City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(11)

I smile up at him, and he says, “Dumb question. Burger and rings and a Diet Coke. Though I don’t quite get the point of the diet pop.”

“Balance.”

He laughs, kisses me again, and heads for the other room, where we left our clothes. I watch him go. It’s a helluva view. Broad, tattooed shoulders. Muscled arms. Great ass. He notices and turns, his gaze moving slowly over me.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he says, “I’m not going to make it to the bank.”

I pull my knees up in invitation. He starts toward me. I shut my legs and tug the sheet over them.

“Tease,” he growls.

“Drop off the money. Bring me onion rings. I’ll show my sincere appreciation.”

“Sincere appreciation? I like the sounds of that.”

He dresses and then leaves. When the door closes, I’m on my phone, zipping through work-related messages before I check in on Diana. I go to hit Speed Dial. Then my gaze shoots to the door.

Phone. Kurt.

Shit, I never asked if he’d had any more weird calls. And now he’s taken off on a 2:30 a.m. bank run.

I’m still doing up my shirt as I fly down the stairs. I know I’m overreacting. But it’s my way of admitting he’s important to me, that I’m not going to get distracted with my own problems when he has his own.

I’m on the street now. Even in the daytime, it’s not one of the city’s safest neighbourhoods. At this hour, it’s unnaturally quiet, as if a predator lurks around every corner, waiting for some foolish prey to break the silence. It’s a wet September night, rainwater still dripping from eaves, that plinking the only sound I hear until I catch the slow thump of Kurt’s footsteps. Unhurried, deliberate footsteps, ones that tell the world he’s here and doesn’t give a shit if they know it.

I tear around the corner. He glances over his shoulder, still unhurried, even the pound of footfalls not enough to concern him. He’s twenty feet away, under a flickering street light, and he frowns as he sees me.

“Everything okay?” he calls, his voice echoing in the darkness.

I slow to a walk. “I just decided I want a milkshake instead of the burger and Coke.”

“You did keep my number, right?”

“I needed the exercise.”

He chuckles. “I planned to give you that after I got back.”

I laugh. He’s waiting under the light, and I’m walking over, the gap closing. Ten feet, nine …

Movement flickers in the shadows. I don’t wait to see what it is. I charge, yelling, “Kurt!”

He turns, and it seems in slow motion. A gun rises. I shout. I hit Kurt in the side, and a gun fires, and he goes down, and I don’t know which comes first—the shot or the fall. Then he’s hitting the ground, and I’m twisting and there’s a guy there. The same one I saw in the parking garage. Not Ricci. A dark-haired stranger. Holding a gun on us.

“Present from Mr. Saratori,” he says.

He lifts the gun. I don’t think. I don’t need to. I’m already in motion, grabbing his wrist and wrenching, the gun clattering onto the pavement. A hiss of surprise. The thug turns, his fist swinging. Then the gun appears, seeming to rise from the sidewalk on its own.

No, not on its own. Kurt’s pointing the gun at the thug. His face is ashen. There’s blood on his shirt. The guy twists, pulling me into the line of fire. And I’m thinking I’m dead. Except Kurt isn’t me. He doesn’t react like me. The gun never fires. He just points it, and the guy breaks free and runs. Kurt shoots, but it’s deliberately wide. A warning. Keep running, *.

I reach for the gun to go after the thug. Then I see Kurt. See his white face. See the blood on his shirt. The hole ripped through it, blood gushing. He slaps a hand to the hole, as if that will stop the blood.

He hands me the gun. “Go get him.”

His voice is weak, his eyelids flickering. He’s going into shock. I push him gently down onto the sidewalk.

“You need to go—” he begins.

“He’s gone.”

“You can still—”

“No.”

I grab my phone.

“Don’t.” He wobbles to his feet. “Whatever this is, you don’t want to get involved.”

“This isn’t about you. That was for me.”

He hesitates, but then shakes his head. “I don’t care. I don’t want you getting in trouble. I know a guy. Comes by the bar. A doctor. He lost his licence, but—”

“Hell, no,” I say. “I’m getting you proper medical—”

He teeters, his eyes starting to roll up. I break his fall as he topples. Then I dial 911.





Seven



I’m at the hospital, beside Kurt’s bed. I paid to upgrade him to a private room, and he’s sleeping now. He’s been in and out of consciousness since the ambulance came, first from shock and blood loss, now from painkillers and exhaustion.

Leo Saratori has found me. My game of Russian roulette with therapists is over. The bullet has slid into the chamber.

Four days ago, I confessed to a new therapist; today, Saratori catches up with me. That’s no coincidence. She looked up the details and found my story. She told someone, maybe the detective in charge, who’ll get a big payout from Saratori if he tells him first.