by Pamela Clare
Kramer jerked his thumb toward the ceiling. “Take him up.”
Nick gritted his teeth against the white-hot pain in his ribs and shoulders.
Hold it together, Andris. Hold it together.
If Holly was doing what he’d asked of her, the marshals service now knew where he was. All he had to do was hang on—and hope they got here before Holly was forced to listen to him die.
Kramer got closer. “Is she worth this, kid? Is she worth this pain and suffering?”
Nick struggled to inhale, hoping she would hear his answer. “Yes! She’s worth anything.”
God, yes, she was.
He loved her.
Kramer turned, gave a shrug. “I guess he wants more.”
Ilia pounded Nick until he was on the brink of unconsciousness. He was lowered to the floor again, where he lay, struggling for breath. It felt like an elephant was sitting on the right side of his chest—probably a collapsed lung.
“This isn’t working.” Kramer’s voice seemed to come from far away. He sounded angry. “He’s protecting her. It makes him feel noble. We need a way to strip everything from him, make him forget her. Ideas?”
“Use my brother’s blowtorch. Burn him bit by bit.”
“Not bad. Anyone else?”
“I say we take turns to fuck his ass and then cut off his balls.”
Nick drifted in and out, the conversation hovering just beyond his comprehension.
Kramer laughed. “Ilia, you’re a fucking animal. Get the damned blowtorch.”
And it hit Nick that they were talking about how best to break him. Fear snaked through his belly, coiled with rage. “This is how . . . you treat someone . . . you said was like a son to you?”
“I told you to trust no one. You should have listened.”
“He did listen.”
Nick thought he’d lost his mind. He’d just heard Holly’s voice. But she was far from here. She was—
An AK opened up behind him.
Rat-at-at! Rat-at-at!
Ilia and one of the other goons fell to the floor, blood spatter on the wall behind them. The other one turned and ran but didn’t make it ten feet. Kramer also ran, a spray of blood shooting up from his shoulder as he disappeared through the door.
The AK went silent, and there she was, looking beautiful and terrified and determined as hell.
“Holly?” Adrenaline shot through him—along with a dose of anger. “What the hell are you doing here?”
* * *
“Isn’t that obvious?” Still holding the AK, Holly ran over to the two men she’d just freaking killed, took their weapons, and slid them across the floor to Nick. “The others are on their way. ETA about fifteen minutes. I’ll cover you while you get the ropes off, but please hurry! I’m just making this up as I go and have no idea what I’m doing.”
Heart thudding in her chest like a hammer, she backed up against the wall and looked for anyone who might be aiming a weapon their way, a man’s angry shouts coming from the building’s entrance.
“Get behind those crates over there. Do it!” Nick bit and tugged at the knots until his wrists were free, then grabbed the weapons and followed her.
He didn’t stand upright, his right arm pressed to his side, his chest and abdomen a mass of contusions, red welts, and deep red blotches. She knew he must have broken ribs and maybe worse. He needed an ambulance.
Hurry, Javi! Hurry, Zach!
He sank down beside her, checked the weapons—an AK, a Makarov pistol, and a PP-2000. “You promised not to follow me.”
“I mostly kept that promise until they threatened to burn you, rape you, and cut off your balls. Be angry with me if you want, but there was no way I could sit in the van and listen while they brutalized and maimed you.”
“How did you . . . get in?”
Was he having trouble breathing?
“I parked the minivan on the other side of a berm behind the building, waited until the sentry on the roof was looking the other way, and then made for the back door. I had to shoot a guy. I shot him and took his weapon.”
Nick stared at her. “You stormed this place alone . . . with a Ruger .22?”
“That’s all I had.” What else was she supposed to have done?
“You are fucking incredible. I wouldn’t ask a Special Forces operator to do that.”
“No Special Forces operator cares about you the way I do.”
Nick’s gaze went soft. He leaned over and kissed her. “I love you, Holly.”
The breath rushed from her lungs, her heart knocking against her breast bone. “You . . . you do?”
He chuckled, winced in pain. “Don’t act so surprised.”
But she was. “I. . . .”
She didn’t even know what to say.
Men’s voices grew nearer.
“I think it’s just the two of them,” said a voice Holly recognized. Kramer. “Fan out, and stay alert. Andris used to be with Delta Force.”
Nick’s face turned serious. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “How many men did you see on your way in?”
“There were three sentries—two along the road and one on the rooftop—and the guy in the back.”
“And you’re sure he’s dead?”
“Yes.” An image of the man’s sightless eyes, blood pouring from his temple, flashed through her mind, bringing on a wave of dizziness.
She would have to think about that later.
“Kramer said there were seven of them. You took out four. That leaves the three sentries from outside, plus Kramer, and you caught him in the shoulder.”
“I wish I’d killed him.” Holly’s stomach churned at the thought of what Kramer had done—and what he’d been about to do.
“You might still get that chance.”
A tremor of fear shot through her, the reality of what she’d set in motion catching up with her. “If we make it out of this, I’m going to need a hug—and a night of hot sex.”
“It’s a deal.”
“What’s the plan?”
“The plan is that you stay right here. I’ll leave you with the pistol and the PP-2000. Do you still have the Ruger?”
“Yes.”
“Only fire if you’re discovered and have to defend yourself. Otherwise, stay down and stay quiet. Got it?”
She nodded. “Nick.”
“What?”
Tell him you love him.
“Please be careful!”
You’re pathetic, Bradshaw!
He smiled. “Always.”
He got to his feet, the AK in hand, and disappeared on the other side of a pallet loaded with crates.
Holly checked both pistols, made sure each had a round in the chamber, then scooted back against the wall and listened. The only thing she could hear was her own heartbeat. She wouldn’t be surprised if everyone else could hear it, too.
She drew a deep breath, tried to ratchet back on the adrenaline, to slow her pulse and clear her head. They’d made it this far. It was going to be okay.
All it takes is one bullet.
She quashed the thought, tried to lose the bad feeling she’d had all afternoon.
An explosion of AK fire made her jump.
The sound echoed through the building, making it impossible for her to tell which direction the shots had come from. Had that been Nick—or had someone fired at him?
And where were Javier and Zach? They’d been about fifteen minutes out when she’d last talked with them. They ought to be here by now.
More shots—pistol shots.
Answering AK fire. And then . . . footsteps.
Someone was walking toward her.
It couldn’t be Nick. He was barefoot. This man was wearing boots.
Holly’s mouth went dry, her heart thrumming in her chest.
She steadied her grip on the Ruger, forced her fear aside.
A man in olive drab BDUs stepped into sight holding an AK. He hadn’t seen her, but crept slowly in the direction Nick had gone.
He was only a few feet away from her now, his back toward her. He raised the weapon, sighted on something, his finger already on the trigger.
She aimed for center mass, hoped he wasn’t wearing a vest, and fired.
Click.
A misfire?
Damned .22 subsonic ammo!
Shit!
But the man had heard. He whirled toward her.
She dropped the Ruger, picked up the Makarov, but it was too late, the muzzle of his weapon pressing against her chest. She set the Makarov down, raised her hands, looked up at him from beneath her eyelashes, doing her best to look helpless and terrified, which was really very easy.
He lowered the weapon, reached down, and grabbed her by her hair, yanking her painfully to her feet. His gaze raked over her, and he grinned, opening his mouth as if to speak. But then Nick was there.
He drove the butt of his AK into the side of the bastard’s head. The man released Holly, stumbled sideways.
Holly sank back out of the way, grabbed the Makarov, ready to fire if she got a clear opportunity.
The man swung his AK at Nick, who was covered in sweat and clearly struggling to breathe. Nick parried, but the blow drove him back. He lunged forward, jabbed the bastard in the gut with the barrel of his weapon. The man doubled over, one hand sliding inside his jacket, his fingers closing around something—a knife or a pistol.
She shouted a warning to Nick. “He’s got a weapon!”
Nick swung the AK up again, striking the man in the face. The man collapsed in a spray of blood. Then Nick brought the butt down on the man’s head, crushing his skull.
Holly stared, the savageness of it taking the breath from her lungs.
Was the man dead?
Nick sank to one knee, fighting to catch his breath, sweat beaded on his forehead, his face pale. He felt the man for a pulse, shook his head. “Stay down. Got the other two . . . but Kramer . . . still out there. He won’t go . . . till we’re dead. We’re the only ones . . . who know . . . he’s still alive.”
She watched as he fought his way to his feet, obviously in pain, his jaw clenched.
“Holly!”
Zach!
“We’re back here!” She started to get to her feet.
“Stay down!” Nick hissed, moving to stand across from her, his gaze traveling over the cavernous space, searching for any sign of Kramer.
It seemed to happen in an instant.
The red dot of a laser sight dancing on Nick’s chest. A surge of adrenaline. Holly lunging to her feet, throwing herself against him, knocking him aside. The crack of the single rifle shot. Impact with the floor driving the breath from her lungs.
Nick rolled, aimed from a prone position, opened fire.
Rat-at-at-at!
Holly caught a glimpse of a man falling from scaffolding far in the back corner of the garage—and then she saw.
Blood spatter.
It was on the floor, on Nick’s arm.
He’d been shot.
She pointed, tried to speak, but no words came. Then the pain hit, made it impossible to breathe. And she realized Nick hadn’t been shot.
She had.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Nick watched Kramer fall and lie still. He let out the breath he’d been holding, sat up, clutching the pain in his right side.
It was finally over.
He turned toward Holly—and his blood went cold.
Oh, no. God, no.
She lay on her belly, blood soaking through her shirt, spilling onto the floor. She looked up at him, her sweet face a mask of pain. “This . . . sucks.”
“Jesus, Holly, no.” His own pain forgotten, he knelt beside her, turned her gently onto her back, then tore off her shirt and bra.
The round had caught her in the ribs beneath her left arm and passed through her at a sharp angle, exiting beneath her shoulder blade. From the heavy bleeding, he knew the bullet must have penetrated her lung. He needed to seal off both wounds, keep air from seeping into her chest. If he couldn’t slow her bleeding . . .
Icy panic hit him, made his heart pound.
He couldn’t lose Holly. God, no, not Holly, too.
Pull it together, Andris.
He ripped the cloth of her shirt in two and wadded it up, pressing half of it firmly into the exit wound and holding the other half on the entry wound in her side.
She whimpered in pain. “It’s bad . . . isn’t it?”
It was bad. But he couldn’t tell her that.
“It’s going to be okay, honey. Hang on.” Then he remembered the bug in his fly. “If anyone can hear this, Holly’s been shot. She needs medical help now.”
Where the fuck were the marshals service and the CIS team?
She struggled for breath, her face pale, her skin cold, the cloth beneath his hands quickly soaking through. He had nothing else. If help didn’t arrive soon, she was going to die right here on the cold concrete floor.
The thought made his heart constrict. “Stay with me, Holly.”
Goddamn it! How the fuck had this happened?
She was too damned brave for her own good, too impulsive.
She reached over with her right hand, curled her slender fingers around his, her hands so cold. “Don’t blame yourself . . . I saw . . . he was going . . . to shoot you.”
Nick did blame himself. He had promised to protect her, to get her safely through this. “Save your energy, honey. Don’t try to talk.”
Tears spilled from the corners of her eyes. “I’m . . . I’m scared.”
He was scared, too. Her blood had soaked completely through the cloth now.
He willed a smile onto his face, spoke with a confidence he didn’t feel. “You’re going to be okay. Just hang on.”
She had to make it. She was so full of life and had so much still ahead of her. She’d brought laughter and happiness back into his world. He couldn’t lose her.
“I’m not . . . so sure.” She whimpered again, her pain tearing at him.
God, how he wished he had that auto-injector of morphine now—anything to ease her suffering. Then he heard the sound of boots.
“We’re over here!” he shouted. “Get medical! She’s been shot!”
A half-dozen men in tactical gear rushed up on them, weapons raised.
“Nick Andris?”
“That’s him.” One of the men tore off his helmet, and Nick recognized Zach McBride. He looked down at Holly and spoke into his mic, his expression hard. “Get Life Flight on the way. She’s going to need air transport. Single GSW to the side. Tell Rossiter and the paramedics to get back here on the double.”
Holly must have recognized his voice. “Zach?”
One of the other men removed his helmet—Javier Corbray. “We’re all here, Holly—McBride, me, Hunter, Darcangelo. Rossiter is going to be here in a minute if he would just hurry his ass up.”
Darcangelo removed his helmet, too, and knelt beside her. “Rest easy, Holly.”
“Sorry . . . I couldn’t . . . tell you . . . the truth . . . I never wanted . . . to mislead you.”
“You have no reason to apologize.” Darcangelo took her other hand, his gaze meeting Nick’s, his eyes going cold.
Nick knew he and the other men wanted to kill him, but he didn’t care what her friends did to him as long as they helped her.
She was trembling now, shock setting in. “Please . . . tell the others . . . I love them . . . If I don’t make it . . . they can have my clothes . . . and shoes.”
“Hey, don’t talk like that.” Darcangelo smiled. “You’re going to be okay.”
“Not Nick’s fault. . . . He’s hurt . . . Kramer was going . . . to shoot him.”
He could almost hear the men’s thoughts: Better him than you.
Didn’t they understand he felt the same way?
“Shhh, honey. Just rest.” Nick bent down, kissed her cold lips.
She gave him a weak smile, tears glittering in her eyes, spilling down her temples. “Don’t be sa
d . . . I finally . . . found a man . . . who loves me . . . I couldn’t . . . let you . . . die.”
Pain seemed to split Nick’s chest. “I won’t let you go.”
Not now. Not here. Not like this.
But her eyes had already drifted shut, her breathing erratic now. She was fading fast, bleeding out right in front of him.
“Stay with me, Holly.” Nick closed his eyes and prayed, tears blurring his vision. He didn’t give a damn if the other men saw. He had no pride left, nothing to hide, no ego to protect. “She pushed me out of the line of fire . . . I would have done anything for her . . . I would have died for her.”
God, please help her!
Marc Hunter’s voice came from behind him. “We cleared the place. There’s a man in back who’s in pretty bad shape with a broken jaw, but everyone else is dead. Why is this piece of shit not in cuffs? Oh, God . . . Holly.”
Then a man with a prosthetic blade for a leg—Gabe Rossiter—appeared at Nick’s side, medical kit slung over his shoulder, two uniformed paramedics right behind him. “Give me some room.”
Everyone stepped back.
“Help her. Please!” Nick withdrew his fingers from Holly’s cold hand, moved aside, barely aware of his own pain or how hard it had become to breathe.
While Rossiter started IV fluids in one arm, one of the other paramedics strapped a blood-pressure cuff to her other arm and clipped a pulse oximeter to her finger.
“Pulse is one-fifty-two. BP is . . . non-existent.”
Her eyes fluttered open, and she called for him. “Nick?”
“I’m right here, honey.” He moved around Rossiter, knelt near her head, stroked her pale, cold cheeks. “Your friends are here. It’s going to be okay now.”
“I thought I’d never find you . . . You’re the best time . . . I ever had . . . I love you.”
Nick looked into her beautiful brown eyes and saw the love she felt for him shining there, beyond pain, beyond fear, beyond mortality. “You are my heart, Holly. I love you so much.”
She drew a shaky breath, whispered, “Kiss me.”
He bent down, pressed his lips to hers again.
Then her eyes drifted shut, and she lay still, so still.
“No, Holly. No!”
“Shit! She’s crashing. I’m going to intubate her. Get another IV going.” Rossiter grabbed some gear out of his med kit, his gaze meeting Nick’s. “I need you to move. Now.”