In Death 28 - Promises in Death

bitten chunks of fiberglass.
    Fear rolled over the anger like lava.
    Then he saw her, on her feet. Standing. Whole. And arguing, by the look of it, with one of the medical technicians in front of an ambulance.
    “I’m not hurt. I don’t need to be examined, and I’m sure as hell not getting in that bus. The safety gel discharged. Can you see how much I’m wearing? How’s the civilian? How’s the woman?”
    “Shaken up is all,” the MT told her. “But we’re taking her in, getting her looked over. You ought to come in. Your eyes look shocky to me.”
    “My eyes are not shocky. My eyes are pissed. Now go away and . . .” She trailed off when she spotted Roarke, and he noted her eyes went from pissed to baffled.
    He walked straight to her, controlled the terrible urge to simply sweep her up and away. He skimmed his finger beside the shallow cut, and the blueing around it that marred her forehead.
    “Is this the worst of it then?” he asked her.
    “Yeah. How did you—”
    “I’ll see to her,” he told the MT. “If she needs to go in for treatment or exam, I’ll see to that.”
    “Yeah? How?”
    “She’s my wife.”
    “Yeah?” the MT repeated. “Good luck, buddy.”
    “Did you have to—”
    “Yes. My car’s behind the barricade. Let’s go.”
    “I can’t leave the scene yet. I haven’t cleared everything, and I need to make sure the responding officers have—”
    He rounded on her, slowly, very slowly. “Could you leave the scene if you were unconscious and being transported to the nearest hospital or health center?”
    The narrowed glare she aimed at him didn’t penetrate. “Let’s go,” he repeated.
    “A minute. Officer Laney, I appreciate your prompt response.”
    “Wish it could’ve been sooner, Lieutenant, and we’d busted the assholes.” Laney, a hawk-eyed black female, glowered at the van currently being loaded on a flatbed. “The sweepers’ll go over every inch of it, and the sedan, too. You ought to go with the MTs, sir. You took a hell of a ride.”
    “I’m just going to go home. Thanks.” She turned back to Roarke, walked with him. “I’m not hurt.”
    “Most people who aren’t hurt aren’t bleeding.”
    “I banged my head, that’s all. Jeez, if I’d known you were driving home this way and would see that, I’d have tagged you first.” She glanced back, winced at the unholy mess in the intersection. “It looks worse than it is. Personal injurywise. Let me get them to clear us through here.”
    She walked to one of the uniforms at the barricade, had a short conversation. When she turned back, saw Roarke opening the door of his rich-guy’s car for her, she winced again.
    “Don’t, ah, pet or pat me or anything until we’re out of here. It makes me look weenie.”
    “Far be it from me.” He got behind the wheel, threaded through the opening the uniform made for him. He headed up Madison to circle the great park, and head home.
    “What happened?”
    “I was an idiot. Fell for it. Stupid. Goddamn it.”
    “Other than that, what happened?”
    “Did a search and seize on Ricker’s place, which he was expecting. Still, it had to be done. I split off after, to head home, work from there. Spotted a tail. I should’ve known. It was sloppy, obvious, and I got smug. Had my attention on the tail, and verifying the registration, start to cross at the light, and wham.”
    She slapped her hands together for emphasis, and the movement had the wound on her head throbbing in double time. She hunched, and resisted poking at it since Roarke would notice.
    “Then this van comes out of nowhere, laying for me. I punched it, over and up, but a vehicle like that, it doesn’t respond like the freaking wind. So he caught my rear wheels, sent me into a dive. I crash, wreck my ride. The woman behind me at the light catches my fender, sends me into another spin. I’m padded in there, but Jesus, round and round. Meanwhile, the guys—or guy and a woman—who may be white, or Hispanic, may be goddamn aliens from the planet Vulcan according to witnesses—are out and gone before I can get out of the car. The sedan’s shooting up Madison and was dumped on Eighty-sixth and Third. No wits forthcoming there, so far.”
    Since he seemed to be watching traffic, she did a cautious little poke at her throbbing forehead. And, of course, pushed the throb to triple time.
    “Leave it be,” Roarke said mildly.
    Annoyed, embarrassed, she dropped her hand. “The van was reported