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What? A slight press on Victor’s shoulder kept him down. “Stay down. You hit your head.”
The swish and clink of metal announced the fireman a second before his booming voice. “Fire and rescue. What we got here?”
Dusty hid his weapon. “Looks like a concussion.”
Victor cursed. The fireman muscled in and Dusty retreated as the guy bent to Victor. Dusty left and made his way down the hall.
Where was Gracie? Had she gone out? No way. She wouldn’t have left Victor up here. What had Victor been doing up here?
He quickened his pace down the hall, searching rooms as he went. A room with computer servers. An office. White. Clean. Sparsely decorated. Gracie’s office.
Every door had a dead security pad. Turning the corner at the end of the hall, he saw the final door. Again security pad flashing error.
High alert surging in his blood, he stalked forward, pulled the door open, and saw her struggling from a seated position to her knees. After taking a hot second to make sure no one was in the apartment, he rushed over to her. She’d gone from kneeling back to sitting. “Where are you hurt?”
Grabbing his arm, she squeezed. “Dusty. The escape route, behind bookcase. Quick. Close it.”
He looked over and saw what she meant. The bookcase was open to reveal a secret compartment.
Not bothering to argue with her—didn’t know her well, but knew her well enough—he went over to the compartment and shut it. An elevator. An escape route? Was that how those who’d attacked her had gotten in? And if so, how the hell did they know this was here?
He turned back to ask her when two firemen came into the apartment.
* * *
The lights from emergency service vehicles, police and fire and ambulances, strobed across the back of Club When? The madness from inside had switched to the outside.
Injured people sitting on the ground, being tended at ambulances, walking around aimlessly. Less injured people crying, hugging, talking at each other as much as to each other.
Some people just standing around in shock. And lookie-loos gathered at the edge of the parking lot, still in their pajamas, watching the whole thing with curiosity.
Dusty guided Gracie over a fire hose as they exited the back of the club, then tried to steer her toward an ambulance.
She shook him off. “I don’t need help. I need to help.”
There was that upbringing of hers again. “You’re going to be looked at first.”
She began to argue, walk away. Dusty caught her by the forearm and held her for a moment. “Watch.”
Her head swiveled, noted the ambulance that drove past and came to a halt in the parking lot, squeezing in between the fire truck and another ambulance. Two techs climbed out, rushing to meet a man carrying an injured woman. She had a tourniquet on her bleeding leg.
Gracie made a sound of grief so heavy and unexpected, his stomach turned sour.
He looked closer at the woman, her dress and dark hair. Shit. The woman at the bar, the one who’d been flirting with him. The one Gracie had given a free drink to.
Half of her right leg was missing.
Gracie’s face scrunched in anger, tears dropped from her eyes. “This is my fault.”
His heart broke for her. He leaned down. “Steady. It’s not your fault.”
“I should’ve known something like this might happen,” she rasped. “That’s my job.”
“Grace, violence happens. It’s not always easy to predict when. Don’t convict yourself.”
She looked at him. Broken. Hurt. Tear-stained. “How can I fix this?”
Fuck.
He folded her into his arms, gathering her up, so damn grateful she was okay, so damn grateful she let him hold her, hoping his strength could muffle some of her pain. He kissed the top of her head, swallowed over the bricks of anger stacking like a barrier, the Great Wall of China, in his throat. “We are going to find whoever is behind this. It’s that person’s fault.”
And he was done chasing his fucking tail when he already knew exactly who it was he needed, wanted to protect.
Chapter 42
Early morning, hours after the fire, Dusty walked through the surgical-white hospital corridor. The smell of smoke seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his nostrils. Probably better than the smell of hospital antiseptic.
With an apology for almost crashing into them, he veered out of the way of a woman with an IV bag walking with a nurse’s aide in a candy-striped uniform.
He’d been up all night; so had Gracie.
He’d never seen a more determined person in his life. After he’d insisted Gracie be checked out—took nearly every bit of charm and convincing he had, stubborn woman—she’d gone nonstop. Helped out with the ambulances, talked to injured, consoled those in shock, talked with a few angry fellows Dusty had wanted to take down, but she’d handled it with…well, grace. She’d been interviewed by police and fire, insisted on coming here, checked on her staff, Victor, any available injured.
He’d been by her side through all of it, but she’d left him to speak with the hospital administrator about taking care of the bills, so he was on his own. And since he’d wanted to talk to the guy privately, because he sure had acted funny when Dusty had visited with Gracie, he turned into Victor’s hospital room.
Victor sat up in bed. His dark eyes were pinned to a television tuned to the news, which currently showed clips from the club fire.
Dusty rapped on the doorjamb he’d already entered. Victor looked up, waved him inside. Dusty purposefully kept his eyes off the screen. “You’d think that’d be the last thing you’d want to see.”
Victor squinted one eye. “I’m just trying to catch up on what happened. I was knocked out through most of it.”
He’d been unconscious because Victor had fought back—not only did he have a concussion, but a broken clavicle, a couple of broken ribs, and one hell of a shiner.
There’d been two men, and they’d wanted into the computers that Victor had been working on. Apparently, he’d been looking through some old surveillance footage of the cl
ub’s exterior.
“Is it helping any?”
“Mostly it’s just speculation on the Parish family’s bad luck. Bringing up the drone attack earlier this year. No one’s asking the obvious questions yet. Easy to see an explosion without a raging fire isn’t amateur hour.”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m here. Trying to find out who is after Gracie.”
Victor picked the corded remote off the guardrail where it hung, cringed in pain, rested his head back, and flicked off the television. “What is that?”
Now that he’d bothered to give Dusty his full attention, he’d noticed the flowers.
Dusty shrugged. “Wasn’t sure of the protocol.”
“I would’ve preferred a naked picture of your girlfriend.”
Huh. This guy wanted to wave a red flag in front of a bull. “You’re a lot less friendly now than when I was in here with Gracie. Heck, less friendly than the guy I remember from Mexico. And you were in a lot more pain in Mexico.”
“Pain is a chronic condition when you get involved with the Parish family. You might want to write that down, tattoo it on that generous bicep, and walk away now.”
Dusty walked over to the windowsill, put the flowers into a vase with other flowers. A little crowded, but he hadn’t thought ahead. Sunlight streamed through the metal blinds and across the burgundy vinyl lounge chair. He sat, put his elbows on his knees. “Why are you so pissed at me?”
Victor turned his head to look at him. His eyes held the glassy sheen of medication, which explained why he seemed a tad slow to answer. “You need to be honest with Gracie. She might seem tough, but she’s—”
“Not anyone I want to mess with. I got her. And I even get why you’d think poorly of me, but she knows why I’m here. She knows everything I’m about.”
Victor lifted his head from the pillow, then let it drift back. He closed his eyes. “She knows about Tony? About his death?”
“I’ve been totally honest with her. And I’m no longer working my job.”
That opened Victor’s eyes. “So why are you here?”
