Vengeance in Death (In Death 6) - Page 78

"Dallas, maybe you ought to wait for backup. I'll have—"

"Forget it. I'm sick of idiots." She slammed her door, took three long-legged strides. And the world erupted.

She felt the hot fist of air punch her in the back, scoop her up like a doll, and fling her forward. Her eardrums sang with the force of the explosion as she flew. Something sharp, twisted, and flaming shot past her head. Someone screamed. She didn't think it was herself, as she couldn't seem to draw in air to breathe.

She bounced headfirst off the hood of a car, dimly saw the shocked, white face of its driver gaping at her, then hit the street hard enough to scrape flesh and rattle bones.

Something's burning, something's burning, she thought, but couldn't quite place it. Flesh, leather, fuel. Oh God. With wobbly effort, she pushed with her hands, managed to lift her head.

Behind her, people abandoned their cars like rats running from doomed ships. Someone stepped on her, but she barely felt it. Overhead, the traffic copters zoomed in to shine security beams and blast out cautions.

But eyes were dazzled by the fierce light, the shooting flames coming from her vehicle.

She wheezed in a breath, let it out. "Son of a bitch." And passed out cold.

*** CHAPTER THIRTEEN ***

Roarke muscled his way through crowds of people, lines of emergency vehicles. Airlifts hovered above, shooting out their streams of lights amid the shriek of sirens. There was a smell of sweat and blood and burning. A child was screaming in long, gulping wails. A woman sat on the ground, surrounded by sparkling, fist-sized diamonds of Duraglass, and wept silently into her hands.

He saw blackened faces, shocked eyes, but he didn't see Eve.

He refused to allow himself to think or to feel or to imagine.

He'd been in Eve's office, tinkering with McNab, when the hail for Peabody had come in. He'd continued to work, amusing himself by listening to Eve's voice, the irritation spiking it, then the disgust when she'd ordered Peabody to call for a floater.

Then the almost female shriek of the explosion had caused the communicator to jump in Peabody's hand. He hadn't waited, not even a heartbeat, but had been out of the room and gone even as Peabody had desperately tried to raise Eve again.

He'd abandoned his car a full block back, but was making good time on foot. Sheer force of will had people scrambling out of his way. Or perhaps it was the cold rage in his eyes as he scanned faces, forms.

Then he saw her vehicle—or what was left of it. The twisted hulk of steel and plastic was hulled out and coated with thick white foam. And his heart stopped.

He'd never know how long he stood there, unable to breathe, his body rocking with shock. Then he broke, started forward, with some wild notion of ripping the ruined car to pieces to find her.

"Goddamn it, I said I'm not going to any hospital. Just patch me up, for Christ's sake, and find me a fucking communicator before I kick your sorry ass over to the East Side."

He whirled, his head whipping up like a wolf's scenting its mate. She was sitting on the running board of a medivan, snarling at a harassed medical technician who was struggling to coat her burns.

She was singed, bleeding, bruised, and furiously alive.

He didn't go to her at once. He needed a moment for his hands to stop shaking, for his heart to stop sputtering and beat normally again. Relief was like a drug, a spiked drink to make him giddy. He gulped it down, then found himself grinning like an idiot as she rammed her elbow into the MT's gut to prevent him from giving her a dose of medication.

"Keep that thing away from me. Did I tell you to get me a communicator?"

"I'm doing my job, Lieutenant. If you'd just cooperate—"

"Cooperate hell. Cooperate with you guys and I'll end up drooling and strapped to a gurney."

"You need to go to a hospital or health center. You have a concussion, second-degree burns, contusions, lacerations. You're shocky."

Eve reached up and grabbed him by the band collar of his uniform coat. "One of us is going to be shocky, ace, if you don't get me a goddamn communicator."

"Well, Lieutenant, I see you're in your usual form."

She looked over, up, and, seeing Roarke, wiped the back of her hand over her bruised and sooty face. "Hi. I was just trying to get this jerk to find me a communicator so I could call you. Let you know I'd be late for dinner."

"I figured that out for myself when we heard your explosion." He crouched down until they were eye to eye. There was a nasty scrape on her forehead, still seeping blood. Her jacket was gone, and the shirt she wore was ripped and singed. Blood stained the sleeve of her left arm from a six-inch gash. Her slacks were literally tatters.

"Darling," he said mildly, "you're not looking your best."

Tags: J.D. Robb In Death Mystery
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