Drake Sisters 05 - Safe Harbor

fought their way off the docks into the alley. The mobsters wanted the film back.
    No way were they getting it.
    Jackson slapped a full clip into Jonas's gun and shoved the gun into his hand. "You're good to go." He slammed home a full magazine and shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet. "I'm going up top for a few, Jonas. You put another pressure bandage on the wound in your side, and no matter what, stay on your feet. I'm going to shake things up a bit in a few minutes and you've got to be ready to run."
    Jonas nodded. Sweat dripped off his face and beaded on his body. Yeah. He was ready to run—and fall flat on his face—but he'd keep his feet and the gun and back Jackson in whatever crazy scheme he had. Because, in the end, he could always count on Jackson.

    Jackson melted into the night soundlessly, the way he always did. He had come home with Jonas when they'd both been sick to death of living in the shadows—when Jonas just flat out missed the hell out of his adopted family. They'd joined the sheriff's department and lived a cushy life until Jonas had gotten himself shot on the job and became restless and edgy recuperating. His old boss, Duncan Gray, from a special ops team buried deep in the defense department, had come asking. Jackson would have given him a hard look and they would have stayed safe. But no, Duncan had known to come to Jonas, because Jonas fell for the "we need you" line every damn time.
    It was a hell of a thing he'd done, pulling Jackson into this mess. And it wasn't the way he'd planned to die, a soft recon on Nikitin's rival mob to see who was coming and going and why. Nothing special, but here they were, shot to hell, and blood leaking out all over the place. Jonas opened the pressure bandage packet with his teeth and spit out the wrapper, slapping it in place before he could think too much about it.
    Fire ripped through him, stabbing so deep his body shuddered in reaction. He had to hold himself up by gripping the garbage retainer hard—and wasn't that sanitary?
    Damn, he was in real trouble this time. He stood swaying, the only thing steady was his gun hand.
    Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a photograph, the single one he carried, the one that mattered. He should have destroyed it. He could see his own face, the terrible raw truth caught on film. He was staring down at a woman and the love on his face, the stark hunger, was so evident it was a betrayal, there for everyone—even him—to see. His finger glided over the glossy paper, leaving a smear of blood.
    Hannah Drake. Supermodel. A woman with extraordinary, magical gifts. A woman so far out of reach he might as well try to pull the moon from the sky.
    He heard footsteps and the whisper of clothing sliding against the wall. Ramming the photograph back in the pocket of his shirt, close to his heart, he shook his head to clear it. More sweat dripped into his eyes and he wiped it away. The hard-asses were coming in first, staying to the shadows but definitely advancing. The sweat stung his eyes, and blood ran steadily from his side down his leg, mingling with the rain that had begun to come down in a relentless pour. He steadied the gun and waited.
    At the end of the alley, a man dropped and the first shot rang out almost simultaneously. Jackson was hell on wheels at that distance. Lying up on top of the roof, he could just pick them off if they were stupid enough to keep coming—and they were. Jonas took his time, waiting for a muzzle flash as one of them gave his position away by firing up at Jackson. Jonas squeezed and the count was two for them, but the entrance to the alley still looked a long way away when the stabbing fire was spreading through his body and his blood was leaking all over the ground.
    Don't be such a pansy ass. You're not going to die in this dirty alley cut down by a few low-life rats . He spoke sternly to himself, hoping the pep talk would keep him from doing a face plant in the muck. The trouble was, these weren't just low-life rats, they were the real deal, trained in tactics just as he and Jackson had been, and they were going for the rooftop, too. He heard sounds in the building behind him—the building that should have been a warehouse empty of people.

    The murder caught on that videotape tonight was worth a lot of lives. Jackson fired again and another body dropped. Jonas waited for the flash of return fire, but not a single bullet was fired. He groaned softly as realization