Blindsided

  The bottom dropped out of Scott’s stomach. What the hell was going on?

  “It was the only way I could think of to force your hand,” Alan said, his voice tight. “I’m trying to save you from yourself.”

  “Well, congratulations,” she said, her harsh laugh cutting the air. “You probably just killed me.”

  Alan grimaced and punched the gas, leaving her and Scott in a cloud of smoke as he peeled away, tires squealing.

  “What the fuck just happened?” Scott asked.

  Tremors wracked her body. Would Alan really go to such extremes to convince her not to go with Scott? “He said he responded to a reward post for any information on our location and gave them the details of our meeting with the plane. Supposedly, we’re worth a hundred bitcoin—about a hundred thousand dollars, last I checked. Each.”

  Scott closed his eyes for a second and let out a deep breath before fixing his gaze on hers. “Do you believe him?”

  “I don’t know.” The strap on her tote bag cut a deep groove in her shoulder, and she shifted to ease the burden. “I’d like to think he was bluffing, trying to scare me into leaving, but I can’t be sure.”

  “Shit. Any idea how long ago he gave us up?” Scott grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the houses.

  Valerie sighed. “At Taco Tavern, after we kissed.” Ninety minutes ago, when she’d been feeling on top of the world.

  He was silent until they reached the relative shelter and darkness in the shadow of the hangar behind the second-to-last house on the runway. So far there was no sign of danger.

  “I can’t let Caitlyn fly into a possible trap without warning,” Scott said. “If she waves off and we get ambushed…” He squeezed her fingers. “Maybe you should—”

  “Don’t even say it. I’m not leaving without you.” She squinted into the moonlit surroundings and shuddered. Was anyone out there waiting to pounce? “We can’t abandon the pilot, and if we don’t get on that plane, we’re back to square one.”

  “If Alan’s new friends show up, we might not get on that plane either way.”

  “I’m staying.”

  His lips flattened, but he nodded. “Okay.”

  They crouched, every nerve on alert, time passing as if stuck in slow motion.

  Fifteen minutes later, the sound of an engine rumbled through the wispy clouds obscuring the moon. The plane’s lights winked green and red as it descended, far too cheerful for the occasion.

  The second the wheels touched, Scott pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go.”

  A gunshot blistered the air as they ran toward the runway. Another deadly missile whizzed overhead, and he dove into the rough grass, taking her to the ground with him. She landed on her hip with a bone-jarring thud. He rolled them both face down and shielded her torso and head with his body.

  Raising his flashlight, he signaled the pilot, but she didn’t veer off track, didn’t immediately take off without them. Instead, she taxied to a stop about half a football field away, propellers running, the plane’s tail number obscured by something that looked like mud.

  Only fifty yards, yet so far.

  The wooden fence behind them sprayed splinters as another loud crack shattered the night. Two more bullets followed. Too close.

  “Fuck.” Scott shifted his weight to her left, keeping himself between her and the gunfire. “I guess Alan really did screw us.”

  Later, she’d have to deal with the horror of her old friend’s betrayal. First, she had to stay alive.

  More shots tore through the darkness, this time coming from the far side of the plane. Was someone inside the plane shooting back?

  The quiet neighborhood had turned into a war zone. Please don’t let anyone get hurt. She might not have started this, but she didn’t want more innocent people to die in the fight with her boss.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and focused on Scott’s warm body pressing hers into the ground. Fear raced up her breastbone like a horde of marching ants and lodged in her throat.

  The gunfire paused, and she waited, holding her breath for the next round.

  Nothing. Seconds ticked by into minutes as the chill bled through her jeans. Scott didn’t move. Valerie’s ears rang. The drone of the propellers increased as her hearing recovered.

  Scott lifted his head and slid off her onto the ground. “You okay?” he asked, his breath warm on her neck, voice faint.

  She sucked in a lungful of air, the world spinning as if she’d just stepped off a carousel. “I think so.”

  “Stay down.” He pushed to his knees, leaving her cold, and crouched on the balls of his feet. Body still, he scanned their surroundings and waited.

  Valerie’s pulse throbbed in her throat. Were the gunmen still out there? Her brain buzzed like angry bees and her limbs started to shake. Oh. My. God. She’d like to say she’d never been so scared, but the incident with the FBI agents was far too fresh in her memory.

  Still, she’d be happy to never experience live gunfire again. How was Scott so calm? Had being in war made him immune to the fear? Helpful for the current situation, but sad. People all over the world dealt with violence every day. She knew that. But no one should have to.

  Something flashed from the doorway of the plane.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “A signal.”

  “All clear?” A girl could hope.

  “Proceed with caution. You ready to run?” he asked.

  No. “Yes.”

  The nearly full moon shone on his face and illuminated his “get up” gesture. “Get on your feet but stay down and behind me.”

  She did as instructed and waited on wobbly legs.

  He reached back and gripped her hand, scanning their surroundings for several seconds before tugging her to standing. “Go.”

  Valerie held on with everything she had and raced for the tiny door. Halfway, Scott stumbled, nearly bringing them both down, but he recovered and pulled her in his wake. Across the flat plain, red and blue lights flashed from the vicinity of the strip mall. Perfect. More men with guns who were convinced she and Scott had killed two of their own.

  The small door at the rear of the plane opened and a pretty woman wearing a tan shirt embroidered with BREVARD CHARTERS waved them forward. Scott put on the brakes and stepped aside to usher Valerie in ahead of him.

  “Hey, Caitlyn,” he said with an apologetic smile. “Sorry for bringing the heat.”

  “Sit down and strap in,” the woman said with a clipped nod. “We need to get the hell out of here.”

  Valerie dropped into one of the plush seats facing the cockpit, and Scott sat across a small table from her, his face pale. Before they even had their seatbelts latched, the woman had closed the hatch and launched herself into the pilot’s chair. Within seconds, they were on the move.

  Out the window, police cars raced up the main road toward Aviation Circle.

  Fear pricked at Valerie’s arms, leaving her as shaky as a near miss in traffic on the Beltway. After several agonizing seconds, the nose of the plane lifted, straining against gravity as the back wheels clung stubbornly to the ground. She gripped the armrests so hard her knuckles ached. What if the police drove right out in front of them before they were airborne?

  With a swoop that made her stomach dive, they were up, soaring over the flashing strobes of the cop cars, over the Aviation Circle streetlamps lined up like fence posts, over the houses where people had spilled into their backyards and onto front sidewalks.

  Valerie finally let out the breath she’d been holding. “I’m sorry. I never should have trusted him.”

  “We didn’t have much choice. And, hey,” Scott waved to indicate the inside of the plane, “we made it.”

  She chewed on a fingernail until she realized what she was doing and dropped her hands into her lap. “You’ve worked with her before?” she asked, desperate for a distraction as she gestured toward the pilot. Despite the woman’s no-frills ponytail and makeup-free skin covered in freckles,
her auburn hair framed an elegant face and startling green eyes. Next to her, Valerie was about as appealing as a stick.

  “She helped us out on an op in St. Isidore.” He glanced down and mumbled, “The one I mentioned earlier.”

  She scrambled to think back to their conversation in the parking lot. Before the kiss. He had mentioned something about killing a man on a Caribbean island to protect his teammates. “Oh.” She knew so little about his life. Yes, he’d been a Marine sniper, he worked at Steele, he’d killed his dad…

  He’d watched her for weeks. He knew everything important about her.

  All she had on him were the broad strokes. When it came to the day-to-day stuff—what kind of food he liked, where he lived, what he did for fun, who his friends were, his hobbies—she had no idea.

  Across the table, he grimaced and went still except for the muscle in his jaw.

  “You okay?”

  “Not sure,” he said, holding out his left hand, palm up.

  It was covered in blood.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Somewhere over Texas

  Tuesday, 7:15 p.m.

  SCOTT STARED AT HIS HAND. The sight of blood on his left thigh stirred a strong sense of déjà vu. And, suddenly, pain.

  “Let me see,” Valerie said, launching out of her chair, brow furrowed, voice steady. “Were you shot?” Okay, maybe not steady, but strong.

  He gritted his teeth and focused on breathing as he reapplied pressure to the wound. Something hard dug into his hand. It felt too large for a bullet. “I don’t think so.”

  Frowning, she scanned the walls and then dashed to the back of the plane, returning a second later with a red plastic first-aid kit about the size of a small briefcase. She set it on the floor and kneeled in the aisle next to him.

  “Turn your chair.”

  He swiveled to his right. “I can do this. I had self-aid and buddy care training in the Marines.” And Lord knew he’d “cleaned up” his mom enough times.

  “But I’m here, so you don’t have to.” Valerie snagged a pair of blunt-tipped scissors from the kit. “Where’s the wound?”

  “Outer side.”

  “Probably best to cut your shorts than try to remove them.”

  Cut his shorts.

  To expose his leg.

  This wasn’t how he’d imagined revealing his scars. If she stripped naked first, he could at least pretend they were having fun. Like last night. Maybe he should have dropped trou then. Would seeing the ugly remains of his injury have stopped her from going down on him?

  With a gentle tug to separate the blood-soaked fabric from his skin, she brought him back to reality as she began snipping through the thick cotton at the outside of his knee, her beautiful face set in concentration. As distractions went, she was top notch.

  Working carefully but quickly, she made cuts from knee to hip that flanked his hand. The cloth fell away on each side, revealing streaks of blood and—

  Valerie gasped and flinched, sitting back on her heels. “Is this…?” Her gaze snagged on the tangle of damaged skin.

  Like starbursts, the thick, shiny lines radiated out from his groin, arcing across the left side of his pelvis almost to his waist, and snaking down the front and inside of his thigh. As if some kid had gone to town with the modeling clay, alternately forming and smashing until he got bored and left behind an unrecognizable mess. The scars had faded to a pale pink over the last two years, but they were still ugly as hell.

  “That’s old,” he said, his voice flat.

  She swallowed hard and nodded, visibly shaking herself to get back on track. Gesturing to his hand, she asked, “You ready?”

  With a nod, he peeled the fabric back to reveal the rest of his leg and the network of old wreckage that framed a half-inch-thick spike of wood lodged in his upper quadriceps.

  “Jesus.”

  The blood had slowed to a trickle, but if she removed the splinter from hell, that could change. Still, it wasn’t like he could go to a hospital. Not with his face plastered all over the news. And he was several hours of flight time from any of Steele’s other security contractors, all of whom were former Air Force pararescuemen, aka PJs—badass paramedics who rescued injured service members from behind enemy lines.

  Valerie’s face lost its color.

  “You want me to do it?” he asked.

  She shook her head decisively. “No.” Busying herself with the first-aid supplies, she said, “I wish I had something to help with the pain. I find it helps to focus on a soothing or happy image.”

  He scoffed. Thanks to his dad, he was an expert at working through the pain, but where had she learned? “I can handle it.”

  She bit her lower lip and said, “Alcohol,” as she swabbed the wound with stinging liquid.

  He clenched his teeth and focused on her face, on images of her kneeling before him for a completely different reason, on the remembered feel of her in his embrace just hours before, her soft lips on his, eager tongues caressing and exploring—

  White-hot fire seared his thigh and he hissed, jerking back in his seat.

  “Sorry,” Valerie said, holding up a bloody chunk of wood with tweezers in one hand as she pressed gauze onto the inflamed injury with the other. “Looks like a piece of fence.”

  Better than a bullet, but Jesus Christ. The wooden missile wasn’t that big, and it still hurt like a son of a bitch coming out. He released a long breath as the pain returned to a manageable throb.

  Valerie cleaned the wound again and removed several smaller splinters. She packed the area with antibiotic ointment and gauze, holding it all in place with medical tape circling his leg.

  “You should probably keep pressure on that for a while,” she said. “And maybe lie down to elevate your leg.”

  Maybe she could join him. “Thank you,” he said, when she finally met his gaze. “You did good.”

  Her smile was weak. “So did you.” She offered him a large wet wipe. “Do you want me to clean you up?”

  He grabbed the cloth. “I’ll do it.” As much as he craved her touch, he wasn’t ready for her to fully explore his scars.

  She watched for a moment, and then moved to restore the first-aid kit, busying herself as he lifted the torn material above his wound to clean near his groin.

  Ten minutes later, he was spread out on the short love seat across the aisle with a wool cargo blanket tucked under his left butt cheek and thigh, and another blanket covering him from shoulder to toes. His right foot rested on the floor, and his left foot dangled over the armrest. A chemical ice pack balanced on his bandages.

  Valerie had strapped into her seat at the table after retrieving two water bottles from a cooler in the back. “Do you need anything else?” she asked over the rumble of the engines, drawing her dark brows together over a slight frown.

  You. Not that he was in any position to get busy now, even if she could look past his scars. He shook his head.

  After several minutes of silence, she cleared her throat and asked, “How did you get injured?”

  “Shrapnel from an IED blast. An improvised explosive device,” he clarified. “In Afghanistan two years ago. The guy walking ahead of me lost both legs, his family jewels, and half an arm. Thanks to him, I didn’t lose anything.” His voice had turned rough and he pressed a little harder on the ice pack.

  Her lips gathered in sorrow. Or maybe pity. “I’m sorry. For both of you.”

  Scott nodded and stared at strip of overhead lighting. Poor, fucking Donaldson had gone home to his new wife as half a man with a lot of pain and hardship ahead, and Scott—who had no wife, no girlfriend—had gotten off easy. Well, maybe not easy, but with nothing a year of surgeries, drugs, and physical therapy couldn’t mostly fix. In return, he’d renewed his bond with his mother when she dropped everything to care for him, and he’d found the start of a new brotherhood in Steele Security after he was back in fighting shape.

  For the first time in his life, until this week, he’d begun t
o think his luck had changed.

  Their flight was twenty minutes out from a private landing strip in Loudon County, Virginia when Scott sat up from the love seat with a wince, muttered “Mother fucker,” and rubbed the sleep from his face. He kept his right leg outstretched, blocking the aisle, and leaned back against the cushions.

  Only after downing half of his water bottle and a couple of ibuprofen did he look Valerie’s way, his ocean-blue eyes bloodshot, but alert. “Hey.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine.” His chin rose a notch as if daring her to contradict him. “Did you get any sleep?”

  “A few hours. The pilot said we’re going to land soon.”

  “Good.” He glanced at his watch. “Oh one hundred. Jesus, I’m not even sure I know what day it is anymore.”

  “No kidding. And it’s two a.m.”

  “Right. I forgot about the time change.” After fiddling with the oversized dial on his wrist, he scowled at his ruined shorts for a minute and then stood. “I need to get into clean pants before we land.”

  Using the rear seats for support, he retrieved a pair of charcoal hiking pants that had zippers around the knees to convert to shorts and tossed them onto the small sofa. Now that they were back in Virginia, he’d need the long pants.

  And they’d both need jackets. She shivered just thinking about the cold rain outside.

  He slid onto the love seat and wiped sweat from his forehead.

  “You alright?”

  “I think we should split up,” he said, his voice strained, eyes on his hands.

  Her jaw dropped. “Why?”

  Without meeting her wide-eyed gaze, he leaned across the aisle and took the scissors from the first aid kit she’d brought back to the empty seat. “When I wasn’t injured, I added some value to this partnership.” He lifted the hem of his black Cage the Elephant shirt to get an angle on the waistband of his shorts and dazzled her with the view of his sculpted abs. “Now, I’ll just hold you back.”