Blood And Roses: Fallen Part 11

There is a way. An elevator down the eastern corridor, out past accounting. I nod, getting to my feet. If Charlie's here, then I definitely want to hightail it. A small part of me resists, though. I was told to wait here by a member of the police force. And not just the police force-by a member of the DEA. If I go against what I've been told, I'm crossing a line. A line I've never crossed before. I won't be able to come back to work, that's for sure.

"I'm not so sure about this," I say. "How did you even get in here?"

"It's probably better if you don't ask," Lacey says, her mouth pulling up to one side in some semblance of a rueful smile. "It wasn't the easy way, that's for sure." She spins around, suddenly startled by a noise out in the corridor. Her shoulders visibly relax, and then I see Michael and Cade arrive behind her.

"Hey, precious," Cade says, smiling at me. Whereas Michael's always been a little too formal with his greetings, it appears Cade is going to be exactly the opposite. Michael huffs and hurries into the room.

"No time for details. Let's move." He doesn't give me an option. It's kind of a relief. Taking the choice out of my hands makes running out on Agent Lowell seem a little more acceptable. I'm ushered out into the corridor, and there's only one question on my lips: "Where the h.e.l.l is Zeth?"

"I always thought it would be Sam who f.u.c.ked things up so badly that I'd 'ave to put a bullet in 'im. I 'ave to say...I never thought it would be you."

Sam. Yeah, Sam. The guy gets caught doing something nefarious every single time he leaves his front door. He didn't even know where to aim his gun to hit me in the heart. Sadly, the same can't be said for Charlie Holsan. Charlie knows exactly where my heart is. His FN Herstal Five-Seven-one of the hardest handguns to procure, but the most efficient at its job-is b.u.t.ted right up against my ribcage. And whereas Sammy would never have had the stones to pull the trigger, I know Charlie most certainly does. He has that wild light in his eyes again-the crazed mania that makes me think he's been hitting the blow especially hard.

"I knew if I put the hurt on that little c.u.n.t of yours, you'd come runnin'," he says, his mouth pulling into a broad smile. It would have been ill-advised for him to call Sloane anything, but to call her that... Every other word that comes out of my mouth is a curse word, but I never say that word. It's an ugly word, used by ugly people. I curl my hands into fists, getting ready.

"You always were vicious, Charlie, but I never thought you were the kind of man to sell women. I sure as h.e.l.l never thought you'd turn on me, either."

Charlie sniffs, narrowing his eyes at me. "I'm the kind of man who likes to make money. That's the only kind of man I've ever been." He squints at me a little harder. "You think me selling those b.i.t.c.hes is any worse than you putting bullets in the backs of people's skulls? At least the girls are alive by the time I sell 'em on. Mostly. How many people have you killed for me, Zeth? How many people have you wiped clean from the face of this earth?"

I nod my head, staring him down. "More than I can count. But they were all evil, murdering b.a.s.t.a.r.ds like you. And I may have been executioner, but you were the one handing out the orders. Their blood's on your hands, too. I've never harmed an innocent person."

Charlie's head kicks back, his mouth open wide as he laughs. "If that helps you sleep at night, son, then who am I to f.u.c.king argue?"

"I sleep just fine, Charlie." I press myself into the barrel of his gun. I am so f.u.c.king over this. I am done with his crazy paranoia, the threats, wondering which of his a.s.shole henchmen is loitering around the next corner, waiting to put my girl in danger. "You tried to run Sloane off the road, didn't you?" I snarl.

Charlie shrugs, pulling his mouth down at the corners. "This is Seattle. It's been known to rain a lot. It ain't my problem if your woman can't handle a car when it's wet."

"f.u.c.k you, Charlie. While you were out f.u.c.king with Sloane, your woman was at home slas.h.i.+ng her wrists. She's one floor down in a f.u.c.king coma; have you even been to see her?"

Charlie reacts quickly, pulling back and swinging, punching me hard in the stomach. I double over-I can't help it-and the air leaves my lungs in an agonizing gasp. I can feel the wound in my stomach tearing even further. It was bad before, but now it's really f.u.c.king bad. A wave of nausea washes over me, making me retch. "You'd be wise not to mention that," Charlie bends over so our eyes are level. "I know you were there. I know you had something to f.u.c.king do with that."

I spit onto the floor, unsurprised when I see the pink tinge to my saliva. "She was already well on her way when I arrived, a.s.shole. You're just gonna have to accept it; the years of lies and drugs and cheating-you made her so f.u.c.king unhappy that she wanted to die." I'm pus.h.i.+ng an unhinged man's b.u.t.tons, but it's what's going to get me out of this situation. I'm just waiting. Waiting for the right moment to s.n.a.t.c.h his gun and shoot him with it. In the meantime, Charlie brings the weapon cras.h.i.+ng down so that the b.u.t.t impacts with the back of my head. My vision shatters into a kaleidoscope of color and shapes.

"Oh! Oh my G.o.d!" I hear the squeak of tennis shoes on linoleum and the clatter of something cras.h.i.+ng to the ground. Someone's come across Charlie and me in our compromising position, and they're freaking the f.u.c.k out.

"Stop where you are, love," Charlie says. I look up and a nurse is frozen, stock-still, with an upturned tray at her feet, and small drug vials rolling on their sides down the corridor toward us. She looks like she's just s.h.i.+t her scrubs. Probably because Charlie's pointing the gun at her. I can't go for Charlie's weapon now; it's too risky. He might shoot the nurse. But now that he's distracted, I can pull my own gun. I grab it from my waistband, hissing through my teeth at the jaw-dropping pain that rips through my stomach. "Drop it, Charlie."

Charlie angles his head toward me, grinning. He looks even madder now, the whites of his eyes showing. He starts to laugh. "Oh, this is just f.u.c.king perfect, isn't it? You're gonna 'ave to shoot me in a hospital. You're gonna get caught and sent back to f.u.c.king Chino, 'cept this time they'll fling your a.s.s on death row. No early release for good behavior with that one, son. And what if you don't kill me? Imagine all the nasty, depraved s.h.i.+t I can be doing to your little doctor while you rot away."

He's still pointing his gun at the nurse, but I've had enough. Years. Years I f.u.c.king spent in that h.e.l.lhole for him, for a crime I didn't commit. That injustice pales against the threat he's making toward Sloane, though. He can't be allowed to hurt her; I won't f.u.c.king let him. Not ever. I roar, launching myself at him; I hit hard, sending him cras.h.i.+ng into the wall, and the nurse screams. A screen of red drops down over my vision, and I'm pounding my fists into Charlie's face, his side, his stomach. I've dropped my gun, but I don't care. I don't care about the pain. I don't care if I lose every last drop of blood from my body. I will kill this motherf.u.c.ker if it's the last thing I do.

Charlie swings the gun back round, smas.h.i.+ng it into the side of my face. Pain explodes inside my head, but I keep going. I keep swinging. I only stop when Charlie manages to regain a footing and he spins, pointing the gun at me again. I grab up the Desert Eagle, and then I'm pointing that right back at him.

"FREEZE! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"

My heart is slamming in my chest, and my head is spinning. I can barely see straight, but it doesn't take much to spot the two DEA agents over Charlie's shoulder. They both have their weapons drawn, and Lowell is staring, wide-eyed, at us as though she's just hit the mother load. "DEA! PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPONS!" she yells.

Charlie looks at me and starts laughing again. "I'm afraid I don't quite feel like it," he shouts. "You see, we're in the middle of a conversation here." He pivots and fires in one swift motion, way too quick for the cops to react in time. The nurse at the other end of the hall starts screaming again, and the guy behind Lowell falls back, arms and legs out straight as he sails through the air. A cloud of pink mist blooms behind him, and that's it for Denise Lowell's lover.

They call the FN Herstal Five-Seven the cop-killer for a reason. This is why. Its rounds will pierce anything, even police-issue body armor. I doubt Lowell's partner was even wearing any, though-wouldn't want to ruin the line of his suit-and now the f.u.c.ker is dead. This s.h.i.+t is now officially way out of control.

I do the only thing I can; I turn and I run.

We've almost traveled the length of the hospital before we come across Zeth; we hear shots, shouting, and then there he is, his forehead covered in a sickly sheen of sweat.

"Oh my G.o.d! What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you?" I head for his s.h.i.+rt, to lift it up, to see what damage he's done-running! He was running!-but he slaps my hand away.

"Later, Sloane. Later, okay?"

"Hey! Hey, stop!" A shout echoes down the corridor, and the next thing I know Zeth has grabbed hold of my hand and I'm being dragged in the opposite direction, away from Agent Lowell. "STOP RIGHT THERE!" she hollers.

We have a good thirty feet on her, though. We skid around the corner, all five of us, and I push ahead, tugging Zeth down the left-hand turning that will take us to the service stairwell; we're never going to make the elevator in time. I slam through the emergency exit and begin to race down the concrete steps, my heart thundering in my ears. This is stupid, this is stupid, this is SO f.u.c.king stupid. The chant is like a metronome, keeping my legs moving. I am running from the law. Never, ever, ever in my life did I think this was who I was, or would be for that matter.

Down we go, staircase after staircase. My head is spinning by the time we hit the ground floor, and my ears are ringing with the sound of footfall and incoherent shouting.

"Keep moving, keep moving!" Zeth roars. I turn and Lacey is right behind me, her eyes wide, a mask of panic frozen on her face. Zeth is behind her, followed by the other men. And three turns of the staircase above us, Agent Lowell leans out into the gap, pointing her....pointing her gun.

"Don't f.u.c.king move!" she yells. Zeth keeps on pus.h.i.+ng, though; he obviously has every intention of moving. And fast. We burst out of the emergency exit into the rear car lot, straight into a downpour of rain that's so heavy it instantly soaks me to the skin.

"Get to the front lot," Zeth says, pulling both me and Lacey to the right. I'm already moving, but Michael grabs Zeth by the shoulder.

"Give me your keys," he says. Zeth shrugs him off, but he doesn't give up. "Zeth give me your f.u.c.king keys. Now!"

"Just shut up and move."

Michael punches Zeth in the back, so hard he slumps to his knees. A shriek rips out of my mouth-what the h.e.l.l is he doing? Michael reaches into Zeth's jacket and pulls the set of keys out, and then he helps Zeth to his feet. Zeth's pale white and swaying on his feet, but he still looks like he wants to kill his friend.

Michael turns to me then. "Wait around the corner. Go! She'll follow us to the cars. I'll send someone for you. Just wait there! You're gonna have to help him. He's lost a lot of blood." As if to prove his point, Zeth's head rocks back and he almost slumps to the ground. Lacey and I grab him under each arm and do as we're told. This isn't going to work. This is not going to work. But I still power forward, stumbling under the vast weight that I'm desperately trying not to let fall on top of me. Thankfully Zeth's able to stagger forward, otherwise we'd be screwed. Michael and Cade tear off, whooping and calling as they go. The building to our left cuts away and we turn, coming into a small courtyard where the generator blocks are kept. Lacey seems to know where she's going. She urges us forward, leading me right behind one of the brick genny houses.

I have to blink three times before I'll believe my eyes. "Cops!" I turn to Lacey, who looks mildly embarra.s.sed. "Lacey, why are there two f.u.c.king cops f.u.c.king handcuffed to the doors of this f.u.c.king building?" I don't think I've ever said f.u.c.k so much, but the situation seems to warrant it.

"They're just unconscious. They're not dead," Lacey says, as if this makes it all better.

"Oh my G.o.d," I breathe, and I mean it. Devine intervention is the only way I can see a positive outcome in all of this. I feel like dropping to my knees and praying that we get through this. Lacey and I lower Zeth to the floor. His eyes are open, but it doesn't seem like he's seeing us. I check his pulse and it's slow and thready. He's gonna die, and all because he wouldn't just stay in his bed. All of this because he wouldn't f.u.c.king listen. I slap him around the face, hard, and it's only partially to stop him from falling into a coma. The other half is because he f.u.c.king deserves it.

Michael told us to wait here-that he would send somebody for us. Police sirens wail out in the front car lot, and there's nothing else that we can do. Lacey and I sit there, and we wait.

A Widow Maker shows up twelve minutes later. It's Carnie, one of the men I met at Julio's; I have no idea how he managed to get here so fast, and I don't ask questions. It's a miracle that we haven't already been discovered. Lucky that the unconscious cops haven't woken up, either, although that's more of a worrying point. They've been out for so long, I begin to worry they actually are dead, but a quick check of their pulses reveal they are very much still alive.

Just like us, Carnie's absolutely drenched; he looks faintly amused at our situation, although his smile vanishes when he realizes it's on him to lift Zeth. In the end, even he's not strong enough to do it on his own. He takes Zeth's arms, and Lace and I get a leg each. It's so undignified that I'm almost glad the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's finally pa.s.sed out on us; he would never consciously tolerate such manhandling.

Carnie has an industrial van waiting at the rear of the hospital, the engine still running. Down one side, the paintwork reads Encore Dry Cleaning. He's parked it right up against the bay doors, as though he's waiting for a delivery of the hospital's soiled linen. The hospital cleans its own sheets and scrubs, but it's a reasonable disguise. We manage to haul Zeth into the back-the van is actually piled high with sacks of clean laundry-and then Lacey and I climb in right behind him. "Where the h.e.l.l did you get this?" I ask Carnie, already suspecting the answer.

"I borrowed it," he replies, and then he slams the doors closed. Everything falls into darkness. A moment later, the van lurches and we're moving. In the dark, the engine and our breathing seem very loud. I suddenly realize how cold and wet and tired I am. Lacey fumbles around and finds my hand, squeezing it tight.

"Is he going to be okay?" she whispers.

I squeeze her hand back, and I tell her the truth. "I don't know. I hope so."

The man I called a back-alley doctor back at Zeth's warehouse told me his practice was in a bas.e.m.e.nt, but he lied; it's actually above a tattoo shop in Greenwood. He looks less than happy to see us when we walk through his door, although his tight-lipped grimace isn't one of surprise. He knew all too well that we were coming.

The unit he operates out of is clearly where he lives, too, although the room he guides us to is immaculately clean and equipped with nearly every piece of hospital gadgetry he could possibly need, including a life support machine pushed back into one corner.

"Put him on the table," he orders, rolling up his s.h.i.+rtsleeves. Carnie, Lacey and I heave Zeth up onto the table, and I try not to succ.u.mb to the overwhelming urge to throw up. Everything hits me all at once. I just screwed up any chance of continuing my career. I should never have run, but it was hard to refuse when everyone seemed so frantic and desperate to move. When it appeared that everyone had come to get me, to prevent Charlie from doing anything to harm me. I didn't really have another choice.

None of that matters now, though. Not in comparison to the still form lying on his back on this stranger's makes.h.i.+ft operating table. My heart feels like...it feels like it's wrapped in barbed wire, and every time I breathe in and my chest expands, my heart swells and presses against that wire, and is pierced a little deeper. The caregiver in me wants to check Zeth's vitals, to establish what's happening with him, but I'm too d.a.m.n scared. I'm worried about what I'll find, and I'm worried about how it will affect me. It already feels like I'm on the verge of losing control; if I see for myself that he's dying, I know exactly what will happen. It will be the end of everything for me. I've railed against it, and I've fought and denied it, but there was little point in even trying. I've fallen for this reckless, dangerous, terrifying soul, and now that I've realized it, I'm not ready to give it up.

I walk back out of the room, and head straight to where Lacey is sitting on a thoroughly worn leather sofa, staring into s.p.a.ce. She looks traumatized enough already, but I'm going to ask one more thing of her. "Lace, what's your blood type?"

Her eyelids flutter, and then she refocuses, looking up at me. "I don't know."

I exhale, closing my eyes and taking a moment. I'm type A; I already know that. I can only donate to people with the same blood type, or type AB. If Zeth's type O, like half the freaking population of the world, then transfusing him with my blood could easily kill him. And now Lacey doesn't know her blood type. If she's AB, the holy grail of blood transfusions, it won't matter what Zeth is; she will be able to help him anyway. The likelihood of that is almost nil, though. But giving Zeth Lacey's blood is still our best bet at this stage. She's his sister. Although that doesn't necessarily mean they have the same blood type, it does mean they're more likely to be compatible.

"Can I help him?" Lacey whispers, jarring me out of my panicking thoughts.

"We can only try," I say. There's no way I can steal more blood from the hospital, and it's unlikely we're going to find a better candidate.

I let the other doctor hook them up, and I don't sit around to watch. I pace back and forth in the other room, fighting against the p.r.i.c.kle of fear that I'm now more than well acquainted with. Lacey is whiter than a sheet once the blood transfusion is done. She comes and sits in the room with me, turning on the television, although she doesn't watch it. The sound of The Simpsons playing in the background is just there to fill the silence, and I'm glad of it. It stops me from screaming.

Three hours later, Cade shows up. He's wearing his cut and a dangerously irritated look on his face. "That b.i.t.c.h sure can drive," is all he'll say. After some prompting, he confirms that Michael took the brunt of the heat but that he got away and will come as soon as he can. He also confirms that as far as he or Michael can tell, Charlie wasn't arrested. G.o.d knows what the psycho did to avoid that.

Cade sits down next to Lacey on the couch, and his eyes grow wide with surprise when she turns and curls herself up into a ball, nestling into his side. They only met briefly this afternoon, but he doesn't know that Lacey's simple need to be held sometimes overrides all forms of social etiquette. He takes it well, though; he shrugs at me and then puts his arm around her, and I feel like kissing him on the cheek.

It's the middle of the night by the time Zeth wakes up. The doctor-his name is West, Cade tells me-comes to let me know. "He's bandaged up tight and I've given him a sedative so he doesn't try to move. You think you could try and not get him too excited?"

Cheeky b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I give West a dour smile and push past him into the room. Zeth's bleary eyes are staring straight up at the ceiling while he frowns, slowly blinking against the light.

"You should know I'm pretty mad at you," I whisper softly. Zeth's head slowly rolls to the side like it's heavier than a bowling ball. His lips pull into a lazy smile.

"I'm pretty mad at me, too," he says. For someone who's clearly been shot up with enough tranquilizer to sedate a small elephant, his speech is surprisingly unaffected. My heart pulls a little, aching in my chest.

"Why are you mad at yourself, Zeth?"

"Because...you're leaving," he says, his words taking some effort to get out. A bolt of something painful and too hot races through my veins, lighting me up. He thinks I'm leaving? I have to take a moment to consider that. If he already thinks it, then maybe I should. Maybe I should walk out of the door and never look back. As quickly as I consider this option, I know it's just never going to happen.

"Why do you say that?" I walk farther into the room and sit carefully on the edge of the table where he's pinned under the weight of the drugs coursing through his body.

"Because of this...because of...me."

I have no doubt in my mind that he wouldn't be talking like this if he were fighting fit. He'd be growling something about me doing whatever the h.e.l.l I wanted and how everything was my choice. But I think the drugs might be loosening that tongue of his a little bit.

"Yeah, well. I'm not gonna say that you probably handled the hospital situation a little rashly, but I'm not blind, Zeth. I see the underlying motive."

Zeth grunts, shaking his head slowly, as though he's suddenly caught himself thinking something he doesn't want to be thinking. Such a huge man, covered in ink, with a fierce hardness to him that often fools others-but I've seen this side of Zeth hiding underneath the cold exterior. I've just been waiting to meet him properly.

I reach for his hand, not caring anymore. Not caring about my pride, or his arrogance, or both of our stupidity. I've questioned myself, and I've questioned him countless times, and I've doubted the both of us as many times, too, but that's not the way things are going to be anymore. This is the turning point. This is where I stop holding back. This is where I become his. Nearly losing him twice has made me realize that I really want him. Want this. Want us. And I'm going to have it. "I'm not going anywhere," I say.

Zeth's pupils are like the lens of a camera enlarging and contracting, desperately trying to focus properly. This might be a bad time to do this, but it's happening all the same. I lace my fingers through his, the rough callouses on his palms and fingers reminding me that he works with his fists. I accept that. Right now, I'm accepting him. He blinks at me again, and then a faint attempt at a c.o.c.ky smile works across his face.

"Knew you couldn't resist me," he says softly.

I can only laugh. "Against all the odds, no," I admit. "I can't."

"Then I'm a happy man, Dr. Romera," he says, letting his eyelids sink closed for a moment. "Because from the moment I saw you...I haven't stood a chance." He wiggles his fingers, and I realize he's trying to free his hand. Disappointment rushes through me-he still can't hold hands with me?-but then he heaves his arm up high over his head and leaves it there, waiting. "Are you coming up here or what?" he asks.

He wants me to lie on the table with him. He's covered in sweat and blood, and he looks like h.e.l.l, but quite frankly there's nowhere else in the world I'd rather be. In that small, concentrated action, the last fragile piece of my heart that I've been trying to keep back, to keep for myself, is suddenly lost. It's all his. It's wrapped itself entirely around him, and I have no hope of ever getting it back again. I climb as carefully as I can up onto the table and I let my head gently rest on his shoulder; his arm encircles me, and I feel like doing something utterly ridiculous-I feel like crying. We haven't been here before, but this, me and him together, our bodies pressed close-and not only pressed close, but with him pulling me even closer-it feels like we were made to fit together like this all along, and if we'd only just given in and tried it, we would have seen that right at the beginning.

"What's this?" Zeth asks, quietly murmuring the words into my hair. His hand is resting on my side, over the pocket of my now totally disgusting scrub pants. I reach inside, and I pull out the orange envelope that I found this morning, at the beginning of the worst s.h.i.+ft in the history of all time.

"Oh, yeah. I meant to read this earlier." I open it carefully, feeling a pinch of regret. I already suspect I know what this is; when I slide the thick, engraved card out from inside the envelope, my suspicions are confirmed. "You are cordially invited to attend the wedding of Ms. Rebecca Gibbs to Mr. Suresh Patel, on November thirtieth of this year. Festivities will be hosted at The Grand Alms Hotel, commencing at eleven a.m. for the service and vows," I read. Yeah, I would be lying if I said I wasn't immensely sad right now. After listening to Suresh talk about it for so long, I've actually been looking forward to his wedding. I run my fingers over the paper once more, and then I slide the card back inside the envelope.

"Are you going to invite me to be your plus-one?" Zeth asks, his voice rumbling in my ear.

"Oh, come on. I'm hardly going to go. It wouldn't be safe."

"Would I get the invite if you were going?"

I want more than anything in this world to kiss Zeth right now, but I know it's not a good idea. Instead, I throw caution to the wind and I press my lips against his ribcage, closing my eyes. "Yes," I say. "You'd get the invitation."

Zeth inhales deeply, in that way that patients do when they've had too much pain relief and it feels good to stretch their lungs to maximum capacity. He is immensely high right now, but he's doing a solid job of keeping his s.h.i.+t together. He exhales slowly, and then he speaks. He's so quiet, I have to strain to hear him. "I told you once this could be a fairy tale if you let it. And I told you the part I'd play in that fairy tale. But if you want to go to this thing..." He stops talking for so long that I a.s.sume he's fallen asleep. But then he turns his head, his lips moving as he brushes them against my hair. "If you want to go, Sloane...I'll make it happen. For you, I can switch characters. I will be Prince Charming for a night."

Things You Should Know...

Hi, lovely readers! There was some confusion at the end of Burn. Some of you thought that because of the announcement regarding Rebel's standalone alone story, Zeth and Sloane's story was at an end. This, of course, is not the case, or you wouldn't have just finished Fallen!

There will be a fifth and sixth book, following Fallen. They are as yet unt.i.tled and release dates are unconfirmed, although I always endeavor to publish approximately every 6 weeks; if you want to know more information regarding the series as and when it is released, you can sign up to my newsletter on the next page.

Rebel is going to be released once Zeth and Sloane's story is completed. I had hoped to publish it sooner, however I've since realized that to do so would ruin a lot of the secrets still to be revealed in the Blood & Roses series, and that just wouldn't do!

I hope you're all enjoying the adventure so far. This is a complex and unfolding storyline, so if you're still asking questions, wondering why something happened, why certain aspects of the story exist, or what events happened to affect our characters, I solemnly swear all will be explained in time. You have my word!

If you'd like to discuss any of the points in the series, you're always more than welcome to chat with me and other readers on Facebook or via my website!.