Christ, he’d let her be kidnapped. His mind jumped ahead. There was no doubt that Cabrera was taking her to Ortiz. He just didn’t know why. It didn’t make sense, unless he’d figured out his nanny was sleeping with his son’s baseball coach, who was really a DEA agent.
His stomach knotted, and he fisted his grip on the steering wheel. Flexing his fingers a moment later, he told himself that wasn’t the case; otherwise, Kate would already be dead. Some consolation, but it made sense. Ortiz was the head honcho. If anyone was going to kill Kate, it would be left to him. There was still time to save her.
His thoughts circled around. The image of Kate lying dead on the ground bit into Sawyer like a two-edged saw. She didn’t deserve it. She was fighting back from a family disaster and disappointment. She was getting her life together, her career, and then he came along and upended everything she’d been working for. Because of him, she was a hostage, on her way to a cartel leader’s lair for who knew why.
“Slow down. You’re gaining on him.”
Sawyer jerked his foot off the accelerator, which he’d been pressing down at the same strength as his frustration. His phone vibrated, and he grabbed it from the cup holder.
“Yes, sir.” It was Sanchez, who was still in the dark about Sawyer’s unprofessionalism. Now wasn’t the time to enlighten him. He’d pull Sawyer’s command, if he didn’t remove him from the whole shooting match, and it was too late in the game for that. He had to get to Kate, rescue her from the predicament he’d put her in. He owed it to Guerrero, too, to see this investigation through. But mostly, he wanted to make sure Kate was safe.
“Mexico finally got us a picture of Ortiz. It’s grainy, and from a distance. I’ve just texted it to you. You won’t believe who the hell he is…”
Another vibration told Sawyer the photo had come through. He took his phone from his ear and tapped the message. And then dropped the cell on a curse when he saw who Ortiz really was. Sanchez was still talking, but Sawyer couldn’t hear him. He ignored Ian, who scrabbled for the phone. Sawyer stared out the windshield at the taillights far ahead of him. The taillights that belonged to Cabrera’s car. Cabrera, who was also Armando Ortiz.
“Holy shit. That’s Cabrera.” Words never failed Ian. Sawyer registered the fact, just as he noted that his second in command began bringing Sanchez up to speed with what was going down right now. He owed Ian, since he was in no condition to talk strategy. Not with Kate in the hands of a sadistic murderer.
Jesus, he’d seen what Ortiz did with people who crossed him. That body left in the Tijuana dumpster days ago had shown signs of torture. Ortiz played with his captives before killing them. And he always killed them. No one had survived a personal encounter with Ortiz.
If he hadn’t known Kate was important to him, he knew it now. It went beyond a no-human-being-deserves-this feeling. He’d joined the DEA to make a difference in people’s lives. What he felt for Kate was personal. It was anger, at himself, for putting her in danger, as well as at Ortiz. It was animal attraction, because he wouldn’t be in this position if he hadn’t been too attracted to Kate to resist her.
And it was fear. A debilitating fear that had nothing to do with himself. It was fear for Kate. Fear that Kate would be hurt, or killed. Fear that he wouldn’t get there in time to rescue her. Fear that he would lose Kate for good.
“Yes, sir. The team is mobilized, but we’ll wait for your go-ahead… Don’t worry, sir. We want Ortiz more than you do, begging your pardon… We’ll keep you informed… He’s stopped, boss.”
Sawyer came back to the present to find Ian off the phone and addressing him. Looking out the windshield, he could just make out that the Escalade had indeed stopped, with its headlights still on. They were too far away to see Ortiz or Kate.
“That looks like a building.”
Sawyer eased the truck forward, remaining silent. It did indeed look like a structure of some kind up ahead. Was it an entrance to an underground tunnel system? Was Ortiz disappearing into it with Kate? Or, was he killing her now, while he, Sawyer, vacillated between barging in with guns blazing, or waiting until the rest of his team rallied?
He’d never been hit with such indecision before. Calling the shots at a split second’s notice had never been a problem. Nor had he ever had self-doubt when it came to his job. Until now. Because Kate was involved. Strong, sexy, yet vulnerable, Kate. The fiercely independent Kate who let no one control her. The one who was even now figuring a way out of the mess he’d gotten her into, he had no doubt. But she was no match for Ortiz.
“We’ll be there in less than five, bro.” Sawyer heard the radio chatter over the mic Ian had clipped to his vest, which reminded him to turn his own on. Good. His guys were just moments behind. The tension in his throat eased enough to allow air in. Together, Ortiz didn’t have a chance. El Paso wasn’t that long ago. They all had retribution on their minds.
But a single gunshot seized the air from his lungs. His foot dropped to the accelerator in reflex, and the truck lunged forward, covering the remaining distance.
“Shots fired! Repeat, shots fired!” Ian yelled into his mic, and the resulting verbal mayhem was deafening, from the team, and from Sanchez, who’d joined the conversation.
“Hit the lights, the siren, Ian. Maybe it’ll confuse him.” It was a long shot. Ortiz didn’t get rattled. But why the hell was there gunfire? Why would Ortiz take a hostage, only to shoot her before he left? It didn’t make sense. Unless he’d made their approach and didn’t need her anymore. His blood iced over at the thought.
Let her be safe, let her be safe, he chanted, while they roared toward the building. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ian hanging on to the passenger’s handgrip while he pulled his service weapon from its holster. He was barking into his mic, but Sawyer couldn’t make out the words. He was too busy repeating let her be safe, let her be safe.
He swung the truck in a one-eighty, spewing gravel as he finally got a good look inside the construction.
“It’s a hangar, Ian. We don’t have time to wait for the team. We’ve got to take him out now, or we’ll lose him to the sky,” Sawyer shouted over the wail of the siren, throwing the truck into park and leaping from it, using his door as cover. Good thing, because a barrage of bullets peppered the ground around him. Ian did likewise on his side.
“Do you see Kate?” Sawyer yelled. He shouldn’t have bothered. With the siren’s shriek and the truck’s whirling red and blue grille lights pulsating like a strobe, he was in his own cocoon. Ian and his approaching team operated in a separate dimension. All he could hear was the drumbeat in his head: Let her be safe, let her be safe.
There was a pause in the gunfire, and then the distinct sound of twin engines revving up from inside the makeshift hangar. Ortiz had abandoned the shootout. Sawyer still didn’t know if Kate was dead or alive. Either way, the cartel leader wasn’t leaving. This chase ended here, now. There would be no more bloodshed. And God help the bastard if he’d hurt Kate.
The squeal of tires on gravel told Sawyer the rest of his guys had arrived. But it was the plane he focused on. He threw a glance toward the other side of the truck, where Ian crouched, gun drawn, awaiting directions from Sawyer. They all did. Unless Sanchez arrived from San Diego, a distance too far for them to wait, it was Sawyer’s decision. He didn’t hesitate any longer.
Under cover of the siren noise, he spoke into his mic. “Fan out. Be ready. I’m going in solo.”
“What the hell, boss? Have you gone crazy over this girl? No one goes in alone. That’s standard procedure. No—”
Ian’s voiced faded as Sawyer ignored his pleas and ran in a crouch toward the hangar, crisscrossing the ground to make himself a harder target. But there was no gunfire. Instead, the twin-engine plane rolled into view, gathering speed as it traveled toward him.
He couldn’t see the pilot, didn’t know if there was a passenger. He had to treat the situation as if there was. And he would do it alone. He’d screwed this operation up
six ways to Sunday, and he’d be damned if there would be any more bloodshed on his team. Unless it was his.
“Stand down. I repeat: stand down,” he barked into his mic before clicking it off, before the arguments started. He had no doubt they would do as they were told; he just didn’t know for how long.
As the plane approached, props whirling, heat from the engines rippling toward him, Sawyer widened his stance, and brought his gun up, cupping the butt with both hands, and took aim. He had one shot. One shot to bring the asshole down. One shot to end this debacle. If he didn’t, that plane would roll right over him and into the skies. His men would take it down, but who would die in the process? Not Kate. He had to take the shot, and make it good.
He took it.
Aiming under the plane, he held his breath. And fired. The shot went true, plugging the tire on the right side of the plane. Immediately, the aircraft listed in that direction, the right wing scraping the ground. Sawyer burst into motion.
Holstering his weapon, he waved his team forward, and then raced for the door. He’d stopped the plane, but he knew Ortiz wasn’t out of options. He was right. The door opened. The dark cavity lit up like a firework display as Ortiz let loose with all the firepower he carried.
Sawyer crouched beside the plane, too close for Ortiz to see him. Though the doorway was higher, due to the plane’s awkward angle, Sawyer managed to jump and grab Ortiz’s ankle with both his hands. He yanked the bastard right out of the plane and on to the ground, weapon flying from his grasp.
Ortiz rolled to his feet and lunged at Sawyer. He swung a fist at Sawyer’s head. Sawyer ducked, primed for hand-to-hand combat. Ortiz feinted right, then dove left for his discarded weapon. Screw that. Sawyer ran in with a Billy goat head butt, hitting the drug lord hard enough to hear the air whoosh out of him like a released balloon.
Ortiz lifted his knee, delivering a glancing blow to Sawyer’s chin. Sawyer’s teeth clacked together. Thank God his tongue hadn’t been between them. The cheap shot pissed Sawyer off. He bear-hugged Ortiz, pummeling his kidneys. Ortiz grabbed around his waist and rocked to the side, trying to topple them to the ground. Sawyer was too top heavy. But he liked the idea of taking the fight to the dirt. He’d make the bastard eat a pound of it. He tightened his hold on the thinner man, lifted him up a few inches, and then slammed Ortiz onto his back worthy of WWE champion A.J. Styles. The drug dealer’s head bounced, and then he lay still.
“Freeze!”
Swiping sweat from his eyes, Sawyer turned to find Ian behind and off to the side of him, his gun trained on Ortiz, even though the drug dealer looked dazed and confused. Sawyer stepped over the scumbag.
“Thanks,” he said. “Restrain the bastard.”
As Ian passed him to do as he was told, he said under his breath, “Jesus, Sawyer, what were you thinking, holstering your weapon? Have you lost your mind over her?”
“Plane’s empty,” Tim shouted from inside the aircraft, drawing Sawyer’s attention from Ian and his rebuke. Kate. Where was she?
While another barrage of official vehicles converged on the scene, Sawyer sprinted into the hangar. It was the only other place Kate could be. It was dark inside, but not so dark he couldn’t make out the shape of a lifeless body at the other end.
“No!” he cried, breaking into a run, dropping to his knees beside Kate. “No, no, no, no.”
There was so much blood. He searched for a pulse, his hand shaking so much he had to hold it steady with his other one. She was so pale, so still, she looked too much like a corpse. And yet…there was a flutter at his fingertips, a faint throb that denoted life.
He shouted over his shoulder, “Over here! She’s alive! Goddamnit, she’s alive!”
Chapter Eighteen
Kate awoke to an incessant beeping that echoed through her skull. She scrunched her eyelids tight. If her head hurt from a sound, how much worse would it be with light?
Her left shoulder ached. Actually, her whole body didn’t feel too great, but her shoulder screamed whenever she tried to move it. So she tried to lay still and take stock of her surroundings with her other senses.
She was on a bed. She imagined she was in a hospital, from the constant beeping, but her memory was a little fuzzy on how she got there. She’d had some awful dreams, of gunshots, and being pushed out of an airplane without a chute. That’s what had awakened her. The moment of impact.
Another dream, even fainter than the others, and sweeter, niggled at her. In it, she was held by a shadow-man, a man who rocked her in his arms, who begged her to stay with him. A man who told her he loved her, and that she’d break his heart if she didn’t hang on. It had to be a movie she’d seen, seeping into her subconscious.
She wished that dream was true. Even if her memory was fuzzy, she knew she was alone in the world. There wasn’t anyone who loved her. And that realization was disheartening.
The pain in her head had receded, and if she didn’t move her shoulder, she could risk opening her eyes. She wanted to leave her sucky subconscious, see what waited for her in the here and now.
Carefully, she opened first one, then the other eye. She waited for the ceiling to come into focus before looking around. The bed she was on was backlit by a dim light, so her room wasn’t completely dark. Her gaze traveled to the beeping machine beside her, with all her vitals blinking. Near that was the required IV. The door to her room was shut.
She turned her head. Her shoulder tugged, but that wasn’t what caused her to gasp. It was the sight of the sleeping man awkwardly slouched in the single chair next to her bed.
Sawyer.
Everything came crashing back. Her kidnapping by Mr. Cabrera, who wasn’t really Mr. Cabrera, but someone named Armando Ortiz, who ran a Mexican drug cartel. She remembered him hitting her in the face, their drive in the desert, how she tried to escape, and then the night erupting into explosions of gunfire. And pain. She closed her eyes against the images, but then popped them open once more to study Sawyer.
He looked too big for the chair, uncomfortable. His shirt was covered in rusty stains, which she had a sneaking suspicion were blood. Her blood. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. It was a hell of a lot of blood.
His chin was covered with whiskers, and there were shadows under his eyes that his long lashes couldn’t hide. His short hair was rumpled, like he’d run his fingers through it. Why was he here?
They’d argued after she discovered the video cameras in his closet, and that he was a DEA agent. She’d run away from him, and right into Mr. Cabrera’s clutches. Her feelings for Sawyer hadn’t changed, yet it hurt so bad to know he wasn’t who she thought. That he’d been using her. Her heart squeezed tight from the memories.
Why was he here? Guilt, for using her? Did he want to interrogate her while her defenses were down? He was out of luck if he wanted answers. The conversations she had with Mr. Cabrera/Ortiz were still hazy.
The more she concentrated, the more her head ached. The nightmare drive into the desert remained shrouded in fog. The same with that mysterious dream, where a man without a face held her tight, whispered for her to hang on, that he loved her.
She blinked. Could that have been Sawyer pleading with her to stay awake, telling her he couldn’t live without her? Her gaze shot to him. His eyes were open. He sat up, rolling his shoulders.
“You’re awake.” His voice was hoarse, scratchy from lack of use. He cleared his throat. “How do you feel?”
She tried to sit up, and winced. He leaned forward, grabbing something off the edge of her bed. It was the remote to raise and lower her bed. Of course.
“Tell me when,” he said, pushing the button until she raised a finger. He sat on the edge of his chair, staring at her after replacing the remote beside her hand. His eyes were bloodshot. Deep lines resembling corn furrows bracketed his mouth and marred his forehead. Her gaze dropped to the bloodstains on his shirt. Everywhere she looked reminded her of what she’d gone through. She stared at the dark TV. Ou
t of the corner of her eye, she saw Sawyer glance down at himself.
“I’m sorry, I should have changed clothes, but I couldn’t leave until I knew you were going to be okay. You lost so much blood; it was touch and go for a while.”
Their eyes met. His softened. She looked away and licked her lips, not sure of what she read in his expression. He immediately reached for the plastic carafe of water on her bedside tray table. Pouring a little liquid into the matching cup, he handed it to her, but when she raised her hand, the pain radiating from her wound made her suck in a breath.
He rose from his chair, moving close to her. She fought the urge to lean into him. He’d used her; she needed to remember that, and not how good it had felt when he held her in his arms, when he’d kissed her lips, when he—
“Here, let me help you. And then I’ll leave.”
She let him hold the cup to her lips, and brace the back of her head with one large palm. His touch soothed her, yet spiked her pulse at the same time. Foolish, foolish, girl, she chanted in her head. She drew back, and he stepped away, setting the cup on to the tray table once more.
“Th—thank you,” she stammered, surprised at how hoarse she sounded. He shrugged, towering over her with his hands shoved into his rear pockets.
“No problem. The doctors say you’ll make a full recovery, after lots of PT. But you need rest, so I’ll go.” He turned away, and a fist of panic shoved into her throat.
“Don’t.”
He faced her, eyebrows raised, a hopeful expression on his face. They stared at each other for long seconds. She was supposed to be angry at him, furious, even, yet all she kept remembering were those wisps of a dream, where a man held her and whispered how much he loved her.
“Did you find me after I was shot?” she blurted.
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