by Pam Godwin
He wouldn’t. But he’d know how to spot that sort of device if he was looking for it.
“You put it there.” Suddenly wary, she crab-walked backward and scrambled to her feet. “Why? Who the fuck are you?”
“You have no idea, do you?” He clicked his tongue. “Fucking clueless.”
“Start talking.” She shoved back her shoulders, and the world spun. She braced her legs, and they buckled out from under her, sending her back to the ground with her cheek in the sand. “Fuck!”
He stepped toward her.
“Don’t come near me!” She shoved out a hand as if she had the strength to fight him off.
“You’ve been out here for two days.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Might as well tell me who that man is. Seems he wants you dead more than I do.”
He knew how long she’d been here?
Because he’d been tracking her.
“Why do you want me dead?” A chill swept through her bones.
“Didn’t say I did.” He pivoted and strode toward the cave.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting the hell out of this desert.” He snatched her pack and slung it over his shoulder. “Fuck this shit. No job is worth dying for.”
“Job?” Her words slurred, her brain chugging on sputtering fumes. “Someone paid you to put a tracker on my truck?”
“Sweetheart, I’ve been monitoring you for six months.” He prowled back to her, pausing just out of reach. “It’s been a pleasure watching your sexy ass through my binoculars. Hell, even hours from death, you look good enough to eat.”
Dread sank in with the implication of his words. If he wanted to attack her, she wouldn’t be able to stop him. She couldn’t even lift her head from the dirt.
“What’s your name?” Every sound she made caused her pain, every thought an excruciating effort.
“Paul.”
“I assume you know my name.”
“I know everything about you, Rylee Catherine Sutton.”
Not everything. He didn’t know how she was connected to Tommy.
“Who paid you to watch me?”
“Someone who is obsessed with every detail of your life—what you eat, where you go, who you talk to, and most of all, who you’re banging.”
The words bounced around in her head, jumbling into nonsensical mush. She couldn’t think past the declining state of her body.
“Who hired you?” she asked again.
“Who are your enemies?”
Tommy. His friends. Maybe one of them had discovered her six months ago and was working behind Tommy’s back to learn who she was. It was the only answer that fit.
“Give me a name,” she said.
“My contracts are anonymous, and even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”
She pressed a finger against her pounding temple. There was one aspirin left in the first-aid kit. She wouldn’t be able to swallow it, but if it sat in the back of her throat, maybe it would melt.
“Give me my pack.” She held out a trembling hand.
“Can’t do that.” He glanced at the vast wasteland behind him and turned back, grimacing. “I’d carry you, but it’ll slow me down. You’re as good as dead anyway.”
She dropped her hand, unable to fight or stand or do anything but watch him amble away.
Whatever information he had on her would be useless after she was dead. He was a mystery that would go unsolved, because as she lay there, staring at his retreating form, she suspected he wouldn’t make it out of the desert alive.
Rylee woke on her stomach with her face in the prickly sand. The nighttime air spread goosebumps across her arms. But the sky was warming, paling into shades of pink and gray.
She’d made it through another night.
And she wasn’t alone.
Hot breath brushed along her spine. Hands gripped the hem of her shirt, lifting the cotton up her torso.
With a gasp, she jerked and tried to roll. But a heavy body came down on her back, pinning her in the dirt.
“Stop.” She wheezed, clawing at loose rocks and tufts of plant growth, her voice hoarse, barely a whisper. “Get off me.”
“I’ve been walking around all night,” a masculine voice rasped at her ear, “trying to find my way out.” A hand wedged beneath her hips and yanked open the fly of her jeans. “Trying not to think about your sweet cunt.”
“Paul…” Fear raged through her veins, but her body refused to respond. It couldn’t. It had used the last of its energy just keeping her heart beating. “Don’t do this.”
“For six months, I’ve wanted nothing more than to do this.” He ground his erection against her backside. “If I’m going to die out here, I’m going to satisfy this fucking infatuation once and for all.”
“No! You can’t!” Despite her terror, she remained calm enough to scan the dirt beneath her face, her fingers digging through the sand, searching for a small rock.
“I can.”
“I’m filthy.”
“Damn straight, you’re filthy. I’ve watched you fuck your neighbor on the back porch, in your car, and on every surface in your house. Seeing a woman take it in the ass does something to a man. Christ, you don’t even know how fucking hot you are.”
He’d invaded her privacy. If she had it in her, she might’ve laughed.
Wasn’t Karma a vindictive bitch?
Maybe she deserved to be spied on, but she didn’t deserve to spend the last minutes of her life being raped.
He lifted his hips and yanked her jeans and underwear to her knees. Her heart stopped, and her fingers latched onto a skinny stone with a jagged edge. She fisted it and rolled to her back.
With his gaze locked on the exposed apex of her legs, he didn’t see her hand moving until it was too late.
She stabbed the rock into his eye.
Direct hit. But not enough strength. Instead of blood, she got his seething, roaring rage.
“Stupid bitch!” He clapped a hand over his eye and smacked the rock from her grip. “You’re going to pay for that.”
Teeth bared, he rose up and wrenched her jeans past her knees.
She kicked her legs and slapped at his face, but the struggle was clumsy and ineffective. She couldn’t stop him from opening his pants and crawling between her thighs.
He gripped her throat and flashed a manic smile. “Your cunt is mine.”
His face blurred, fading with the deprivation of air. Darkness closed in, and a loud ringing sounded in her ears.
Then a boom.
Paul’s head exploded, spraying the sky with blood, bits of bone, and brain matter.
He toppled to the side, and the pressure released from her throat.
Stunned, she gulped for oxygen, gripped her neck, and snapped her gaze toward the gray horizon, searching for the threat.
Someone had shot him. Killed him. Was it Tommy? Or the person who’d hired Paul?
She whimpered, heaving frenzied breaths, and fumbled to pull up her jeans.
The rev of an engine approached.
Splattered in blood and scared out of her mind, she moved. Muscle memory took over, her limbs bending and dragging her body across the sand.
The cave. She could hide in the narrow hole.
Tires crunched behind her, shoving her panic into the red zone. Her vision began to fade, but she could still hear.
Footsteps.
A slow gait.
Chasing her.
“Please.” She cried, crawling on her stomach, desperate to get away. “Please, don’t.”
She didn’t know when she’d stopped moving, but her arms wouldn’t work anymore. She continued to fight, mentally reaching for the cave, willing herself to become invisible.
Hands gripped her back and legs, and she flinched, crying harder. Arms lifted her, and she glimpsed a whiskered jaw. A flash of light brown hair.
Her eyes shut, her face pressed against a warm neck. “Tommy?”
He was walking, the sand grind
ing noisily beneath his steps. But his breaths were louder, sawing in and out next to her ear.
“Hate you.” Her limbs weighed a thousand pounds. Everything hurt.
He laid her on a soft bench seat, and she blinked, trying to adjust her foggy vision.
A dashboard. Air vents. Condensation. Beads of it clinging to the plastic. She was in her truck.
Reaching out, she tried to collect those precious drops. But her movements were uncoordinated, the effort too great.
He bent over her, his body heat invading, too close, too much.
Until a trickle of water ran over her lips. The incredible taste startled her. She choked, lapped at it greedily, and tried to grab the source.
He yanked the bottle away and tossed it into the back of the truck.
“Please. Need more.” She was fading. Dying.
He slammed the door shut.
The woman passed out. Just as well. Tomas was in no mood to listen to her crying.
The risks he’d taken with her life had been necessary. Not everyone would see it that way, but when it came to his friends, he would accept their anger and disappointment over needlessly putting their lives in harm’s way.
Rylee Sutton was a threat. Well, she had been a threat. Now he didn’t know what she was.
Most people wouldn’t last a day out here. The fact that she’d survived without his interference was shocking. He’d watched her like a hawk and skipped sleep, waiting for her to give up or do something stupid like fall into a nest of rattlesnakes.
With the windows rolled down, he navigated her truck across the uneven terrain, holding her head on his lap to prevent it from bouncing.
Sand and blood stiffened her hair, her clothes saturated in grime. Her complexion was too pale for this climate, ephemeral beyond any hope of tanning. Yet the smooth alabaster glow complimented her dark lashes, wing-tipped brows, and long hair. Wild ribbons of brown hung past her breasts, the color as rich and variegated as spalted sweetgum.
Her nose was too delicate, her bones too slender, and her cheeks too silky to have been exposed to the harsh sun. And her mouth… Those lips were far too pouty for his liking. They made a man want to taste and bruise and test how far they stretched around a hungry cock.
Underneath the gore and desert grit, she was outrageously beautiful. A goddamn knockout.
And when she was at her weakest, he’d left her alone with a rapist.
“Fuck!” He slammed a hand against the steering wheel, boiling with anger.
At himself.
At the bastard who’d touched her.
At the fucking shitstorm that had blown into his life.
For the next thirty miles, he forced his eyes on the unpaved wasteland, trying to ignore the guilt and resentment that rode him.
When his childhood home finally came into view, he approached slowly, surveying the property for intruders. Everything appeared in order. Except…
Motherfucker.
A motorcycle sat around the side of the house. Not the sporty, rubber-burning kind that Luke rode. No, this beast was throaty and heavy, made for long hauls on desolate roads. He only knew one guy who was arrogant enough to take an iconic Harley off-road in the desert.
As he parked the truck, the front door opened. Cole Hartman stepped out and leaned against the door frame, tattooed arms folded across his chest and eyes stony in the twilight.
Every time Tomas saw him, the man had more ink on his skin and hair on his face. He looked hard around the edges, fearsome even, like a one-percenter in an outlaw motorcycle club.
“I turned on the air-conditioning in the house.” Cole stalked toward him. “I don’t know how you can stand this fucking heat.”
“I told you not to come.” He rolled up the windows and stepped out.
Cole tilted his head, and when he caught a glimpse of the unconscious cargo, his nostrils stiffened. The cords in his neck protruded, and his face turned red above the beard. “What the fuck did you do?
“Tested her.” He strode around to the other side and dragged her out.
“Tested her how exactly? She looks more dead now than she did in the photo you sent.”
“Here’s an idea. Instead of standing around like a smacked ass, make yourself useful.” He cradled her against his chest and shoved past Cole. “Grab a couple of bags of sodium chloride from the bunker.”
“She’s covered in blood.”
“Hadn’t noticed.” He carried her into the house, and the sudden cold air shot a chill through him. Pausing at the control box on the wall, he raised the temperature. “Don’t fuck with the thermostat.”
“You’ve gone off the fucking rails, Tomas.”
“The IV drip, Cole. I need it yesterday.”
The bunker beneath the house maintained a mild temperature year-round. It was where they kept all the medical supplies and anything that might perish in the heat.
Cole grunted and treaded toward the interior door that led underground. Tomas headed to his old bedroom.
The bed was narrow like the room, but he had everything he needed to bring her back to life. Settling her on the mattress, he gave her limp body a quick perusal, probing for injuries he might’ve missed.
Minor scratches and bruises marred her fair skin. No deep gashes or burns. She’d used the sunscreen and kept to the shade when she could.
Blood streaked her face and arms, her shirt soaked and clinging to her firm little tits.
She needed a bath. But fluids first.
Using the supplies he’d already laid out, he cleaned her arm, washed his hands, and prepped the IV tubing and equipment.
When the sound of heavy boots entered the room, Tomas kept his gaze on his task. “What did you find on Paul Kissinger?”
“Nothing yet.” Cole handed over two bags of sodium chloride. “He returned to her house yesterday morning, snooping around. Then he left Eldorado and dropped out of signal range. Did he show up here?”
“He tried to rape her.”
“What? When?”
“An hour ago.” Tomas bent over her arm, hunting for a vein for the IV drip. Hard to do when her little vessels were deprived of fluid. “Goddammit.”
“The vein collapsed.” Cole crouched beside him, taking up too much room in the small space. “Slow down and try another one.”
Neither of them had gone to school to study medicine. They’d learned basic shit in the field, jumping in whenever the cartel’s medical staff needed help.
Knowing how to stitch a wound and insert a peripheral IV proved invaluable in their job. Tomas and Kate had taken the most interest in it. Kate wanted to be a doctor and help people. But not him. He just wanted to mend his wounds without depending on others to do it.
He finally accessed a vein, and once the drip started delivering fluid, he sat on the bed and blew out a breath. The intravenous route was the fastest way to rehydrate her body. She would recover quickly. Physically.
In other ways, she might never fully heal.
He knew the feeling.
“That’s not her blood.” Cole leaned over her, picking at the sticky gunk on her throat. “Tell me what happened.”
“I found Paul Kissinger lurking on my property. You were right. He put the tracker on her truck.”
“What did you do to him?
“Tied him up. Smacked him around.”
“And he confessed? Just like that?”
“No. He told her.”
Cole’s brows knitted, his gaze shifting from Rylee to the doorway. “Where is he?”
“In the desert.”
“Idiot. I have a million methods to make a man talk.”
“So do I.” Tomas grabbed the container of soap and water and gently ran a wet cloth over her face. “Before he showed up, I bugged her pack and dumped her in the desert, too.”
“What part of stay put and keep her restrained did you not understand?”
“I did restrain her. The scrubland is inescapable to anyone who doesn’t know its se
crets. I was monitoring her. Watching and listening.”
“How did you watch me?” Her eyes snapped open, bloodshot and glinting silver. “Were you there?”
He should’ve given her a sedative. How long had she been eavesdropping?
“Spying again?” He made a tsking sound. “That’s a terrible habit of yours.”
She kicked her leg, trying to knock him from the bed. A pathetic attempt, given the weakness in her body. She glanced at the cloth in his hand, the IV in her arm, and the blood on her shirt.
“You were there? The whole time?” Her gaze made an uneasy pass over Cole and returned to Tomas. “You watched me suffer for days and did nothing?”
“I stepped in when I needed to.”
“When you needed.” She coughed a dry, raw sound. “Well, now you can step out, let me change clothes, and I’ll be on my way and gone from your life.”
She tried to sit and failed.
“My backpack.” She scanned the room. None of her belongings were in here.
Her attention landed on Cole, tracing his tattoos and lingering on his beard. Tomas waited for her to voice the man’s name and spout every incriminating thing she’d read about him in the emails.
Instead, she pressed her lips together and directed a disgusted glare at Tomas.
He glared back, daring her to open her deceitful mouth. He’d written enough about Cole that she could easily identify him. He’d also outlined his assumptions about Cole’s background, his shady military training, his ability to slip in and out of any fortress, computer system, or security infrastructure. No one was that good unless they were hiding some scary shit.
The most concerning thing about Cole was his motivation. He wasn’t like the rest of them. He’d never spent a night in Van’s attic, never had his freedom ripped away, never experienced the kind of loss and hopelessness that made a man long for death. Not that Tomas knew, anyway.
That was the problem. None of them knew Cole Hartman. Yet here he was, mired in their lives, and fighting alongside them. For what? Van and Matias stopped paying him a dozen jobs ago. Now he was what? Contracting for them pro bono?
Whenever he was asked about his past life and current endeavors outside of the team, he just smiled or gave vague non-answers. The bastard was as closed-off as Tomas. Perhaps more so.