by Tess Summers
He saw her and jogged across the pavement to where she stood. “What are you doing?”
“Bringing you the car keys,” she whispered breathlessly. He was sexy as hell in his tactical gear.
Without hesitation, he leaned down and kissed her tenderly. She could hear Jacob’s voice from Mason’s earpiece.
“I think you should check the offices again, Mason.”
Pulling away from her mouth, he said into the air, “No time.”
Leaning down again, he whispered in her ear, “I love you, sassy pants. Get back inside,” then turned to jog down the alley to where the Camaro was parked, leaving her standing there, stunned, as he drove away.
Jacob’s voice echoed in her head—I think you should check the offices again—and she darted across the street without a second thought.
Tiptoeing past the groaning man in the blue polo laying on the floor with his hands and feet bound, she then took the metal stairs two at a time and tentatively entered through the first door she came to. The jamb was splintered from where Mason had kicked it open.
She flipped on the fluorescent light and stood in the doorway. The room was empty except for an industrial metal desk, old office chair, and computer. Her initial thought was to move on to the next room, but Reagan kept hearing Jacob’s instructions to Mason: Check the offices closer.
She moved inside the room and looked around, noticing a closet door that she hurried to open. It was full of bankers’ boxes and computer paper. She quickly walked the perimeter of the room, but found nothing unusual.
She ran to the next office, which was laid out exactly the same as the first, right down to the identical industrial desk and chair. As she approached the closet door this time, the hair on her neck stood up, and she slowly opened the door, standing to the side when she did.
Lying in a heap on the floor was a bloodied, semi-conscious man, bound and gagged. His face was swollen and purple, his blond hair matted in dried blood.
Reagan dropped to her knees and cradled his head in her lap as she gingerly removed the gag, then realized she had nothing to help her remove the zip ties around his wrists and ankles. The man let out a soft moan.
How the hell am I going to get him out of here? There was no way she could carry him.
Just then she heard hurried footsteps bounding up the stairs. Oh god!
She tried scooching him over so she could get in the closet next to him then heard Mason’s voice bellow out, “Reagan!”
“In here!”
He burst through the doorway, rocking back on his heels while both hands gripped the doorjamb as if to slow himself down.
Mason quickly scanned the room and his eyes found hers while she held his brother’s head and gently stroked his hair.
“Fuck,” he sputtered and rushed to them, wasting no time in pulling his knife and cutting the ties binding Marcus. He held his brother’s face gently in his hands as he examined him.
“You dumb bastard. Was she worth it?” he sighed quietly.
To Reagan’s surprise—and Mason’s, judging by the look on his face—Marcus mumbled, “Absolutely.”
That brought a grin to the older brother’s face. “You’re hopeless. Come on, can you walk? We gotta get out of here.” Mason hoisted the bloodied man to his feet, bringing Marcus’ arm around his shoulder. Reagan slipped under Marcus’ other arm to help steady him on the opposite side, and they began their way toward the exit.
“I’m not leaving without Susana,” the youngest Hughes brother stubbornly mumbled. He shifted his body and dropped to dead weight, no longer helping Reagan and Mason move him toward the door.
“She’s already out,” Mason grunted, and was instantly rewarded with Marcus’ cooperation again.
They’d just gotten to the bottom of the stairs when the sound of tires screeching to a halt echoed in the alley.
Mason slammed the car keys into her hand and kicked the back door open.
“The car is at the end of the street. If I’m not there in two minutes, go to the marina; Jacob—and probably Kennedy—will meet you there.”
“Where are you going?”
“To buy you guys some time. Go!”
He pecked her on the lips, then shoved them out the door.
Reagan shuffled down the street as quickly as she could with Marcus leaning most of his body weight on her shoulders. Her stomach dropped to her toes when she heard men shouting, followed by gunfire. She tried to hurry the injured man along.
More gunfire.
“Come on, Marcus, you have to help me out here.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve got internal bleeding and cracked ribs, lady. I’m moving as fast as I can.”
Pretty snarky for someone who’d been held captive for six days, but he did seem to perk up and move faster.
Only when she got the car started did she allow herself to wonder if Mason was okay. How long had it been? Had it been two minutes? How was Jacob going to get out of there if they left him?
“Can you drive?” Marcus’ faint voice asked from the passenger seat where she had unceremoniously deposited him. He was slumped against the door but looking at her through his swollen eyes.
“Yeah, but… shouldn’t we wait? It hasn’t been two minutes.”
“It’s been more than two minutes. You heard Mason. Get us to the marina.”
“But—”
“No buts,” he interrupted, then asked in an annoyed tone, “Do you need me to drive?”
“Listen, pal. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be stuffed in that closet, so you might want to lose the attitude.”
Surprisingly, he acquiesced. “You’re right. But you should know better—you follow your team leader’s orders, and your leader said to go to the marina after waiting two minutes.”
“Mason’s not my leader. I’m not part of his team. My sister is helping him, but she’s definitely not taking orders from him.”
“Who’s your sister?”
“That’s not important. All you need to know is she helped save your life.”
She didn’t miss the skeptical look on Marcus’ bruised face, and he snarled, “Well, you still need to follow Mason’s orders and get us the hell out of here.”
“You seem awfully eager to just abandon your brother.”
“Abandon him?” he growled. “Lady, we’re a fucking liability to him. I don’t have a weapon, and even if I did, I’d be shooting blind since I can barely see. And I sure as fuck can’t fight in my condition. So unless you’ve got a gun stashed somewhere in those yoga pants or have some ninja skills you’re hiding, I’ll say it again. We’re. A. Fucking. Burden. We’d just be one more responsibility he’d have to deal with if we got caught.”
She hadn’t thought of it like that. Still, they were in a car down the street. She could drive away anytime if they felt threatened. Staring intently up the street for any sign of Mason, she decided, they should wait a few more minutes.
Then came a knock on her window, and she screamed, hitting the gas but only revving the engine because she hadn’t put the Camaro in drive.
“Reagan.” She recognized that voice and looked out of the corner of her eye to see her sister.
She flung open the door and hugged Kennedy.
“Oh my god—are you okay? How did you know we were here?”
Keni wasted no time exchanging pleasantries, other than hugging her back briefly before ushering her into the back seat. “Mason told me,” she said, then hopped in and floored it the hundred yards to the back of the warehouse.
She roared up to the door Reagan and Marcus had just escaped from, and Jacob came out, fireman-carrying a bleeding Mason. Reagan felt nauseous. Marcus jumped out so Jacob could deposit Mason in the passenger seat. Kennedy got out of the driver’s seat, leaning in to tell her younger sister, “I’ll find you at the hospital,” and Jacob took her place behind the wheel and took off.
“Reagan, I need you to apply pressure to his neck,” Jacob calmly ordered her as he man
euvered the Cartagena streets like they were the autobahn.
That’s when she noticed the ripped bloody rag crudely wrapped around Mason’s neck, and another part of the same rag tied around his left thigh.
Holding the cloth in place at his neck, she cried, “Oh my god, how many times was he shot?”
Jacob glanced at her as he drove. “I don’t know. Two for sure.”
Mason’s hand came up to her wrist holding the ripped cloth and gently squeezed. His face was ashen but he offered her a small smile and wink.
“You can’t be fucking charming right now—you’ve been shot, for fuck’s sake, and I’m not used to life or death crises,” she half-sobbed, half-yelled at him.
“Reagan, listen to me,” Jacob said. “When we get to the hospital, you’re going to say his name is Connor Jacobson. His identification was in his wallet that was stolen when you two were robbed. That’s when he got shot. You don’t know me—I’m just someone who happened to come across you and dropped you off at the hospital.”
“Um, what about his vest?”
Jacob made a face and spat out, “Fuck!” Then looked over at Mason and grimaced. “Sorry, buddy. She’s gonna have to take that off you. Can you apply the pressure for just a minute?”
Mason nodded, and Reagan gingerly ripped the Velcro straps holding the vest in place on his core, then gently lifted it off him as best she could. She wasn’t expecting it to be as heavy as it was and had some difficulty given her awkward position in the backseat.
“Oooh, sorry,” she winced when she hit Mason in the head as she tried to pull it over his head and into the back seat.
She scrutinized the vest now sitting next to her and panicked. “Oh my god!” She came over the console and ripped his shirt open so buttons flew everywhere in the front seat. Running her hands over his chest and stomach, she found no bullet holes, but there were already three terrible bruises—one directly over his heart—from where he had been shot and the vest absorbed the impact.
“Oh my sweet Mason. Thank god you were wearing your vest.”
She swallowed a sob, and he grabbed one of her hands and brought it to his lips.
Tears streamed down her cheeks at the thought of losing him; then she took a deep breath and regained her composure, wiping the tears with the back of her hand. Taking over applying pressure to his neck, she whispered, “Hang in there, baby.” He winked at her again. Damn him.
“How the hell are we going to explain that?” she asked Jacob, nodding at the welted red and purple spots on Mason’s core.
“Well, we probably could have avoided it for a while if you hadn’t gone Hulk Hogan and ripped his damn shirt open.” He drove for a few seconds before suggesting, “I guess you guys were playing paintball earlier.”
She snorted. “No one is going to believe that.”
“It doesn’t matter. They just need to treat him and get him stabilized, then by the time they start asking more questions, he’ll be out of there.”
Reagan nodded. “Okay.”
They could see the hospital in the distance.
“Okay, recap. What’s his name?”
“Connor Jacobson.”
“And who are you?”
“Um…. his wife?” The idea had its merits.
Jacob nodded. “His wife. And how did he get shot?”
“We got lost while out sight-seeing and were approached by three men. They demanded my purse, his wallet, our phones, everything. I guess we must not have had enough money or something because after opening Connor’s wallet and seeing how much was in there, they shot him for no reason, then took off in a car. I’m not sure what kind—it all happened so fast. Some man heard me screaming and offered to help, but I have no idea who he was or why he drove away after dropping us off.”
Jacob looked at her out of the corner of his eye and smirked. “Damn, girl. You sure you haven’t done this before?”
“God, no. I don’t know how I’m doing it now.”
“Fight or flight—it’s amazing what a person is capable of when flight isn’t an option.”
She looked over at the man bleeding profusely in the passenger seat. Flight was definitely not an option.
They pulled up to the emergency room bay, and Jacob jumped out to flag down a young man in scrubs pushing an empty wheelchair. They loaded Mason in the chair and rushed him inside, Reagan at his side, while Jacob quietly disappeared.
A team quickly surrounded them and went to work on Mason while Reagan quietly observed from the corner of the room.
“Mr. Jacobson, can you hear me?” one doctor asked as he shined a small flashlight in Mason’s eyes.
Mason responded with a thumbs-up.
“We’re going to have to take you into surgery to repair the damage to your neck and leg.”
The American subtly nodded in understanding, then urgently waved Reagan to his side. She was next to him in seconds, tears in her eyes, squeezing his hand and murmuring, “You’re going to be okay, babe.”
He kissed her knuckles and winked at her. Goddamn him.
“Your wife will be here waiting for you when you get out,” the doctor said authoritatively, and began to push the gurney out the door. Mason didn’t let go of her fingers until the distance forced him to, mouthing, I love you as they wheeled him away.
The adrenaline finally began to wear off, and she found herself feeling like she was ready to collapse. Locking herself in the nearest bathroom, she began to ugly-cry instead.
Chapter Seventeen
Mason
Being shot while wearing a bulletproof vest still hurt like a bitch. Being shot in the neck and thigh? He would definitely not recommend it.
“You’re a lucky man, Mr. Jacobson. The bullet in your neck missed both the carotid artery and your windpipe. The bullet in your thigh missed the femoral artery by millimeters,” the doctor told him once he woke up from surgery.
Funny, Mason wasn’t feeling very lucky.
Mr. Jacobson? Who the fuck is Jacobson? Oh, probably me.
“I’ll go update your wife and then send her in,” the young doctor said before leaving the recovery room.
My wife?
Reagan appeared a few minutes later. Her eyes were puffy and her skin splotchy, but she put on a brave face and smiled when she approached his bedside and squeezed his hand.
Ah, my wife.
“Hello, Mrs. Hughes,” he said weakly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Her eyes widened. “Mrs. Jacobson,” she hissed as she looked around to see who’d overheard him.
“I like the sound of Mrs. Hughes better,” he teased.
“Connor,” she warned through gritted teeth and raised eyebrows.
He brought her fingers to his lips.
“I’m glad you’re here. Thank you.”
Brushing his hair at his forehead, she looked into his eyes and leaned in, inches from his lips. “Baby, wild horses couldn’t have kept me away.”
She seemed like she was about to kiss him when they were interrupted by the nurse appearing.
“Let’s get you into your own room, Mr. Jacobson,” the older woman in scrubs said in broken but cheery English.
Reagan thanked the woman in Spanish and proceeded to politely chat with her while they transported him. His ‘wife’ never left his side.
“Connor? Jacobson?” he asked when they were alone.
It was one of his many aliases, and one that he had a US passport for. Of course she wasn’t going to tell a Cartagena hospital his real name—especially with him coming in shot—but how did Reagan know about Connor Jacobson?
“Jacob picked it out on the drive here.”
Mason’s memory after pushing Reagan and Marcus out the door was hazy; he had lost a lot of blood after getting shot, even without any arteries being hit. He remembered shooting some cartel members, then Kennedy, Dante, and Dante’s man arriving. He knew he’d been carried out to a car and seemed to recall Jacob’s voice, but it was Reagan’s fearful face
that kept resurfacing. And the distinct feeling of wanting to comfort and assure her.
Mason figured he had until morning, tops, before he needed to get out of the hospital. Fortunately, the cartel men who survived the firefight were two-bit players, like blue polo guy, and would have no interest in hunting him down. Anyone who had a vested reason in finding him right away was now dead. Unfortunately, his body was laughing at the idea of moving any time soon and waving the middle finger at him for even thinking it.
He knew he needed to sleep.
****
“Hey, how are you feeling?” Jacob’s voice came the side of his bed when he opened his eyes.
“Like I’ve been shot.” His voice was raspy, but at least it worked.
That made Jacob chuckle. “Yeah, you look like it, too.”
“How’s Marcus?”
“Beat the fuck up, but Erik says his own private nursemaid is helping him heal. Or at least forget that he’s hurting.”
“And the women?”
“All safe on the yacht, which is en route to Panama as we speak. We’re going to transport you to Ensenada in the morning.”
“Ensenada? Why Ensenada?”
“Because that’s where I’ll be,” came the soft voice of his beautiful sassy pants. He hadn’t noticed her curled up in the chair in the corner.
“Dante has assured me he can have a nurse to tend to you without rousing suspicion,” the dark-haired man added.
“So I’m supposed to stay at his estate?” They had to be shitting him.
“Yeah, and I hope you have a wad of cash stashed somewhere, because I’m guessing you’re not exactly going to file a workman’s comp claim for this, and you still owe me a shitload of money.”
“Don’t worry about it,” came a woman’s voice from the doorway. “We’ll cover it.”
There stood the woman Mason had been ordered to kill not more than a year ago. The one who had helped save him and his brother’s life today. Why the hell was she was agreeing to help him any further?
He knew he was about to find out when Kennedy said with a smile, “I need to debrief with Mason. Can you two give me a minute?”