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It took long, excruciating minutes for Jonas’s awareness to come back online. Hal Peters had handcuffed him to the post in the center of the floor, but not until the man had buried his fist in the still-healing gut wound left by Lewis's bullet. Twice.
The first time had left Jonas unable to breathe. The second had left him unable to function—physically or mentally. Jonas risked a shallow inhale as the agony in his belly subsided. The pain stabilized into a deep, dull throb. Slowly, the haze between him and the rest of the world dissipated. He took another breath and then, chin resting on his chest, cracked open his eyes enough to take stock of the situation.
It wasn't encouraging.
Sheets of plywood, braced by scrap lumber, had been placed over the windows lining the alley wall, cutting the already murky daylight to almost nothing. Jonas made out the figures of Ramirez and Peters at gaps in the wood, their weapons drawn and their faces grim in the little light that penetrated. A dozen feet away, Lewis paced the concrete floor, cell phone pressed to his ear, his voice angry—and desperate.
Jonas's hands twitched in the metal cuffs. Desperate wasn't good. Desperate led to impulsive moves. Stupid decisions. Choices that got people killed. People like Jonas. He tuned into the one-sided conversation.
"I know how this works, Douglas," Lewis said. "And I'm telling you now, I'm not interested in negotiation."
A pause while Lewis listened to the voice at the other end of the line, and then, "No, I don't want to make a deal. I don't give a flying fuck about reduced sentences. I've seen what happens to cops who get sent up, remember? There's one deal on the table, and one deal only. We get a plane out of the country, you get Burke. Take it or leave it."
Another pause. Another snarl. "I said no. You have our terms. First sign of activity in that alley, I put a bullet in Burke's head. Don't call again until our plane is ready."
Lewis ended the call, and Jonas closed his eyes, pretending continued unconsciousness.
"You really think they'll go for it?" Peters asked. "Maybe we should—"
"No," Lewis cut him off. "We roll over on the others, we die. You know it, and I know it. Our only option is getting the hell out of the country."
Peters was silent for a second, then said, "Ramirez?"
"Jack's right. You don't give up names like Zabatoff and live to tell the tale."
Zabatoff? These idiots are in bed with one of Russia’s most infamous arms dealers? The revelation was nearly Jonas's undoing, but he managed to remain still enough not to alert the others to his eavesdropping.
“You're a frickin' idiot if you think the feds will go along with this,” Peters grumbled.
"I think we didn't give them a choice," Lewis said.
"And Burke? You'll really turn him over?"
"After the chase he's led us on?" Lewis snorted. "What do you think?"
Peters didn't answer. Jonas didn't need him to. In his mind's eye, he went over the warehouse setup again, examining the details he'd filed away as he'd entered, as he'd stood talking to Lewis. There weren't many. A cavernous space, empty but for piles of rubbish and the wood Peters and Ramirez had used to shore up the only windows. A solid concrete floor throughout. Metal roof. One pedestrian door at the front, through which he'd entered. A massive loading door at the rear, closed and padlocked.
What had seemed the ideal place for a meet was a virtual fortress when it came to a police assault. If Grant Douglas and the feds stormed the place—the likely scenario—he would almost certainly die along with the others. And even if they let Lewis think they’d caved to his demands in order to draw them out into the open, .there was no way Lewis would let him live.
Either way, Kate's last memory of him would be the aftermath of his phone call to Valerie. His denial of anything between them. Everything between them. His chest tightened, and he closed his eyes.
Oh, Kate.
* * *
"Constable Dexter?"
Kate wasn't sure what startled her more: the unexpected voice at her shoulder, or hearing her name and rank for the first time in what seemed an eon. She turned to face a short, thin, middle-aged man in a dark blue suit and charcoal overcoat. Blue eyes regarded her with calm professionalism.
"I'm Assistant Director Sean Fraser," he said.
Kate summoned a ghost of a smile and dutifully shook hands.
"Why don't you come and have a coffee?" A.D. Fraser suggested. “You’ve been through quite the ordeal.”
Glancing out the window, Kate hesitated. She hadn't moved from her post in almost two hours because a part of her—the not altogether rational part—was convinced that if she did, Jonas would die in her absence.
A gentle hand cupped her elbow and urged her forward.
"It'll do you good," A.D. Fraser said, “and it’s only on the other side of the room.”
She eased cramped muscles into motion and allowed him to lead her to the far side of the office. A coffee station had been set up there, with percolator, foam cups, and a mixed heap of creamers and sugar packets. An open box of thickly frosted donuts sat to one side, but Kate’s stomach churned at the sight of them, and she shook her head when offered one.
A.D. Fraser poured two coffees and led her to the quietest corner of the room, pulling two chairs over and waiting until she sat down before he did so himself.
“Constable Dexter—”
“Kate,” she said.
Fraser started over. “Kate, you should know that I’ve been in touch with Assistant Commissioner Bennett.”
Dave’s father-in-law? Kate frowned. “Why?”
“Given the circumstances, we’re setting up a joint investigation with the RCMP. The assistant commissioner says he can’t guarantee you total amnesty, but he has named you to the task force as their primary investigator, retroactive to when you met Agent Burke. That should erase some of your...um..."
"Less horrendous escapades?" Kate supplied.
A faint smile tipped the corners of A.D. Fraser's mouth. "Something like that. Another of your colleagues is flying down with the memorandum of understanding. Constable Jennings, I think the A.C. said. He should be here within the hour."
"My partner." Great. If nothing else set her off, Dave Jennings's bear hug and bottomless sympathy were sure to do so. She began shoring up her defenses in anticipation of Dave's arrival. "I appreciate your help, sir—"
"Sean."
"—but what I really want to know is what's happening here."
"Not much so far. Special Agent Douglas is handling the negotiations."
"They want leniency in exchange for testimony?" she guessed.
"Not exactly."
Kate frowned. "Then what?"
"Total amnesty and a ticket out of the country in exchange for Agent Burke. No testimony."
Kate watched the other agents moving about the room. She sipped at the overly sweetened coffee. "If you let them leave with Jonas," she said finally, "they'll kill him and disappear, and whoever else is involved will get off scot-free."
Fraser nodded grim agreement. "And if we go in after them, they'll kill him, probably get killed themselves, and whoever else is involved will still go free."
Rock, meet hard place.
The cop in Kate already knew the answer to her next question, but she asked anyway, because the woman in her needed to hear it. Needed to know for sure.
"What are you going to do?"
The assistant director squared his shoulders, his expression going tight as if bracing for argument. "We've called in tactical," he said simply.
Kate set the cup down on the bookshelf beside him. "Thanks for the coffee," she said, and then she went back to her post at the window.
* * *
Within the hour promised by A.D. Fraser, a familiar voice spoke behind Kate. "You know, when I told you to be careful, this wasn't quite what I had in mind."
Dave. At last.
Bracing herself, she turned to greet her partner—and in an instant, all the mental preparation she thought she'd done for his appearance crumbled into relief, terror, and sheer hopelessness. Tears filled her eyes, and she gulped for air through a suddenly constricted throat. Without a word, Dave reached for her, and leather-clad arms wrapped her in the bear hug she'd both needed and dreaded ever since she'd learned he was flying down. A shudder wracked her frame. The arms tightened, and a chin rested on top of her head.
Kate stayed in the comforting embrace for long seconds, letting Dave's silent strength envelop her as she swallowed her tears and struggled to regain a semblance of control. She'd come too far with Jonas to dissolve into hysterics now. He needed her to be a cop, not some wilting flower. At last, she pushed back and offered Dave a crooked smile.
"Bet you weren't expecting that greeting," she said ruefully.
"Bet I was," Dave replied, his gray eyes warm with sympathy and concern. "How are you holding up, kiddo?"
"Good." She heard the wobble in her voice, cleared her throat, and repeated firmly, "Good. I'm good. Honest. And I hear you've been doing a magic act back home."
Dave grimaced. He snagged a chair and pulled it over to where they stood. Kate refused his wordless offer, and he straddled the chair himself, his arms slung over the back.
"Magic, hell," he retorted. "What I've pulled off is nothing short of a bloody miracle—including not getting my own ass fired."
Kate’s eyes watered again. She swallowed. "Thank you."
He waved off her words. "That's what partners are for."
"So what exactly have they forgiven me for?" she asked. She didn't really care, but the conversation distracted her. Kept her mind off...other things. Her gaze slid toward the window and the still-closed warehouse door. To her relief, Dave played along.
"Let's see." He ticked her infractions off on his fingers, his brow creased with exaggerated concentration. "Aiding and abetting a suspected felon is gone; concealing is gone; and I think you're okay on illegal entry to the U.S., along with illegal possession of a firearm. They're still trying to iron out assaulting a peace officer and swiping his car, however." He grimaced. "Did I forget anything?"
"High-speed chase resulting in a wrecked PC."
"Ah. Yes. The police cruiser." Dave sighed. "Actually, that one may still land you in an Arctic posting. But you'll be in good company, because I'm pretty sure that's where they send constables who vault over the entire chain of command to cry on daddy-in-law's shoulder."
Remorse twisted through Kate's belly. "Hell, Dave—"
Again, he waved her off. "Don't worry about it. I happen to think dog sleds are a great way to get around." He glanced over his shoulder at Grant Douglas's approach, then stood to hold out his hand in greeting. "Douglas."
"Jennings," Grant responded absently, his attention already on Kate even as he shook hands with her partner. He looked nothing like his usual precise self, she noted. His suit jacket was long gone, he'd loosened his tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. And she could have sworn that was a smudge of chocolate frosting on the edge of his top lip.
"How are you holding up?" he asked.
"I'm okay. What's happening?"
"Tactical is on the way."
Kate narrowed her gaze. "They were on the way an hour ago."
"They got held up."
Dave put a hand on her arm before she could request clarification. "They're going in?" he asked her.
"We have to," Grant replied on her behalf. "His chances are zero if we let them take him out of there."
Dave frowned. "They don't seem much better if you go in."
"They're not," Kate said. She saw the questions forming in her partner's gaze, and she looked away before she lost it again. "What do you mean tactical got held up?" she asked Grant.
Grant hesitated, and his expression turned haggard. Unease uncoiled in Kate's chest.
"Grant?" she pressed. "What's going on?"
Her ex ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. "They were involved in an accident," he said, sighing. "The sniper was injured. We're flying someone in from Chicago."
She gaped at him. "That's two hours away! You must have someone closer—what about the local police?"
"Tied up with other incidents. Seems we picked a hell of a day for our little sting. They'll let us know if they come free. In the meantime, our guy is only an hour and forty minutes out."
"You have got to be freaking kidding me!" She stared at him for a second longer, then looked out the window. Almost two hours until the sniper arrived, another thirty minutes for briefing and set up, and—she glanced at the clock on the wall over the door—and it was already ten minutes to two now.
"It'll be after four by the time tactical is ready to go," she said. She shook her head. "That's too long. They'll know something is up."
"We have no alternative, Kate." Grant's voice was as gentle as it was weary. "I wish—"
She flapped a hand at him, cutting him off. "What about the rest of the team?" she asked. "Were they injured, too?"
"Three of them were. The other two are fine, but it's not enough to go in with. Especially not without a sniper to back them up."
"Damn it!" Kate whirled away and braced her hands on the windowsill, staring down into the alley. The beginning of an idea stirred. She shoved it away. It resurfaced stubbornly.
Impossible, she told it.
His best chance, it responded. Maybe his only chance.
Grant gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I'll keep you posted," he said. "Hang in there."
"Wait," she said as he turned away. "I have an idea."