Hidden Riches

Dora choke. “I’ve got a gun at her back. Make the wrong move and the lady won’t have a spine left.”
    Jed couldn’t see a weapon, but he could see the pale outline of Dora’s face and hear her desperate struggle for air. “Ease off.” With his eyes fixed on DiCarlo, he crouched, set his gun on the floor. “She won’t be much of a shield if you strangle her.”
    “Stand up, hands behind your head. Kick the gun over here.”
    Jed straightened, linked his fingers behind his head. He knew Dora’s eyes were on him, but he didn’t look at her. “How far do you think you’ll get?”
    “Far enough. Kick the gun over here.”
    Jed nudged it halfway between himself and Dora, knowing the man who held her would have to come closer if he wanted it. Close enough, Jed figured, and they’d have a chance.
    “Sorry,” Jed said. “Looks like I missed the extra point.”
    “Back. Back against the wall, Goddamn it.” DiCarlo was beginning to sweat now. Things weren’t going the way they were supposed to. But he had the woman. And if he had the woman, he’d get Finley’s painting.
    Shifting, he began to sidestep down the hall toward the open door, with Dora between him and Jed. When he reached for Jed’s gun, he pulled her down with him as he crouched to retrieve it. The movement loosened his hold around her throat.
    Even as Jed prepared his move, she sucked in her breath.“He doesn’t have a gun,” she gasped out, and threw her body back.
    Her foot hit the .38, sent it skidding out the door. Jed dragged her aside and braced for DiCarlo’s attack. But rather than attack, DiCarlo ran.
    Jed tackled him at the door. They went through together in a violent tangle of limbs and curses. With a report like a bullet, the banister cracked in two jagged pieces under the weight. By the time they’d hit the ground, Dora was scrambling through the door and down the steps in search of the gun.
    A blow glanced off Jed’s kidneys. Another caught him low in the gut. He plowed his fist into the other man’s face and had the satisfaction of seeing blood splatter.
    “I can’t find it!” Dora shouted.
    “Get the hell out of here.” Jed blocked the foot DiCarlo kicked toward his head and heaved his opponent backward.
    Instead she let out an outraged howl when DiCarlo grabbed part of the broken banister, taking a vicious swing that missed Jed’s face by inches. Teeth bared, she took three running steps and leaped on DiCarlo’s back.
    She bit down enthusiastically on his neck and drew blood before he flung her aside.
    Pain exploded as her head hit the edge of a step. Dora reared up, managed to gain her feet again. But her vision doubled, tripled, then blacked out completely as she crumpled to the ground.
     
    When she opened her eyes again, everything swam in and out of focus. And it hurt. Dora let her eyes shut and tried to slip back into the void.
    “No, you don’t. Come on, baby, open up.” Jed tapped Dora’s cheeks with the back of his hand until the annoyance had her moaning and opening her eyes again.
    “Cut it out.” She shoved his hand aside and started to sit up. The room revolved like a carousel.
    “Not so fast.” Very much afraid her eyes were going todo that slow roll to the back of her head again, Jed eased her back down. “Try staying awake, but do it horizontal.”
    “My head.” She touched a tentative hand to the back of her head and hissed in reaction. “What hit me?”
    “It was what you hit. Just relax. How many fingers?” He held a hand in front of her face.
    “Two. Are we playing doctor?”
    Though he worried about a concussion, at least her vision and speech were clear. “I think you’re okay.” The flood of relief was instantly dammed by temper. “Not that you deserve to be after that idiotic move of yours. What were you doing, Conroy? Riding piggyback?”
    “I was trying to help.” It all came rushing back, much too quickly, much too clearly. Her fingers gripped his, reminding him that he was still holding her hand. “Where is he?” This time, despite the flash of pain, she pushed herself up. “Did he get away?”
    “Yeah, he got away. Damn it. I’d have had him if you . . .”
    Her eyes narrowed, dared him. “If I what?”
    “You went down like a tree. I thought you’d been wrong about the gun.” The memory brought on a fast, greasy wave of nausea. “The idea that he’d shot you kind of took my mind off bashing his face in. It turned out all you’d done was