“Whoa, whoa. Aud, stop.” He reached for her, but she jerked out of his grasp and refused to meet his eyes. Damn, she might as well have shoved a stake through his heart. Would have hurt less. He rubbed the center of his chest. “I’ll be okay. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” With jerky movements, she flicked away tears before yanking off the scrub pants and throwing them aside. She snapped up the cammies and stuffed his feet into the holes. Even as angry as she was, she was careful not to jar his bad foot. “You shouldn’t be going anywhere in your condition. Especially not out after dangerous terrorists.”
“My condition?” He almost laughed, but wisely choked it back. “C’mon, this is nothing. I’ve done far more in far worse shape.”
“I’m sure you have.”
The bitterness in her voice surprised him. “Audrey, I’m trying to save your brother. Don’t you want him home safe?”
“Of course I do.” She stopped trying to dress him and laid her head on his bare thighs, wrapping her arms around him. Her tears felt hot on his skin, her sobbing breaths tickling his leg hair.
God, she had to notice the way his body, battered as it was, responded to her touch. How could she not? His erection was at half-mast, right there by her cheek, straining toward her, all but begging her to turn her head and—and, oh baby, she did.
“But not at the expense of losing you.” Her breath whispered over his flesh before she kissed him, a light caress of her lips down his shaft. The contact jolted and sizzled through his nerves like electricity. As she opened her mouth and took him in deeper, it nearly broke every careful link of control he’d spent his life forging. Again. He couldn’t afford that, not now when everything was situation critical, not when it left him feeling so raw and exposed afterward.
He gripped the back of her neck, intending to pull her away but managing only to draw her lips up to his. She hiked up her skirt and fumbled to straddle him.
“Audrey,” he groaned and gripped her rear, guiding her down.
She gasped and her head fell back in pleasure. The ends of her hair tickled his legs. “Oh, please, Gabe. I need this. I’ll be careful not to hurt you.”
Gabe snorted a laugh. “You’re not going to hurt me. The nurse—”
“Two pump chump, remember? I won’t last.”
God, he realized, neither would he.
Her eyes, still spilling tears, never left his, and he saw her heart there, his for the taking if he wanted. He did. Christ, did he ever want it, want her. So much that he ached with a sweet need to make her his forever. But he couldn’t. It was impossible. He couldn’t be the kind of man a woman like her wanted for the long haul.
Then she started to move against him and Gabe strived for control even as coherent thought fled and sensation engulfed him. Every lift of her hips off his cock was a slow, painful death, and he felt the loss of her warmth in even the darkest pit of his soul. Every languorous slide down was his salvation.
Control. Yeah, right. With her, it was nothing but a pretty illusion, and he was already lost. In her eyes. In her body. In her soul. He’d never had any control when it came to her.
Then it was over, the aftermath as crushingly silent as the joining had been sudden and intense, leaving them twined together, boneless and gasping, his face buried in the crook of her neck, her cheek resting on top of his head. He could hear her pulse thundering, matching his beat for beat, and closed his eyes.
Yep, he was raw again. As much as he enjoyed sex with Audrey—and, God, did he ever enjoy it, enjoy her—he did not like the way he felt right now. Like a throbbing, open wound. If she wanted, she could easily pour salt into him and scar him for life. And he had enough scars, thanks.
It was too much.
“Promise me you’ll come back safe,” she whispered against his hair.
He refused to open his eyes, afraid of what he might see in her face, but even more afraid of what she would see in his. “I’ll do my best.”
“No. You promise me, Gabriel. I love you, and I can’t lose you.”
All right. He’d known this conversation was coming. He could handle this, tell her like it is. Despite the cold, hollow ache that flash froze into a lump of ice in his chest.
“Audrey.” He touched her cheek and waited until she met his gaze with red-rimmed eyes. “You don’t love me. We’ve been through hell, and in order to survive, we’ve had to rely on each other in ways most never have to rely on another person. It’s natural to feel the way you do now, but it’s not love. Believe me. I’ve been here before.”
Christ, he hoped that little speech hadn’t sounded as canned and phony to her as it had to his own ears.
But she seemed to believe him. The hurt of it shone in her eyes. “So you always sleep with the women you help?”
No, you were the first. The only. You were…so much more.
Ha. Like he’d say that little gem of a thought aloud and kibosh his whole argument. Sure, she was special to him, and he had a feeling she always would be, but what he felt didn’t matter. A month, six months, a year from now, when the fear and adrenaline faded to nothing but bad memories, she wouldn’t feel the same about him anymore. He just knew it. If he hung around, if he let her continue thinking she was in love, it’d put them both in an awkward place when she realized she wasn’t. Better to extract himself now, before they reached that point.
Jesus, he never should have let things go this far between them to begin with, never should have allowed himself to give in to how much he wanted her.
“Sometimes,” he said slowly, searching for the right words to let her down easy without crushing all that wild spirit he admired so much. “Sometimes when you face a deadly situation, the natural reaction is to want to experience life. Sex is one of the good parts of life.”
Scoffing, she shoved him. Not hard, but enough that he knew she was seriously pissed. She stood, giving him her back, and he thought—hoped—maybe she’d see the logic and let it go without a fight. Then she whirled to face him and—surprise!—indomitable woman that she was, she called him out.
“You are such a jerk.” She jabbed a finger at his nose. “This between us is more than sex and we both know it. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, so you can’t tell me—”
“It’ll fade.”
She shook her head. “No. I know myself better than that. Why are you trying to push me away?”
That was the question. The more he talked, the less he believed his own bull. God help him, he wanted her even though it made him feel so exposed. Maybe he loved her, he didn’t know. Never had any experience with the emotion to know if that’s what all the roiling, turbulent feelings of admiration, joy, fear, and lust meant. Even if it was love—not that he was ready to cop to that yet—but hypothetically, even if it was, they couldn’t…He couldn’t…
This was all too much. She was too much. And he was not nearly enough for her.
Okay, his thoughts were rambling, not making a whole hell of a lot of sense even to him. He rubbed the center of his forehead and then did something he’d never done before in his entire thirty-three years of life: he stood, pulled up his pants, grabbed his shirt, and chickened out.
“Audrey, I have to go.”
Standing in front of him, arms crossed over her chest in a stance that was both defensive and vulnerable, she squeezed her eyes shut. “Don’t. Please, Gabe. Stay here and let your team handle it.”
He couldn’t. Why didn’t she get that? He wasn’t one of those commanders that sat safely behind the battle line while ordering his men to charge into the fray. Injured or not, if they had to put their lives on the line for the mission, he’d be right there with them, fighting shoulder to shoulder.
Not that he expected that kind of opposition today. If all went well, his team should be in and out with Bryson before anyone was the wiser. If all went well, the entire op should last no more than ten quiet minutes.
If all went well.
That thing called Murp
hy’s Law might try to turn it into a clusterfuck, but they were prepared for that, too.
Audrey stared at him, waiting for an answer, and he just shook his head.
“I’m sorry.” Feeling like an utter coward, he edged around her and out the door. “I…gotta go. I’ll call you when we have Bryson.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Dawn broke over Bogotá with no fanfare whatsoever. Low-hanging clouds kept the streets dark longer than normal—a few measly streetlamps tried and failed to beat back the oppressive grayness, their yellow glow dampened by the light morning fog, making for excellent cover. Gabe couldn’t have asked for a better morning, though he could do without the persistent, drizzling rain that froze him to the bone.
Then again, maybe that icy cold was from the conversation—argument—whatever he’d had—with Audrey in the hospital.
No, he couldn’t think about that. He had to stay one hundred percent focused on the here and now. Block out the pain in his heart, the pain in his side, the throbbing in his foot. Focus on the bite of cold, thin mountain air filling his lungs; the manicured lawn cushioning his body as he crawled toward the house; the earthy scents of mud and wet grass stodgy in his nose; the rifle’s familiar feel in his hands; the easy rhythm of his heart in the muffled silence of the morning.
Easy, at least, until he heard the trilling whistle of a birdcall and his heart kicked up. Harvard, acting as lookout, had found a hide in a tree in the side yard that provided a perfect eagle-eye view of both the front and the back of the house. The call signaled trouble.
Gabe looked toward Quinn and Jesse, lying belly to the ground at his right, Jesse’s medical bag a dark lump between them.
They waited.
Harvard gave another call. Three short trills.
Someone was coming. Or, more to the point, three someones. Then five more whistles from Harvard indicated five more approaching. Eight total, which tipped the scales a little too much for Gabe’s liking. Ten baddies including Rorro and Jacinto to his six undertrained men.
Shit.
He gave his own call, a sign that the men should hold their positions, Marcus in the woods bordering the south side of the property, Jean-Luc on the north side near Harvard, and Ian in the southwest corner.
Quinn scooted across the foot of grass that separated them and put his lips close to Gabe’s ear. “What are you thinking?”
Gabe shook his head. “Don’t like these odds.”
“You wouldn’t think twice if these guys were SEALs.”
“Yeah, but they’re not.” And, God, how he wished they were. “We’re moving to plan bravo.”
Plan B was a blitz attack, using the element of surprise to their advantage. Overwhelm the tangos, distract them by making them think more soldiers waited in the woods than there were, and slip Bryson out from under their noses while they panicked. It involved more inherent risk, which was why it was their backup plan. But with the arrival of the new tangos, Gabe calculated it had a better chance at succeeding than their original stealthy plan to slip in and out unnoticed while Jacinto and Rorro slept.
Quinn’s lips thinned. He glanced over at Jesse, who gave a grim nod, then met Gabe’s stare again. “We can still—”
“Negative. Too risky.” Especially for Quinn and Jesse, and they both knew it. Even though he wasn’t going to let it happen, it did him proud that they were willing to stick to the original plan and take that risk. He patted Quinn on the shoulder to get his attention, then reached for his weapon. “Go in hot on my signal.”
“Hooyah,” Quinn said.
…
Gabe moved fast, staying low as he flanked the north side of the house and made a beeline for his linguist’s position. Jean-Luc, laying in a stand of bushes, raised an eyebrow in question when Gabe settled in next to him, but didn’t say a word, which was probably a first for the man.
Gabe took a moment to survey the situation from this angle. The eight new bad guys had arrived in two vehicles. They looked like members of a local gang, dressed in jeans, T-shirts, and bandanas, carrying Uzis, most of them barely old enough to take a legal drink. And that was saying something, since the legal age in Colombia was eighteen. Jacinto probably recruited them in preparation for the ransom exchange.
Four of the kids now stood around in the driveway talking, while a fifth headed toward the front door with purpose in his stride. The other three still sat in the closer of the two vehicles, smoking something. From the sweet scent on the air, he’d guess pot. That evened the odds out some, but still not enough for his liking.
“We need to take out some of these guys,” he whispered. “Can you get to that car?”
Jean-Luc nodded. “Gotcha. I’ll go have a nice chat with our friendly Colombian gangbangers.”
“Don’t get killed.”
“Wouldn’t dream of depriving the world.”
Damn, but you couldn’t dislike like the guy. Gabe smiled and watched him crawl toward the car before turning his gaze to study the four gangbangers still standing in the driveway. He calculated several options and discarded them all with no small amount of frustration. A flashbang would be great right about now. So would hands-free radios.
A shout drew his attention back to the driveway. Several of the tangos spoke in rapid Spanish and ran across the pavement toward Jean-Luc’s position. Dammit, someone had spotted him. So much for taking out a few covertly before the action began.
Gabe lifted his rifle to his shoulder, took aim, and put a bullet through the neck of the closest man. Even before the dead guy collapsed, the others peppered Gabe’s hiding place with bullets and forced him to hit the ground behind the bushes for cover. He felt the heat of one round zing alarmingly close to his temple and Audrey’s voice whispered through his mind.
Promise me you’ll come back safe.
“I will,” he vowed into the dirt. Better late than never.
Gabe rolled away from the shower of bullets, gained his feet, and took off in a zigzagging sprint toward the back of the house as Jean-Luc and Ian engaged the remaining tangos. Their window of opportunity to get in, secure Bryson, and get out was now very, very slim. They had to go now, while everyone’s attention held firm on the firefight out front. He calculated fifteen minutes, max, before a neighbor alerted the authorities and all hell came crashing down. Once the authorities knew, the EPC would know. If they were involved, they’d send in reinforcements. Even if they weren’t involved, they might still send reinforcements solely because of Jacinto’s family ties to one of the head honchos.
Gabe hoped to be long gone—with Bryson Van Amee in tow—before that happened.
With a series of quick hand movements, he told Quinn and Jesse to go. In the original plan, he was supposed to stay outside and keep the backyard, their evac route to the helo, secure. Couldn’t do that now. The danger inside the house while they were in the basement was too great to leave the door unprotected, so he made eye contact with Marcus and motioned him over to the patio.
“Keep this area clear,” he ordered over the bursts of gunfire. Marcus nodded and took up the position as Gabe ducked into the house.
The kitchen reminded him of a morgue—vast, with a lot of cold stainless steel and black marble. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see a wall of drawers on the other side of the endless center island, but there was only a heavy door with a massive padlock holding it closed. Quinn hunched over the lock, muttering between his teeth as he tried to finesse it open.
Jesse stood to one side, medical bag slung across his chest. He peeked around the wall into the corridor that led to the action at the front of the house. “How we doin’ back there?”
Quinn cursed and smacked the lock. “Can’t get it. We need Marcus.”
“No,” Marcus, standing half in the kitchen, half on the patio, said. “Ian will do it faster.” And he sprinted across the yard.
Quinn straightened away from the door and grabbed his rifle. “You got this?”
“Yeah.” Gabe nodded. �
��Go help the men out front.”
Weapon raised, Quinn sprinted down the hallway off the kitchen.
A moment later, Ian came running, stumbling as a stray bullet ricocheted off the patio table and nailed him in the shoulder. Gabe laid down cover fire and Ian scrambled inside. He leaned on the island for a second, holding his shoulder, his lips pulled back in a grimace of pain. Jesse took a step forward to help, but Ian waved him away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Okay?” Gabe asked.
“Yeah.” He straightened. “You needed me? Sir.”
Gabe ignored the contemptuous tone—for now—and motioned to the lock. “Blow it.”
Even with blood dripping down his arm and his mouth still drawn tight in pain, Ian eyed the lock like it was a woman he wanted to lick from head to toe. “With pleasure.”
He made short work of it, taking a brick of C4 from his pack and stuffing a small amount in the keyhole. He inserted a blasting cap, twisted off a length of fuse, lit it, and crouched behind the island with the rest of them.
“Fire in the hole!”
The lock blew. The door popped open.
“Nice,” Ian said, admiring his handiwork.
“Get to the helo and stop that bleeding,” Gabe told him. “We’ve got it from here.”
“Yeah, right.” He snorted, grabbed his pack and rifle, and charged toward the front of the house. Away from the helo and into the fray.
Way to follow orders, Reinhardt.
Jesse disappeared down the dark, yawning mouth of the stairs. Gabe prowled the kitchen, checking windows and doors for threats. A gangbanger bolted from the hallway into the kitchen, spotted him, and raised a pistol. Gabe didn’t give him the chance to get his finger anywhere near the trigger. The gut shot dropped the guy where he stood, and Gabe strode over to kick the gun out of his reach. Just in case.
“Boss.” Marcus popped his head inside, sweat pouring off his face. “I gotta help Jean-Luc. They have him pinned.”
“Go.” He confirmed the yard was still clear as Marcus disappeared around the side of the house, then shouted down the stairs, “We’re outta time!” as another baddie ripped through the front door, bolted across the hallway and up the foyer stairs to the second floor. Ian, the crazy bastard, was right on his heels.
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