open mic,” Cammy reminds me.
Like I’d forgotten. But I grit my teeth, staying behind Declan as he hunches in his seat, riding one-handed, his other arm cradled across his tank.
“Take Coldwater Canyon,” I tell him. “Head for Tujunga.” It’s my escape route, not Declan’s—he was supposed to head southwest and pick up the 405 if it was safe to do so—but that’s too far to go. Not when he’s injured. Bleeding.
Thankfully, he doesn’t argue, or even reply.
We zip across Santa Monica, taking the backroads, and I stay on his tail.
The road is broad, empty, and easy riding, palm trees and big houses either side of us.
We do ninety, hardly slowing down to cross Sunset, running red lights with no traffic around.
There’s no sign of the police. They’ll be enroute, a helicopter in the air in another few minutes, but they’ll be too late to know where we’ve gone.
Cammy will drive the others back, nice and sedate, zero evidence if they’re stopped.
In the city, they’ll already be out of range of comms, buildings blocking the signal.