by Kris Norris
Russel growled then kicked the fucker open, clearing up then heading down. He didn’t need the droplets to know he was going in the right direction. He could feel it. Smell a hint of her perfume, or maybe it was just her skin. Her hair. Whatever, it was like a damn beacon calling out to him.
He took the corners hard and fast, building up speed only to stop cold. Rigs was propped up against the wall, blood drenching his shirt. He had a gun in one hand, his phone in the other.
“Fuck, Rigs.” He knelt beside him, opening his shirt, cursing at the puckered wounds on his chest. Two across his rib cage. One to his shoulder. He watched Rigs take his next labored breath—no bubbling at the puncture sights. Not gurgling breaths. Lungs should be intact. Heart probably wasn’t compromised. And no arterial bleeding or he would have died two floors ago. But the guy was losing blood at an alarming rate.
Rigs shook his head, trying to push off Russel’s hands. “I’m fine. Quinn… If they get too far ahead, the tracker won’t work.”
Tracker? He didn’t know when Rigs had slipped a tracker on her, but he loved the man for it,
“You’re not fine. You’re bleeding out. Fuck, you need surgery. Now.”
He wrapped his arm around Rigs’ waist then lifted, bracing most of his weight as he all but carried the man down the last few twists of stairs, all the while having Rigs trying to shove his phone at him, telling him to go after Quinn. “I can’t help her until I know what happened. I need to have an idea what I’m up against. If she’s alive and you’re tracking her, then she has a couple of minutes to spare. You don’t.”
Rigs groaned, trying to carry some of his own weight but failing. “I was standing there, right where you left me, when that fuckhead Springer walks in. He starts talking to Quinn about Wit Sec and how she’ll have to say goodbye to her dad. That they won’t be able to contact each other. There was something in his voice—irritated me, but…fuck. The guy’s a fed. Then, Henry’s heartbeat started soaring. He’s gasping into the mask, eyes white. Fingers desperately trying to fist around the blanket. I watch him for a few moments when I realize he’s trying to motion to Springer…”
He coughed, spraying bits of blood across his hand. “Fucker already had his Glock out. Shot me point blank then turns and pops the cop. Double tap straight to the head. Quinn grabbed the bedpan, threw it at the bastard’s head, but he was on her before she could do anything else. He starts muttering something about taking her to Thomas. He was aiming at Henry, but I got off a shot. Clipped the asshole in the arm. He stumbled back. That’s when the cop from outside came in. Told him he better clear out. That someone was bound to have heard the shots.
“They high tail it out of there. I think he drugged Quinn or hit her because he had to carry her. I managed to get up, follow but…”
“But you were a bit busy bleeding out. He say where they were going?”
“Nope, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve got their location on my phone.”
“When the fuck did you have a chance to put a tracker on Quinn?”
“At my place. Before I woke you up. Sex obviously makes her sleep like she’s in a coma. She didn’t so much as twitch. It’s skin-colored. Waterproof. Just below her hairline. I would have told you after the threat was over, but…”
“I’d punch you in the face if I didn’t want to kiss you, right now. How much distance do I have?”
Rigs shoved his phone into Russel’s other hand. “That blip is her. Signal’s good for about fifteen or twenty miles. But that’s all.”
Russel took it, glancing at it as he opened the last door then stumbled through. He started yelling for a doctor, all the while watching the pulsing dot. They were moving northwest. Had to be in a car.
Several people came running, dragging a gurney. Russel placed Rigs on top, looking down at him when he grabbed Russel’s wrist.
His pale face searched Russel’s. “I had a buddy of mine go to that bar and get her bike. Had him drop it off out front. Ninth street. Left of the doors. I was going to ride it back. Shadow you two. Keys are under the seat. Go after her.”
He kept hanging on when Russel turned to go.
Rigs coughed, again, then collapsed back. “This isn’t over as long as they’re both breathing. You know that, right?”
“Never liked that idea of letting Thomas spend fifty years in jail. Like it even less, now.”
Two doctors swarmed the scene, yanking Rigs’ hand free then barking out orders for IVs and chest X-rays. Russel pushed down the flutter in his stomach. Fuck, Rigs had better make it, then he ran toward the exit, calling Sam as he went.
“I’m five minutes out. Talk to me, Ice.”
Russel slipped in an earpiece as he continued toward the big doors at the end of the hall. “It’s Springer. He killed one of the cops and caught Rigs twice in the chest. Once in the shoulder. Stubborn bastard nearly got all the way down to the first floor before I found him in the stairwell. Thankfully, one of us was thinking with the right head. He put a tracker on Quinn. They’re heading northwest. Along the water. I’ve got her bike. I’ll patch you into the map.”
He tapped on the screen, busting through the doors then heading left. Her motorcycle was next to a planter, helmet bungeed to the seat. He pulled it over his head, then felt for the keys, shoving them in the ignition as he swung his leg over. He hit the button, smiling at the growl of the engine.
“Okay, Ice. I’ve got it. On my way.”
“Sam.”
Nothing but silence. Sam knew what was coming.
“Rigs said Thomas was with them. This ends. Permanently.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
God, her head hurt. Every little movement sent a pulse of pain shooting across her temples. It felt worse than when she’d woken up with a hangover after having Russel drive her…
Russel!
Quinn inhaled, collapsing back on the hard, cold surface when she tried to open her eyes. The scenery washed across her vision—dull shapes entrenched in deep shadows. There was a steady hum beneath her, interrupted by the occasion squeak and groan. She wasn’t sure where she was, but she remembered seeing Special Agent Springer walk in. Listening to him talk about the Wit Sec program. Then, her father’s heart rate had gotten all jumpy, and the small bit of color he’d had in his cheeks had blanched out.
That’s when everything had happened at once. Springer had calmly pulled his gun and shot Rigs while the man was trying to move in front of her as he’d reached for his own weapon. She wasn’t sure how Rigs had clued in, but he’d been tossed across the room before collapsing onto the floor. The cop by the window had yelled at Springer to freeze, while drawing his pistol, but it was too late. Springer simply turned and capped him in the head while the man was still aiming.
She remembered the sound. The dull pops then the crack of the young man’s head snapping back, hitting the window before he fell forward. He crashed to the floor, the loud thumb reverberating through her shoes.
She’d reacted. Grabbed the bedpan and launched it at Springer’s head, but he’d fired some kind of dart at her. Hit in her the shoulder. She vaguely remembered Rigs getting off a shot—hitting Springer in the arm—before he’d passed out on the floor.
Tears burned her eyes. He was dead. He had to be. Blood had splattered everywhere. And he’d been so…still. Pale and unmoving and looking exactly like she’d imagined that man from the café looking. Limbs loose against the floor. Eyes closed. Skin already an eerie shade of white.
That was her last clear image, until now.
She blinked. She was lying in the dark, hard angles all around her. There was a hint of muted red light off to her right, reflecting an odd glow. She watched the shadows moving beyond the blurry surface for a few minutes before everything shifted into place.
Shit. She was in the trunk of a car, hands and feet bound in front of her. They hadn’t put anything in her mouth, not that she could talk. Scream for help. It took every ounce of strength just to open her
eyes—look around. She managed to wiggle her fingers just enough to know they still worked before passing out, again.
When she woke the second time, the scenery stabilized. She took a few breaths, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. There were what looked like tools shoved in one corner, a set of jumper cables wrapped around her legs. A bit of light filtered in through the crack where the hood closed, the steady drone of the tires roaring in the background.
But beneath that were mumbled voices, echoing through the vents next to the backseat. It took her a few moments to place them. Springer and Thomas.
She should have guessed. That’s what her father had been trying to tell her. That Springer was on the take. That must have been Thomas’ plan all along. Why he didn’t put up a fight. Hadn’t looked remotely scared when Springer had taken him away in handcuffs the previous night. They’d planned it together.
Quinn took stock. She doubted she’d be able to fight both men, but that didn’t mean she was helpless. If she could crack one of the lights, there was a chance they’d pass a cop—get pulled over. It was a long shot, but at the moment, it was all she had.
She concentrated on moving—reaching out to grab whatever was rattling against the trunk’s wall. It made a metallic clang every time the car went over a bump, knocking Quinn’s head against the hard edges. She fought against the nausea, finally managing to wrap her fingers around the handle.
A screwdriver. Maybe things weren’t quite as bleak as she’d thought.
Served the fuckers right. If they’d had half a brain between them, they would have tied her hands behind her back. Given her more of that drug Springer had used. Instead, they’d simply dumped her in the trunk and made a half-assed attempt to incapacitate her. If nothing else, she’d be able to shove the slotted end into one of their guts. Watch the asshole’s eyes widen in surprise.
Yeah, she could get behind that. They’d still kill her, but she might take one of them with her. She’d read somewhere that stomach wounds were an excruciating way to die. They were agonizingly slow. Just what the bastards deserved.
First, she used the tool to break the zip straps around her ankles. She tried to do her wrists, but all it did was gouge her skin, cut into her flesh. So, she concentrated on the light.
It took her a while to steady her hands—gain enough motor control to slip the tip between the thin gaps in the metal and thrust it against the plastic covers. But with a little patience, and a shit load of luck, she was able to punch a hole in the right side.
A swirl of fresh air breezed over her, and she took a minute to breathe it in. It carried traces of exhaust and the salty scent of brine, but she didn’t care. It smelled like freedom.
She’d come so close. So close to actually being free. Starting a life with Russel. Even if Thomas had gotten off, she’d known Russel could handle the constant threat. Could deal with anything the creep sent their way. She only wished she’d told him she loved him. Face to face, without his buddies looking on. Allowed him to search her eyes—see her honesty.
More tears burned her eyes, but she wasn’t sad. She was angry. After all she’d endured, she deserved a chance, and there was no way she was going to give up. Russel wouldn’t. He’d find a way to bust out. Come back to her. She knew he would. Which meant working harder. Maybe if she could break enough of the light to see better, she could wedge the screwdriver under the latch and jimmy it open.
She worked at the plastic, chipping off bits until over half the covering was gone. Black asphalt stretched out behind her with the occasional glimpse of the ocean. The water was on the right side, which meant they were heading north. Probably to an industrial district. Or further up to one of the parks—somewhere they could dispose of a body without witnesses.
Except for the part where she was going to pop open this damn trunk and jump out. She could run with her hands bound, and she’d been tossed enough times in jujitsu to know how to roll. This toss would be harder and faster, but it was essentially the same basics. Tuck, lift her head enough to avoid contact, and keep moving to absorb the impact. Then run like hell.
Quinn used her feet to push up on the trunk until she could wedge the tip under the latch. A few hard twists and it gave. Lifting the lid slightly, she held her breath, gripping the edge with her bound hands. She’d wait until they were close to a park or a subdivision, then launch herself out.
The car wove along the street, nothing but warehouses and the steady rise of fall of the waves against the breaker walls. If they stopped before she jumped out, she’d never stand a chance. They’d be on her before she could do more than stumble to her feet and take a few steps. It had to happen, now. To hell with waiting for a better opportunity. Was the car slowing down?
She took a deep breath, readied herself then froze. Because what she saw defined logic. And it made her heart swell with hope.
* * * *
Russel revved the engine, twisted the throttle and took off. It had been a couple of years since he’d ridden a bike. But he’d taken advanced driving courses during his training—all Special Forces soldiers did—and there wasn’t a vehicle he couldn’t handle. Couldn’t wrestle into submission.
He started off easy, going through the gears as he reacquainted himself with the feel of the machine beneath him. The rumble of power between his legs. He took a few sweeping turns, let his muscles regain the sensory memory of leaning into the corners. Of being one with the bike.
Two minutes in, and he was flying. Shifting up and down, working the gears to get the most thrust, as he wove through traffic, passing on the inside, outside. Hell, he jumped a curb and shot across a crosswalk when the road ahead got congested.
He didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, using the tools he’d learned to stay ahead of any possible pitfalls. He’d check one direction, mentally note if there were any obstacles, then glance in the other, making the turn without wasting time checking, again.
He didn’t have any time. They must have jumped on the freeway. The dot was pulling ahead, sitting at the edge of the zone Rigs had mentioned. If Russel let them disappear, he might never find Quinn, again. Might have to spend the rest of his life knowing he’d failed her. Stare down at her dead body when it finally surfaced—if it ever did. Or maybe he’d have to live never knowing. Always holding out hope for the woman he loved but would never see, again. Never touch or kiss.
No. Not happening. He’d told himself repeatedly that she was his mission, and he didn’t fail those. He’d broken ranks, had gotten kicked out, but he’d never let his brothers down. Never left them behind when he’d had even a remote chance of bringing them back.
And Quinn wasn’t just any teammate. She was the teammate. His. The other half of his soul. The part of him he’d thought he’d lost when he’d stared down at the words scribbled across his discharge papers. One look, one smile, and he felt whole. Completely content.
He leaned down closer. Reduced his friction just enough to edge the bike faster. He was already screaming along the road, passing everything in a blur of color. Cars. Trucks. They all disappeared behind him. Forgotten. He hit the freeway and really opened her up. The revs whined, the needle pegged over to the right. He didn’t care. He’d buy Quinn a new bike. A hundred new ones if it meant he got to her before they’d hurt her. Taken her past the point he’d be able to help. What he’d told her was true. All his training. His years stitching soldiers up under fire. Carrying them across hostile territory. Keeping them from bleeding out. But he couldn’t raise the dead.
Images filled his mind. Quinn bleeding. Quinn lying in a pool of her own blood. Quinn limp and lifeless in his arms, those beautiful green eyes dull and unseeing. There’d be no heartbeat beneath his palm. No warm skin against his flesh. Just icy death.
Fuck that.
He glanced at the phone. He’d wedged it inside the instruments, half blocking the speed and tach. But he didn’t care. He wasn’t looking at the instruments. He was driving by feel. By
the hum of the engine, the whine of the transmission. It didn’t matter how fast his was going, only that he needed to go faster. Close the gap more.
His earpiece buzzed. Sam.
“Looks like they’re heading for the warehouse district. I’ll cut over—try to get ahead of them.”
“Roger.”
He couldn’t manage more than a single word. He was too focused. Too obsessed at watching the dot slowly move closer. On milking every possible ounce of speed out of the motorcycle. On catching up.
The dot veered left, and so did he. Down the exit ramp, across the street and into an alley. A park loomed up on his right. He hit the curb, hopped a small planter then took the paved trail through the center. A few joggers jumped out of his way, shaking fists at him as he flew past, kicking up stones and dirt.
He kept going, kept pushing. An older woman appeared in front of him, and he shoved the bike into a slide. Sparks crackled around him before he was up, again, and popping out the other side. He’d cut the distance in half, Quinn’s beacon drawing him forward.
He hedged his bet that Sam was right and took another shortcut, dodging through a few open warehouses then rejoining the route. That got him closer by half, again. Just a few more minutes, a few more jumps and slides and skids and—yes. Red tail lights up ahead.
That was the car. Had to be. And, if they were still driving, it meant he hadn’t lost her, yet. Hadn’t failed.
He followed behind, slowly gaining on them. He didn’t want to let them pull away, but he couldn’t get too close without them making him. And, without knowing where she was in the car, he couldn’t anticipate which tactic to use. He could probably force them off the road, but the impact could hurt Quinn, or worse.
He could follow until they either pulled over or arrived where they were heading. But, if she was medically compromised, she might bleed to death before he reached her. He could shoot out a tire, but if the driver couldn’t handle the sudden shift in balance, he’d be back to crashing the car. And that was assuming they wouldn’t just turn around and shoot her.