Don't Breathe a Word

by Christie Craig

  The flirting jokester, the man quick to whip off a snappy retort or flash an audacious wink, was gone, and in his place was a much more stoic version. Logan’s gray eyes softened, the slight wrinkles around them more evident with the downward tilt of his mouth.

  “Rachel.” His calloused thumb caressed her cheek.

  His gaze darted around her face as if he didn’t know exactly where to focus his attention. She wanted him to kiss her, to touch his mouth to hers and leave her incapable of speech—or thought. His gaze flickered to her mouth, and for a brief moment she thought she’d get her wish—until those same eyes dropped to her chest.

  “Get down!” Logan’s body lurched, his arms wrapping tightly around her as he knocked her square off her feet and onto the hard ground.

  Chapter Two

  Midlunge, a whip of air zipped over Logan’s right ear, the bullet causing it barely missing the top of Rachel’s head. He rounded his shoulders and cushioned their fall to the hard gravel.

  One moment he’d been contemplating the best way to extract that all-telling sorrow pooling in Rachel’s pretty green eyes, and in the next his sniper training had locked on to the red dot flashing on her chest. Conditioned to respond, his reflexes pushed him into action.

  Arms locked around Rachel, Logan rolled their entwined bodies log style across the unforgiving ground, not stopping until a big black pickup was between them and the sniper’s trajectory.

  “Why did you—?” Rachel’s question stopped as a second shot slammed into the ground, two inches from the truck’s front. Her eyes widened into twin green saucers. “Is someone shooting at us?”

  “They’re sure as hell not inviting us to dinner.”

  She leveled a glare at him. “This isn’t the time to crack jokes.”

  “Sorry. Reflex.” He slipped his weight off her, gently ducking her head below the truck’s handle. “And no, they’re not shooting at us. They’re shooting at you. I thought you had a shining, sweet disposition. How in the hell did you manage to make mortal enemies out of someone after being in the clinker for only a few hours?”

  “Again with the jokes.”

  “I’m not joking, sweetheart. Even Stone hasn’t had people taking shots at him within hours of setting foot into a town.”

  Logan let the sharp look she threw his way roll off his back. She didn’t like his inopportune humor, and he wasn’t fond of waking alone. It hadn’t mattered that he’d expected it. It burned.

  It burned because the person slinking away had been Rachel.

  Another shot plowed into the ground, three inches closer and off to the right. The sniper changed position. “When we’re in the clear, we’re talking about why Carly needs you to buy her ticket to freedom. But right now, we need to get the hell out of here.”

  “I vote for going back into the police station—or getting the dozens of officers that are inside to come out. Isn’t this the kind of situation that warrants reinforcements?”

  “Most definitely, but unless you have your cell on you, it’s not going to work.”

  “Why?”

  He gestured to the shattered technology four feet away. “Because those half-dozen jagged pieces is what’s left of my phone. Guess they didn’t factor bullet dodging when they durability tested that model.”

  “So we’re making a run for the building?”

  “That’s probably the worst thing we can do.” Logan dropped to his stomach, trying to get a visual on this dickwad from beneath the truck carriage, but the asshole’s perch was too high.

  He returned to a crouching position and instantly had five and a half feet of pissed-off redhead fisting his shirt front. “Explain to me how being surrounded by a roof, four walls, and a lot of armed law enforcement is a bad idea? It sounds pretty damn safe to me.”

  Logan gently peeled her fingers away, and when all ten digits were freed, he clasped her hands in his. After a year and a half of longing for Rachel from a metaphorical distance, last night he’d finally gotten a small glimmer of what having her in his life would be like. It would be one thing if he fucked up his chances with her himself, but he wasn’t about to let a faceless bastard take them away.

  “I need you to listen to me, darlin’,” Logan directed calmly. “We can’t risk this asshole waiting us out, because if he’s had the slightest bit of sniper training, that’s what he’s prepared to do. He’s stationary right now, which means we have to make sure we’re not.”

  Rachel went ashen, but otherwise stayed calm as she flicked her gaze to the truck providing them cover. “And I’m guessing we can’t jump in the truck and hot-wire the damn thing for a mobile getaway?”

  “You guessed right. He’d have a clear shot angled downward. We’d be two sitting ducks.”

  “We can’t go inside. We can’t get in a car. What exactly can we do?” Rachel’s breaths quickened.

  Logan surveyed their surroundings, soaking in the sights of the Las Vegas strip. The simple two-story police station stood out in a sea of oversize casinos and swanky hotels. Despite the eleven o’clock hour, people littered the sidewalks, their shoulders brushing against one another’s as they headed to their destinations—or to nowhere in particular.

  On the left, ten yards separated him and Rachel from a large group of tourists. They stood beneath a traffic light, waiting to cross to the other side of Las Vegas Boulevard.

  Logan threaded his fingers through hers. Shifting his weight over his booted feet, he mentally plotted the best route. “We can get lost in the crowd.”

  “Are you freakin’ crazy?” Rachel hissed. She looked at the traffic light as if it were a million miles away. “Someone’s waiting to take a shot at us and your grand idea is to step out into the open?”

  “Not into the open…into a hell of a lot of foot traffic. Crowds are instant camouflage. He’s not going to take a shot unless we give him one, and that’s not something I’m planning on doing.” He tugged her close and tucked a loose auburn curl behind her ear. “You have to trust that I know what I’m talking about…and if there’s anything I know without a shadow of a doubt, it’s what goes through a sniper’s head before he’s about to make a hit.”

  Rachel didn’t look comforted. Back to biting her lower lip, she stared him dead in the eye, a thousand unspoken questions lying in wait.

  Logan understood her unease. A job description revolving around death didn’t make for lighthearted conversation, and when people realized you made a living putting bullets into people’s heads, they usually looked at you differently, even those who claimed to care about you.

  Logan had learned his lesson about opening up years ago, and it was why he didn’t talk about his time in the Marine Corps.

  Rachel’s fingers tightened around his, and her free hand wrapped around his wrist. “Okay. I’m ready when you are.”

  Her unfiltered trust in him nearly made him puff out his chest.

  He took a deep breath and dragged his head back into the game. “When I say go, you haul ass. When you think you’re going as fast as you can, go faster—and zigzag. Do not go in a straight line. And whatever you do, don’t look back at me. Just know I’ll be right on your pretty six.”

  “Back at you? Why are you going to be behind me?” Rachel’s concern had him brushing a soft kiss over her cheek.

  “You got this, darlin’. We got this.” He purposefully didn’t answer, eyeing the stoplight and silently counting down with the digital number. The instant the flashing palm lit green, Logan nudged Rachel into the open—and he followed close behind.

  After three steps, three more shots zipped their way, too damn close to his right heel. Careful to keep his body between her and the line of fire, he dodged left and right, following Rachel as she quickly implanted them in the center of the moving crowd.

  He couldn’t have done better himself.

  They followed the flow of foot traffic, never traveling in a straight line. Logan snatched a red ball cap off the head of a passing teen and tugged it over
Rachel’s auburn waves, and the second they stepped onto the sidewalk, he snatched himself a blue one.

  A tingle warmed the back of Logan’s neck, and not in a good way. He interlocked their fingers and picked up their pace. Tourists littered the walkways, some slowing their steps to take in the sights. In front of them, an older couple stopped abruptly for a photo with a window display. Logan guided Rachel to the right, barely avoiding a collision.

  That damn tingle intensified.

  “We need to get off the street.” Logan scanned their surroundings before ushering Rachel through a neon-flashing door. “In here.”

  They stepped off the street and into a small gilded foyer. A statue of Elvis, in all his life-size, sequined glory, stood sentinel on an elaborate mini stage while the low, drawling tones of the man himself crooned about love from an overhead surround-sound system.

  “No…freakin’…way.” Rachel’s whispered surprise directed Logan’s gaze to the center of the room, where a sparkling, sequined aisle led up to a grandiose altar.

  Decorated with green vines and musical note cut-outs, the arch stood as the room’s focal point—and canopied the older couple standing beneath.

  “Welcome to the Fools Rush In Chapel of Love!” Decked out in garish bell-bottoms and jaw-encompassing sideburns much like Stationary Elvis, the man stepped forward. He gestured to his teased-wig-wearing female counterpart. “Priscilla and I love bringing young couples together in the holiest of matrimony.”

  Logan couldn’t censor his laugh. It erupted from his throat, earning him a pointy elbow in his side. He rubbed the sore spot, still not able to wipe the grin from his face. “What the hell was that for?”

  “An Elvis chapel? This is your idea of a good place to disappear?” Rachel hissed.

  She shifted to drill him with another jab, but he looped his arm around her waist and pulled her close enough that she couldn’t do any real damage. “I figured we’d kill two birds with one stone. How does that saying go? When in Rome?”

  Rachel’s green glare could’ve punctured solid steel.

  “Not the right time?” He smirked, guiding Rachel deeper into the room…and away from any windows. He turned toward Elvis and gestured to the banner hanging on the wall. “Do any of your themed wedding packages include a wardrobe?”

  “All of them do.” Priscilla clapped her hands excitedly, the gold bangle bracelets on her arm jingling. “We’ve got an extensive collection. Pick an Elvis-and-Priscilla era and we have multiple choices—from the fifties straight through to the seventies. You won’t find a selection like ours anywhere else in Vegas.”

  “Logan,” Rachel groaned beside him.

  He pulled few bills from his wallet, flashing her a side wink. “Looks like my bride-to-be is having a change of heart, but I’ll pay you for two changes of clothes, minus the I-dos…and the use of your phone.”

  Elvis blinked, glancing at his wife. Both were obviously confused, and a whole lot less perky realizing they weren’t about to land customers. “You don’t want a wedding?”

  “Our evening’s pretty booked solid, so we’re going to have to pass on it for tonight.”

  Priscilla eventually broke into a small smile, taking Rachel’s hand. “Earl, you’re on young stud patrol. I’m going to take this one into the back and get her glamorized. Between studying online tutorials and my new jasmine-scented maximum-hold hair spray, there won’t be a bouffant higher this side of 1976. You just leave everything to Edith.”

  Rachel’s eyes went wide. “Oh, no. I don’t need the full treatment. Really. Truly.”

  “Nonsense, honey. If we’re not providing you the wedding of an era, the least we can do is glam you up to the nines. Heck, we’ll amp it up to the high teens.”

  Rachel’s head spun around, her lips mouthing a silent Help me moments before Edith ushered her through a gold-beaded curtain. Instead of intervening, Logan waved. “Have fun, darlin’. Can’t wait to show you around town after your makeover.”

  Grinning over Rachel’s still-heard polite refusals of hospitality, Logan turned back to Elvis-Earl. “The King went through a Hawaiian-shirt phase, right? You got anything like that lying around?”

  * * *

  Rachel blinked repetitively, hoping harder each time that the last six hours had been nothing more than a nightmare. But no luck. Despite her having talked the older Priscilla down a few hair inches, her auburn waves had been tamed by at least a half can of extra-hold hair spray.

  Edith clapped her hands gleefully as Rachel warily eyed her reflection. “You look like you stepped straight out of a Bond movie. I couldn’t be any happier—unless you let me exchange those sneakers for some hot pink go-go boots. The heel on them is to die for. It’ll give you the height you need to be able to look your fella in the eye.”

  Dying was what might happen if Rachel wore them. She could count the times she’d worn anything with a heel higher than a tennis shoe on one—or no—hands. With her horrible luck, she’d be in a mad dash for her life and would trip over her own two feet.

  “We’re going to be doing a lot of walking, and I’m not exactly the most graceful person.” Rachel smiled. “But thank you, Edith, for everything you’ve done for literal strangers straight off the street. This means a lot.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” Edith’s cheeks pinked as she waved off the thank-you. “And as for being a stranger, you became friends the second you walked through the door. We should be thanking you and your special man for making the night of an old, bored couple. Earl and I like to talk big about being a Vegas wedding destination, but truth is, we haven’t had one here in about a month—and from what I understand, it was annulled two weeks later.”

  “And here we stroll in and burst your bubble.” Reaching out, Rachel squeezed the older woman’s hand. “You have my promise that if I ever decide to take that big leap into holy matrimony, the only place I’ll even consider having it is here.”

  “Oh, hush now, but thank you, hon.” Edith smiled bashfully, glimpsing at her watch. “Oh my. That handsome man of yours probably thinks that I’ve kidnapped you.”

  Rachel folded her clothes and stuffed them into the souvenir bag Edith gave her before following the sweet woman to their back office.

  “Earl and I will be out front if you need us.” Edith smiled, closing the door after her.

  Rachel tried soaking in the sight of the elaborately decorated office, but the man standing with his back to her held her attention hostage. Talking on an honest-to-God landline phone, and wearing board shorts and a blue-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt decorated with smiling pineapples, Logan still looked delicious—and lethal.

  Rachel studied him, wondering which version of Logan was closest to the real one. In Honduras she’d seen the badass commando, hell-bent on finishing the job. But even during missions, he kept things light and his teammates’ eyes rolling with his witty banter and humor—as he’d done during Penny’s party.

  But when everyone left? When it had been only the two of them?

  Intense Logan appeared, and instead of ignoring, or hiding, or running—all things she’d gotten good at in the last year and a half—she’d practically lured him into her bed. Something about Logan Callahan defied all her inhibitions, and she couldn’t wrap her head around why that was. The more she tried, the more the answer evaded her.

  His usual smile nowhere to be seen, Logan’s stern focus sharpened the chiseled angles of his face. Even his eyes, usually full of mirth and humor, narrowed in concentration as he listened to the person on the other end of the old rotary phone.

  He looked…grim. And that was never a good sign.

  “Is everything okay?” Rachel cleared her throat, announcing her presence.

  Logan’s attention snapped to her. He held her gaze a few agonizing moments before dropping down the length of her bare legs. She self-consciously tugged on the short hem of the dress and mentally cursed the unforgiving polyester fabric.

  Logan dragged his eyes away with a bi
t of difficulty that nearly pulled a smile to her face. “Fuckin’-A, Char. I only understand half of what you say during a normal conversation, much less when you go off on a rant. Stifle the British curses and dumb down what you just said.”

  “That’s Charlie?” Rachel’s ears perked and she stepped deeper into the office, stretching her hand out for the phone. “I want to talk to her.”

  Logan looked physically pained. “You’re killing me here, babe. You know that?”

  “I recently did my CPR recertification, so I can bring you back—if you give me the phone.”

  She held his stare and refused to blink. No way did she think she could wear him down, but he relented, handing her the receiver with a sigh. “Fucking killing me,” he murmured.

  “Fancy hearing from you, Charlie, you know, considering you’re on assignment and all.” Rachel spoke into the phone, but watched Logan’s faint wince. “Or maybe it wasn’t a long one? It ended ahead of schedule? Or maybe it wasn’t far away?”

  “Which of those options would make you want to flog me less?” Charlie’s melodic English accent normally put Rachel at ease—but not tonight.

  “None of them.”

  The female Alpha operative cursed. “Okay. Fine. I wasn’t on an assignment. But instead of seeing it as me feeding you to the wolves—er, wolf—think of what could’ve happened if I hadn’t dialed Logan. If you’d been out there alone, waiting for my arse to first roll into town, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. So really, you should be thanking me. And you’re welcome.”

  Rachel raised her brows, and even though Charlie couldn’t see through the phone, it was as if she sensed her doubt.

  Charlie chuckled. “One day, you’ll thank me, and when that day comes, I’ll take your appreciation in the form of slushy alcoholic drinks.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Charlie was right—at least about Logan being the reason why she was still breathing. But it didn’t negate the fact that the operative’s motives at the time had had nothing to do with survival and everything to do with Rachel’s drunken admission that Logan Callahan pushed all her hot buttons.