Chapter Five
“What’s happening?” the woman beside Shelly cried, her voice breaking as she clutched her son tighter. The little boy appeared to be barely six years old. He had on a bright, Christmas sweater and his cheeks were a dark red. Tears spattered his cheeks.
Shelly patted his hand. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”
“Who is shooting? It was a shot, wasn’t it?” The mother clutched her son even tighter. “But I didn’t hear the gunfire.”
Shelly hadn’t heard it, either. But her super soldier had. She wanted to rush after him, but, unlike John, she had no idea where the shooter was. And if she chased after John—would she just put them both in more danger? “It’s going to be okay,” Shelly promised. “My friend will keep us safe.”
“If he doesn’t get himself killed,” the woman whispered back.
Shelly’s gaze darted toward the street.
***
John burst onto the top floor of the old theater. The theater sat across the street from the spot he and Shelly had been just moments before—and he knew the theater had been the shooter’s location. The door banged against the wall as he rushed inside, and the man waiting there spun around.
And he aimed his gun right at John.
“Freeze!” Sheriff Blane Gallows barked.
John didn’t freeze. He rushed right at the sheriff and he knocked the gun out of the guy’s grip. The handgun flew across the room even as John shoved the sheriff back against the nearby wall, holding him there with a tight grip on the man’s neck.
Blane clawed at John’s hand.
“Did you shoot at me?” John snarled. But…
no, wait. The sheriff’s gun was wrong. Wrong weapon.
John glanced back around the room. The handgun was on the dirty floor.
The upper floor of the theater was dusty, littered with old trash.
Closed in. He inhaled, trying to pull in the scent of the shooter, but he just got Blane’s scent. Blane’s and—
“L-let the sheriff go!” A shaking voice demanded.
A young, redheaded deputy stood in the doorway.
The same guy John had seen at the station.
The fellow’s bright red hair stuck out from his head at odd angles, and the gun trembled in his grasp.
Another handgun, a Glock. Still not the right weapon.
John knew the shooter had used a rifle. He’d seen the bullet that had lodged into the brick wall.
Blane kept clawing at his hand. Slowly, John let the guy go. Blane sucked in a desperate gulp of air. “Not…shooter…” Blane heaved. “F-figured out…was on…st-street…”
“You came up here looking for the guy,” John realized, backing up. “Where in the hell is he?”
“G-get away from the sheriff!” the deputy’s voice cracked on his order.
John whirled toward him. “Get your ass back down to the street. Make sure Shelly is okay. There are too many civilians down there. Let them know the shooter is gone.”
Gone. Fucking gone. And John could only smell the dust and the stale scent of sweat in that place. Blane’s sweat. The deputy’s. But…
He hurried to a window—one that faced away from the street.
Not the one the bastard used to take his shot.
This window was still open, letting in cold air, and when he looked outside, John saw that an old ladder had been propped up against the back of the theater.
Below in the snow that covered the ground, he could see the dark mark of footprints.
Eyes narrowing, John heaved his body right through that window.
“Stop!” Blane yelled. “What the hell—”
But John was already through the window. He landed easily, his knees not even buckling, when he hit the ground. He glanced back up and saw Blane gaping down at him.
Without a word, John followed those prints.
They circled around the building, and then disappeared on the sidewalk—the walk that had been swept clean of snow.
John found himself in front of the theater, with cars rushing down the street.
He looked to the left, to the right, and saw no sign of the bastard who’d been taking aim at him.
John’s hands clenched into fists. Sonofabitch. I will find you.
***
“I still don’t think it’s a good idea for the guy to stay here with you,” Blane groused to Shelly. “But you aren’t listening to me, are you?”
They were back at Shelly’s cabin. The jerk who’d taken a shot at them was in the wind, and the sheriff was trying to convince Shelly that she needed to kick John out onto the street.
John crossed his arms over his chest and waited near the fireplace. Not happening, buddy. There’s no way I’m leaving her.
Shelly gave a soft sigh. “I hear you, Blane, but no, I’m not listening. John doesn’t have any other place to go. I’m not turning him out after he’s saved my life again and again.”
Blane swore and glared at John. “I don’t like you.”
John inclined his head. The feeling is mutual.
Blane rubbed his neck. Bruises had appeared on his skin. Bruises in the shape of John’s fingers. “I could arrest him for assault. The guy attacked me—”
“Because I thought you were the shooter.” John didn’t move from his post. “You were in the room above the theater, after all. And you pointed your gun at me.”
“I was looking for the damn shooter!” Now Blane sounded outraged. “I wasn’t the enemy.”
John shrugged. “That’s why I let you go.”
Blane stalked toward him. Suspicion was heavy on the fellow’s face. “You moved so fast when you attacked me. Barely even saw you—like you were a freaking blur. Then you jumped out of that window like it was nothing. Didn’t even stumble from a three-story drop.”
Once again, John shrugged.
“That shit isn’t normal.” Blane’s gaze swept over him. “You’re hiding secrets. Fair warning, I’m going to discover them. Every single one.”
“Good luck with that.” John swiped his hand over his jaw, scraping at the dark shadow that had grown there. “When you find those secrets, be sure to share them with me. I’d kinda like to know them myself.”
The floor creaked as Shelly crept closer.
Blane leaned toward John. His voice dropped as the sheriff said, “Hurt her, and I’ll bury you.”
The sheriff didn’t need to worry on that score. “Hurting Shelly is the last thing I’d ever do.”
But Blane didn’t look convinced.
“You should go now, Blane,” Shelly urged him quietly. “It’s getting late.”
After another glare at John, Blane headed for the door.
Shelly followed him, and John heard her promise that she’d call the sheriff if there was any trouble.
While she locked the door, John bent and put fresh wood in the fireplace.
He took a few moments to get the fire blazing, pushing at the wood and watching the flames flare as he crouched before the blaze.
He could feel Shelly behind him. She was a few feet away. Not close enough to touch. Not yet.
He’d tasted her before. He’d had her in his arms, and then some asshole had taken a shot at him.
“You have blood on your shirt.”
He’d almost forgotten about that. “Bullet grazed my shoulder. It’s nothing. Already healed.”
“I can’t quite get used to that. You being Superman and all.”
He rose and turned toward her. The warmth of the fire was at his back. “I’m not Superman.” But if he was, fuck, she’d damn well be his kryptonite. Did she get that? Did she understand that he’d do anything for her? That he went a bit crazy when she was in danger?
She rubbed her hands over the front of her jeans. “You saved my life again. You’re making a habit of that.”
“Not so sure he was aiming at you this time.” Because that hit to his shoulder had been deliberate.
“I think he wanted to take me out.” John took a step toward her.
He heard the growl of Blane’s engine outside.
“Smart move on his part. Because as long as I’m standing, I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. ”
Her head tilted as she stared up at him.
John closed the last bit of distance between them.
He wanted to touch her. Wanted it so badly that his hands clenched into fists so that he could control the temptation.
She gazed back at him, and for a second, John could have sworn he saw yearning in her eyes.
The same kind of stark, desperate yearning that he felt.
He leaned toward her—
“What if you have a family out there? Someone who is missing you right now?”
“John Smith didn’t have a wife. You saw that in the obituary.” His obituary. How warped was that?
“Doesn’t mean you don’t have a lover out there. Someone who is missing you. Someone who needs you.”
“I was trapped in that hell for months.” He’d tried hard to keep track of the days, but sometimes they’d all blurred together. “And I don’t remember any other woman. Don’t remember any lover. Only you.”
“I still don’t understand how. Why.” Her lashes swept down to cover her gaze. “Do you think you saw me, in Miami? Because that’s where I live. Perhaps our paths did cross, but how could I forget you?” Her lashes lifted. Her stare held his. “I don’t think I could ever forget someone like you.”
He didn’t speak.
“Even though you knew the shooter was out there, you ran to save that mother and her son on the street. You might not remember who you were before you woke up in that lab,” she gave him a quick smile, “but I think I’m learning a whole lot about the kind of man you were.
The man you are. You risked your life to save strangers. ”
John shook his head. “I would have come back even if I’d taken a shot in the heart. We both know that.”
She studied him a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t think that thought ever entered your mind. You saw someone in danger, and you stepped up. You want to know who you were before? I can tell you. You were a good man.” She gave a quick nod. “A brave man.”