by Misty Evans
“Trace?” she said, but couldn’t hear her own voice.
Her eyelids were heavy. Too heavy. She saw boots, shadows, the president jumping up from the ground. The bastard was still alive.
Blood covered his wool coat, his hand. The hand still holding a gun…raising it…pointing at someone just out of her sight.
“No!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Trace!”
A boot came up. A boot she’d seen a hundred times. Connecting with Norman’s hand, sending the gun flying.
The glint of the fire—so pretty—reflected on the metal as the gun sailed through the night air.
Two men wrestling, snow flying, ashes from the fire falling.
Her lids fell, she jerked them open.
They fell again.
Help Trace! Stay awake.
Parker’s face swam into view, a dream. Her lips were moving, but Savanna heard nothing. Parker’s hands were moving, filled with snow. She was packing the snow.
Wanna play? A snowball fight now?
I’m hallucinating.
Savanna blinked, trying to force the image away.
Love you, sis, but I need to help Trace.
Savanna closed her eyes. Forced them open again. Parker’s face was gone.
She tried to roll over, tried to reach out and grab something, anything, to leverage herself upright. Move, dammit.
Her body was numb, nothing would obey her commands. Not her hands, not her feet, not her eyelids.
The stars look so close, she thought.
And then she couldn’t breathe.
Chapter Twenty-five
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THE PRESIDENT’S GOONS were accounted for, their bodies strewn across the parking lot where snow was turning to water as the building burned.
The old man, the station owner, watched the fire with a stoic face. He’d tried to run to Savanna, to help her, but Norman had stopped him.
In the distance, sirens sounded. In his ear, Trace heard Rory briefing him on the coming deluge of police and fire fighters headed his way.
Trace stood motionless, facing down Linc Norman. The usual calm he felt in battle had deserted him. His mind whirled with takedown scenarios, his heart threatened to beat out of his chest.
Save Savanna, save Savanna, save Savanna.
Norman had fired off three bullets by Trace’s count and recovered the gun in their scrimmage. If the magazine in the gun had been full, that meant he had twelve left.
Twelve bullets he’d be happy to put in Trace.
At least one of the three fired was now lodged inside Savanna. From behind the back of the limo where he’d moved her, blood now mixed with the snow.
Too much blood.
From the bloom of red on the front of her shirt, he knew she’d been gut shot. She would hemorrhage out if he didn’t get to her soon.
Twelve bullets. He’d take all twelve of them if it meant she would live.
Norman’s hand shook as he kept the gun raised and trained on Trace. Scared. Cornered.
Cornered animals were the most dangerous.
The sirens drew louder.
Trace raised his hands. “Just let me stop Savanna’s bleeding. We can leave before the police get here and you can kill me somewhere else and dump my body.”
Norman looked like he was actually considering the idea. His gaze darted to the old man, back to Trace, then he grinned. “No one is stopping Van from bleeding out. She’s done. You and Zeb here are—”
Trace lunged, not waiting for him to finish. Norman was solid, twenty pounds north of his ideal weight. Hitting him was like hitting a bear.
A fist to his jaw knocked him sideways but didn’t take him down. The gun fired harmlessly into the air.
Disarm him.
Trace grabbed the arm with the gun, forcing it away as he knocked his elbow into Norman’s chin. The guy’s head snapped to the side and Trace brought Norman’s gun hand down on his knee, knocking the gun free once again.
Norman tried to throw him off, losing his balance in the process and slipping on the melting snow. He grabbed Trace, pulling him sideways. Trace kicked out and caught him in the knee.
He wasn’t going to kill the president. He wasn’t.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Zeb rush by, kicking the gun out of Norman’s reach and ducking behind the limo next to Savanna. His face popped around the bumper. “We’re losing her!”
“Clotting agent,” Trace shouted. “The Beast should have a bag of it.”
Zeb dove into the front of the car while Norman regained his stance. “You son of a bitch.”
Norman charged, unsteady on his feet but fueled by anger and adrenaline. Trace went to sweep his legs, but the guy anticipated the move and dodged away from Trace’s kick, rotating his body toward the gun. As he dropped to his knees, sliding on the slick snow and reaching for the gun, something clicked in Trace’s head.
Linc Norman wasn’t a fighter, had never been in the military or even had basic defense training. How was he still standing?
He’s enhanced.
The president had taken his own cocktail of the drugs to make a super soldier.
He still hadn’t undergone training. Not the type of training Trace had endured.
Can’t let him get that gun.
Trace dove; the two came together in a flurry of snow and bodies, Trace’s momentum sending both of them crashing into the side of the limo. Norman had the gun, but barely by the stock. Trace spun him around, trying to knock his arm on the windshield, but Norman stomped on the top of his foot.
And then a shot rang out and the stab of pain like a red-hot branding iron went through Trace’s upper right shoulder, the impact slamming him and Norman into the hood of the vehicle.
Norman went slack, dropping the handgun as blood gushed from a wound in his chest. Trace pushed off of him, searing pain in his back, shoulder, and chest making him gulp smoky air into his lungs.
The bullet, wherever it had come from, had gone straight through Trace and into the president.
Shit.
Trace flipped the man over and took him to the ground, pinning the president’s hands behind his back. He glanced around, trying to locate the shooter and saw a petite figure in white camo jogging from the side of the burning building toward him. Beneath the hood of the jacket, a familiar looking face peeked out. Slung across her back, she carried a rifle.
“Parker?”
“Lt. Hunter, nice to finally make your acquaintance.” She dropped a zip tie on top of Norman as she jogged past. “Don’t mean to rude, but I need to check on my sister.”
Blood oozed from his wound, the pain akin to the cold bore of an ice pick. “I need some of that Quik Clot,” he called to Zeb as he tied the president’s hands. “How’s Savanna?”
Zeb appeared out of the shadows behind the car, tossing two packs at him. “She’s in need of a hospital, and by the looks of things, so are you.”
Norman was muttering as his blood poured into the slushy snow underneath him. Trace rolled him over, undid his coat, and ripped open a pack of the clotting agent with his teeth. He dumped the stuff on the president’s wound, his right hand beginning to lose feeling.
“What are you doing?” Zeb asked, falling to his knees beside Trace. “That was for you, not this asshole.”
Trace opened the second pack and layered it on top of the first. The bullet had lost energy after passing through him and was now lodged somewhere over the president’s heart. “Can’t let him die. He’s the only one who can exonerate me.”
Zeb disappeared for a moment as Trace’s head swam. He’d been hurt plenty of times in the field, but the blood loss on top of the adrenaline was playing havoc with him.
He got to his feet, staggered, and was lucky Zeb had returned and was there to catch him. The flash of red and blue could be seen in the distance. “Whoa there, son,” Zeb said, trying to get Trace to sit.
“Let’s get some clotting agent in you now.”
“Got…to…take care of…Savanna.”
“Her sister’s got it covered.”
“She shot me.”
“She did at that. Never had a clear shot at Norman and she was afraid you would kill him. So she shot him through you.” Zeb jerked Trace’s coat open and eyed the holes the bullet had opened. His fingers made quick work of opening another pack of clotting agent. “She thinks you and her sister have half a chance at a future together and she didn’t want you tied up forever with legal matters over killing the president of the United States.”
Trace’s fresh wounds burned from the powder as Zeb packed them with it. “Who…who do you work for?” he ground out.
“Ah, figured that out, did you?” Zeb chuckled. “It was a long time ago and I don’t like to give away trade secrets, but let’s say you never really retire from certain agencies.”
CIA? NSA? Could have been any of them. “You’re ON16, aren’t you?”
Zeb finished packing the wound in Trace’s back. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The tone of his voice suggested differently.
Trace headed toward the back of the limo, his footsteps faltering. “I need…to see…Savanna.”
Zeb caught his arm and helped him to where Savanna lay. Parker had unslung her weapon and a backpack. She had the first aid kit Zeb had retrieved from the Beast and was working on her sister, whom she’d wrapped in her coat.
“Two bullets,” Parker said, her voice shaking as she started an IV. “One to her stomach and one to her arm. She’s lost a lot of blood, but if we get her to a surgeon, she’ll be okay.”
Trace heard it in her shaky voice. She didn’t believe her own words.
Stripping off his shirt, he laid it over Savanna’s stomach and pressed gently. Too much blood. The clotting agent had stemmed the flow, but there was no telling how messed up her internal organs were.
Not much time.
Her skin was too pale, her lips blue even in the orange glow of the fire. He wanted more than anything to see her open her eyes one more time. Wanted to tell her he loved her.
Love. Funny word for him. He hadn’t believed he was capable of such an emotion. Hadn’t believed he deserved any such kindness from someone else.
But now he wanted it. He could taste it on his tongue, feel it in the erratic beat of his heart even as the pain in his shoulder and chest blocked his senses. He needed to thank her—for her kindness, for loving him even if it was for only a little while. The drugs that had been pumped into this body made him faster, stronger, smarter than other men, but the only thing that made him human was Savanna.
The fire engines rolled up, police on their heels. Behind all of them came five Rock Star Security SUVs. As chaos reigned around him, he took one of Savanna’s cold, lifeless hands and brought it to his lips. “Don’t you die on me, Savanna. Don’t you dare die.”
Chapter Twenty-six
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THE ANTISEPTIC SMELL of the hospital filled Trace’s nostrils. His still-wet boots squeaked on the linoleum as he paced outside the waiting room.
Savanna was in the OR, fighting for her life. He’d received treatment for his bullet wound, and had been forced to spend the past few hours repeating answers to the questions shoved at him by the police and the Feds, and still, Savanna wasn’t out of surgery.
The president was at a different, unnamed location, receiving emergency medical care as well. If he lived and Savanna died…
Trace punched the wall, drawing looks from a couple of passing nurses.
The only thing that had saved his ass from the Feds was Zeb. The old guy had not only aired Savanna’s news report live, but when Norman’s men had stormed the building and dragged her outside, Zeb had switched the live feed to the parking lot’s security cameras. They had picked up everything until the building had exploded.
Parker had taped the rest with a camera mounted on her rifle from a few hundred feet away on a nearby rooftop. The audio tended to cut out here and there, but a picture really was worth a thousand words.
Trace hadn’t seen Parker since he’d been brought to the hospital. He’d been about to rush in the moment Norman showed up at the studio, but Parker had called his cell phone and told him to stand down. She had a plan and needed Norman’s confession. Trace had refused, but Parker had insisted she wouldn’t let Savanna die. She had her covered.
He’d spotted her on the roofline across from the studio, so he’d sat on his hands until he couldn’t stand it any longer. He’d known she would shoot Norman to save Savanna, but had felt it was his job, not hers, to take down the president.
Somehow, she’d gotten the best of him anyway.
Beatrice had handpicked the people Trace had told his side of the story to. Sergeant Franklin had been one of them. Franklin and the Feds had seen the video of Savanna’s report and the follow-up video taken by Parker. They’d seen the president holding a gun to Savanna’s head, ordering his men to set the studio on fire, and his fight with Trace. They’d forced Trace to walk them through the incident over and over, forced him to go over the details multiple times, but he was still a free man. He wasn’t sure who or what to owe that to, but he suspected Beatrice and her lawyers had some connections high on the federal food chain.
Parker wasn’t so lucky. They had a lot more questions for her. Beatrice had assured him Parker would be free by morning. Trace wanted to believe her—Beatrice had performed a few miracles already—but he didn’t. Parker had shot the president of the United States, even if it had been through Trace. Linc Norman was in deep shit, but attempted assassination was still a serious charge.
A TV droned in the corner of the waiting room, running the story about Savanna and the president. Every station had some form of the video and Savanna’s face playing in an endless loop. The only reason a bunch of news vans weren’t parked outside the hospital was because the Feds had put a lid on Savanna’s whereabouts.
Congress had called an emergency meeting behind closed doors. It was rumored the attorney general and vice president had also been behind closed doors for hours. Speculation ran rampant on all the news channels, including Savanna’s former station.
Beatrice, Cal, and Emit were at the hospital with Trace, bringing him bad coffee and offering silent reassurance. He couldn’t stop pacing. The painkillers the doctor had given him earlier had worn off and he welcomed the biting sting in his shoulder. Physical pain was easier to deal with than emotional.
Emit seemed to know every doctor who passed through and had managed to squeeze out a couple of updates on Savanna. The arm wound had been superficial, but the bullet she’d taken in the lower stomach had done some damage. The surgeons didn’t know to what extent yet, but it appeared to have nicked an intestine.
Cal stood at the window watching the parking lot below, and Beatrice read from a book on physics and DNA sequencing, every once in a while rubbing her pregnant stomach. A pink fruit smoothie sat next to her.
Blood had dried on Trace’s shirt and coat. On his hands. Beatrice had brought him a clean shirt, but even after he’d washed his hands repeatedly, he couldn’t get all the stains off his fingers, from under his nails.
This is my fault.
If he’d questioned Linc Norman sooner, if he’d exposed his corruption, if he’d kept Savanna from going to that public access station…the loop ran endlessly in his brain, keeping up with the news stories on the TV. If, if, if.
He’d been able to outthink the enemy for years now, and yet, he hadn’t guessed that the president might have helped himself to the enhancement drugs. Hadn’t guessed that Savanna might charge the man in order to save him.
He dropped into a chair and put his head in his hands. If she didn’t pull through, if she didn’t want to see him again, he might as well let the Feds handcuff him and put him back in Witcher.
&nbs
p; Which could still happen. He didn’t know what Beatrice and her lawyer had slipped in the packet she’d given to Sergeant Franklin, who’d passed it onto the Federal agents during Trace’s interrogation, but he knew this whole situation could backfire on him at any moment.
Zebulon Riceman entered the waiting room. His face was drawn, lips tight. “Any word?”
Trace shook his head. “Not since the last time you asked ten minutes ago.”
“Don’t get snippy with me, boy. I saved your goddamn, measly life back there.”
He knew how to pack a wound, that was for sure. “Thank you.”
Zeb nodded. “That’s more like it.” His countenance shifted. “She’ll be all right. She’s a fighter.”
Was he trying to convince Trace or himself?
Trace picked at his nails, raked his hands through his hair, jumped up from the chair. “I need some air.”
Out in the hallway, Zeb caught up to him. The two walked down the hall in strained silence. Zeb wanted to tell him something, but Trace wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it.
In an alcove off the hallway, Trace stopped at a bank of vending machines. “What does ON16 stand for?” he asked the aging man.
“Well, you’re too young to remember the Iran-Contra scandal back in the eighties, but look it up. You could learn a thing or two.”
“Oliver North.” Trace pretended to scan the contents of the vending machine in front of him. “Did you help him sell the weapons to Iran or were you on the other side diverting funds to the Contra rebels in Nicaragua?”
“Neither.” Zeb stuck a dollar bill in the pop machine, followed it with a second. “I may have played a part in outing him, though. You didn’t hear that from me, by the way, and if you ever tell Savanna who I really am, I’ll kill you.”
“And the number 16?”
Trace could see Zeb’s reflection in the glass. His face morphed into something akin to happiness. “Sixteen days in Paris with the most beautiful woman in the world. First and only time I ever fell in love. Nearly killed me.”
The tension in Trace’s body wouldn’t relent, but for a moment, he could focus on Zeb. “What happened?”