Complicate (Deliver 9)

“I know, but it’s Christmas.” She turned and faced the window, her hair falling in rampant waves of red down her back.

Gray, watery light washed the sky, illuminating thin patches of ice on the house behind hers.

“I’ll go look for him.” He pulled on his boots and strode out of the bedroom. “Do you know where he went?”

“No, but he wouldn’t have gone far.” She followed him into the kitchen. “Somewhere on foot. He doesn’t have a car or money for transportation.”

He found his jacket and beanie on the floor and pulled them on. The gun sat securely in the coat pocket. He left it there, not wanting to alarm her.

“It’s not a good idea for you to walk out of this house in the daylight.” She stepped toward the window that faced the street and eased back the curtain. “If Vincent’s men are watching…” She gasped, squinting at something outside. “What…is…? Oh, my God, that’s blood.”

As she tore away from the window and darted for the stairs, he slipped by her and yanked back the curtain. The third-story view showed the pathway to the street. Snow blanketed the trees, the front yard, the pavement, and…

He stopped breathing. That was blood. A dark red trail of it from the street to the front door of her house. Footprints surrounded crimson splatter. Stumbling, falling impressions from shoes.

“Lydia!” He took off down the stairs, hitting the second level to the sounds of sliding locks. “Don’t open that door!”

She opened the door.

Then she stumbled, clapped her hands over her mouth, and released a shrilling, keening wail. “Nooooo! Not my brother! Oh, God, please, no! Not him!”

The sounds coming from her made his blood run cold. His muscles went taut, and his pulse skyrocketed as he bolted down the remaining flight of stairs.

Drawing his gun, he watched in horror as she fell to her knees on the porch, making herself a wide-open target for whoever was out there.

Lydia! Inside! Now!” He leaped over the final steps, weapon raised, and hooked an arm around her chest, dragging her back inside.

As she kicked and screamed and tried to claw away from him, he took in the grim scene.

Mike lay face down on the porch, half on, half off the short stoop, with an arm outstretched, reaching toward the door. The dusting of snow on his lifeless body suggested he’d been there a while.

Gunshot wounds were visible on his calf, lower back, and right shoulder. He’d been shot from behind, but it couldn’t have happened nearby. They would’ve heard the report of gunfire.

That meant Mike had run here with those injuries. Given the trail of blood that led down the street and around the corner, it was a miracle he’d made it home.

The shooter was out there somewhere, probably waiting nearby. In Mike’s attempt to reach Lydia, he might’ve inadvertently led the threat right to her door.

She wailed in Cole’s arms, her legs buckling and her hands grappling, trying to get to Mike. It fucking hurt—the sounds of her agony, the sight of her brother, the goddamn fucking needlessness of it. His chest burned. His throat closed, and his training took over.

She had a vicious amount of strength as he muscled her backward, fighting to keep her out of view of the doorway. With her back to the wall, he flattened an immovable hand against her chest. His other imprisoned her chin, forcing her shattered gaze to his.

“I need you to push it down,” he said sternly. “Push it way, way down where you don’t feel it. It’ll be there later, but right now, I need you to bury it, Lydia. Bury it and focus. I need you alive and with me.”

She stared at him out of glazed eyes, not seeing him. Not seeing anything but hopelessness.

“He’s my rock.” Her face collapsed. “My world. He’s all I have left.” A sob ripped from her throat, followed by an avalanche of mewling convulsive gasps.

Any minute, someone would drive by and see the body on the porch. The saving grace was the overnight snow. It would discourage people from wandering out this morning. And it was Christmas. Most were tucked around their decorated trees, opening presents and listening to holiday music.

“Look at me.” He tightened his grip on her jaw until her eyes cleared and locked on his. “You have three minutes to go upstairs and pack what you need. I know you can do this. You can do it because you’re strong as fuck, and you want to live.”

She shook her head, knocking more tears loose. “Every day at his side was a good day to die hard.”

“You know what?” He put his face in hers. “Today is a good day to live hard because that’s the only way we’re going to avenge his death.”

That got her attention.

She gripped his wrists and worked her throat, swallowing down the sobs. More tried to rise, overwhelming her breaths. She whimpered, choking, and her gaze started drifting away, toward the door. He was losing her.