Street Game (GhostWalkers, #8)(30)

Mack rolled in going to the left, Jaimie to the right, guns tracking. Two women, both screaming in French. “Hostage! Hostage!” Mack lowered his gun. In the same heartbeat, one of the women raised an Uzi. The other woman continued to plead in French, tears coursing down her face. She was between Jaimie and Mack’s assassin.

“Shoot!” Kane’s voice roared in Jaimie’s ears and then both women went down in a hail of bullets.

It all happened in seconds. Jaimie screamed a horrified protest. Kane pushed her through, trying to keep her away from the second woman’s body. Jaimie went to her knees, trying to cradle the dying woman’s head in her arms. Bullets spit at them from every direction. Mack yanked her to her feet, dragging her out.

They nearly lost three men, carrying the bodies to the car. Brian, Jacob, and Gideon were all shot to hell. Jaimie had been stark white, her blue eyes two dark, haunting holes. There was blood on her clothes, and all over her hands, as she tried desperately to stem the life force draining from the men she’d grown up with. It had been a nightmare journey home, a fight all the way to keep the three men alive.

Hours later, when they were finally safe, Mack held Jaimie while she was sick, again and again, violent, gut-wrenching spasms. She hadn’t spoken, hadn’t said a word, rocking back and forth with a blank, horrified stare that had scared the hell out of Mack. He’d tried to shake her out of it, order her out of it.

“It might have been better if we could have proved the other woman was also part of the Doomsday terrorists. Unfortunately the French hostages are both dead. No one knows where their bodies are. We’ll never know for sure,” Kane said softly.

“I know,” Mack insisted firmly. “My gut knows. It was a trap, a great trap. I was dead. If you hadn’t come in, I was dead.”

“Maybe she can’t forgive us for not knowing if the second woman was innocent, but I know she can’t forgive herself for not being able to pull that trigger to save your life. She loves you. She’s always loved you. In her eyes, she betrayed you. And when you came down so hard on her, you betrayed her by not understanding, by not seeing.” Kane shook his head. “She’s wired differently than we are, Mack. All that blood. Seeing the others covered in blood, you know she had to remember finding her mother.”

Mack shook his head. “She was such a little child. All eyes. That killer smile. No kid should have to see that.”

“I think blood brings it all back, Mack. She can’t take it.”

Mack swept an unsteady hand through his thick, springy hair. “I see. I understand. Jaimie probably isn’t capable of killing another human being either. That’s all right with me. It doesn’t make me think any less of Jaimie. I can understand her feelings.”

“No, you can’t,” Kane denied. “Neither can I. It doesn’t mean we think less of her, it means she’s different from us.”

Mack rubbed at his temples. Jaimie was different. And maybe he didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. He wanted her in his life. She was so good at what they did, yet she couldn’t take the blood and gore, freezing, rendering her useless when push came to shove. She’d been a liability and as much as they needed what she could do, he had to accept that she would never be a part of his work. Never be a part of the biggest part of his life. Jaimie was smarter and quicker at figuring things out. Maybe she’d already figured that and had walked away because she couldn’t accept it.

Jaimie emerged from the bathroom in faded button-up Levi’s, a soft blue sweatshirt, bare feet, and a towel wrapped around her wet hair like a turban, and both immediately ceased their conversation.

“What? No breakfast? There’s no room service, you know,” she chastised. “I had high hopes that one of you would do the cooking.”

She walked beautifully, even in blue jeans. Mack’s black gaze was hot as it followed her to the barstool. She’d always been graceful, and now she glided, her feet making no sound on the floor. He loved her hair, a halo of shiny curls. Her hair had always been unruly, messy, like a woman after a man spent a long night making love to her. He took a deep breath and let it out, avoiding Kane’s piercing gaze. The man knew him too well.

“We managed to make coffee,” Kane pointed out, pouring her a cup, taking pity on Mack.

“What’s this ‘we’ business?” Mack protested. “If you hadn’t kept us up, Jaimie, half the night with your incessant chatter, we might be a bit sharper this morning.”

She laughed at him, her vivid blue eyes dancing. “You always did wake up crabby, Mack.”

“You take a shower first,” Kane insisted generously. “I suggest a cold one. It will work wonders.”

Behind Jaimie’s back, Mack gestured rudely. The two men burst out laughing simultaneously.

“Towels are on the sink,” Jaimie provided helpfully. She looked a bit smug, very happy and extremely kissable.

Mack reminded himself to quit staring at her mouth. It wasn’t helping to relax his body. “Thank you, honey.” Deliberately, his voice was low and silky and caressing. The bastard Joe might be six feet tall, but he had nothing on Mack when it came to knowing what Jaimie liked best. He knew every hidden spot, every secret shadow.

She touched the tip of her tongue to her lip, eyes going wide and darkening to a royal blue. She suddenly found her coffee interesting. He managed to walk to the bathroom as if all parts of his body were cooperating.