NYPD Red(71)

The ball of flame I was afraid would travel up the chute and burn us both to hell never did. Instead, a deafening explosion rocked the building and released a pressure wave of hot expanding gases, most of which blew straight through the roof.

Some of the blowback billowed through the hole in the wall we had created, but at least the little incinerator room we were trapped in hadn’t turned into a blazing coffin.

Neither of us moved for a solid fifteen seconds as ash, soot, and chunks of hot garbage fell around us.

And then, silence.

My mouth was pressed to Kylie’s ear.

“Are you alive?” I whispered.

“No,” she said.

“Me either,” I said.

I rolled off her, and the two of us sat up. We weren’t quite ready to stand.

“You have absolutely no bomb experience, do you?” Kylie said, shaking plaster dust out of her hair.

I stood up and grinned down at her like an idiot, thrilled to be alive. “I do now.”

I helped her to her feet, and she put her arms around me, clasping her hands behind my neck. I wrapped my arms around her waist, and, as the dust settled around us, we stood there, gazing into each other’s eyes.

I remember the first day I saw her at the academy. She was heart-stoppingly beautiful back then and, ten years later, with her face marbled with grime and her hair streaked with gray ash, Kylie MacDonald was still the most beautiful woman in the world.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “If you hadn’t stopped me from unlocking that front door, Spence and I—and you—we’d all be—”

She either couldn’t finish, or she just decided that words weren’t enough. She leaned into me and kissed me gently.

Kylie has the softest, sweetest lips I’ve ever kissed, and feeling them pressed against mine brought on that rush of anticipation I felt back in the days when I knew the first kiss was only the beginning of a night of tender, passionate, soulful lovemaking.

But that was ten years ago. Right here, right now, I knew that it all would begin and end with a single kiss.

“You’re welcome,” I said, lowering my arms from around her waist.

She stepped away, and the moment was over.

“Wish I could stay,” she said, “but I’ve got a homicidal maniac to catch, and my poor husband’s got both feet nailed to the floor.”

“How many times have I heard that old excuse?” I said as I followed her down the hallway so I could aid and comfort the lucky bastard with both feet nailed to the floor.





Chapter 82



THE SECOND THAT KYLIE and I walked through the door of the apartment, Spence burst into tears.

“I thought you were dead,” he said, his body still in trauma, now shaking with gratitude and relief.

“That makes three of us,” Kylie said.

She grabbed an afghan throw from the sofa and draped it over his legs. Then she knelt beside him, cradling him in her arms, kissing his forehead, his cheeks, and finally his lips.

I squatted down behind him and cut away the duct tape that bound him to the chair.

As soon as his arms were free, he hugged her tight, and I watched as she quietly rocked him back and forth.

“You guys have got to stop Benoit,” he said, breaking the hug abruptly.

“We will,” she said. “But first we have to do something about getting those nails out of your feet.”

Spence sat back in the chair. “We,” he said, “do not have to do anything. I love you, Kylie, but I don’t need a cop with a crowbar and a claw hammer prying me loose.”

“I love you, too,” she said, “but I can’t just leave you sitting in the middle of the living room. My mother is coming next weekend, and you know what a neat freak she is.”

The love between the two of them was palpable. I couldn’t imagine how much pain he was in, but just having her near made him smile. She was also frustrating the hell out of him.

“Dammit, Kylie, listen to me. I’m fine. He didn’t hit an artery. I’m not going to bleed to death. I can wait till the fire department shows up. They can cut the floor out from under me and take me to the hospital. After that, all I want is the best foot surgeon in New York and maybe a week on the beach in Turks and Caicos. You have more important things to do than hold my hand.”

“Do you have any clue where Benoit was going next?” she said.

“I’ve got more than a clue. He has a shitload of explosives, and he’s headed for Shelley Trager’s yacht.”

Kylie was blindsided. She’d convinced herself that Shelley’s little sunset cruise was a low-priority target. “Why Shelley?” she said.

“Not just Shelley. Shelley and me. Benoit calls himself The Chameleon, and he thinks we stole his persona and used it for my TV show.”