by Kris Norris
Then, everything changed because bits of the rear right light were breaking off and bouncing along the ground. They scattered across the pavement, like tiny spotlights that winked at him when they caught the light. More chunks, each one bigger than the last until a hole appeared. He couldn’t see in but there was something sticking out. Something metallic that was glinting off the last of the sunlight as it started to dip below the surface of the water—flashing at him every time it poked through.
Shit. They’d put her in the trunk. It was the only explanation. The only way the plastic was slowly disappearing. She was conscious and trying to break the light—maybe hoping she’d get lucky. Have a cop see it and pull the bastards over. Russel edged closer, trying to stay in the driver’s blind spot when the entire trunk cracked open. The lid bounced on the hinges, lifting farther up with every bump. The car went around a bit of a corner, and Russel sped up, not wanting to lose a second of it in his sights. He banked left, and his heart stopped. Just stopped.
She was peeking out through the opening, looking as if she was going to jump. Actually, jump out of a moving vehicle. Then, her gaze landed on him, and damn if she didn’t smile. Whether she recognized his silhouette or her bike he didn’t know. But she knew it was him. He was sure. The way her eyes rounded, then her mouth lifted—it wasn’t just relief. It was joy. Joy and hope and, damn it, love—for him.
Was the car slowing down?
They were in an industrial area. Warehouses and shops. Was this their end game? Where they’d planned on leaving her body?
He cranked the throttle. This was ending. Now.
The bike roared, and he shot forward, quickly closing the distance. He thought he saw two heads in the front, but the light was fading and the seat rests were hiding most of his view. Then, the passenger window opened, and an arm appeared—a barrel pointed his way. He deked left as shots flew past. But he was streamlined, staying too far over for the asshole to clip him. Quinn was still watching him, bouncing roughly as the car hit every bump. Every damn pothole. She cracked her head against the trunk, but she didn’t lose focus. Didn’t try to protect herself. She stayed vigilant, watching him, probably still looking for an opportunity to leap out.
She’d kill herself at these speeds, not that she seemed to care. They rounded another curve, and she opened the trunk more, placed on leg on the edge before the driver punched it. The car leaped ahead, knocking her into the trunk then backwards. He lost sight of her as the trunk snapped shut.
Another few hits, and they might end up killing her.
Anger burned beneath his skin. He wasn’t going to lose her. He’d ram the damn car. Throw himself on top or snatch her out. Anything but watch her die.
He hit the throttle, picking up speed, not worrying about if the fuckers could see him or not, when tires squealed ahead of him and Bridgette’s Jeep shot out from a small side street. Or alleyway. Fuck, it looked like a damn bike path, not even big enough for the vehicle. But there it was, fish tailing on the pavement, skidding until it was barreling straight at the other vehicle. Sam wasn’t holding back. He had the Jeep pegged at some insane speed, heading directly at Thomas and Springer.
This wasn’t a game of chicken. It was a damn head on collision in the making. Russel knew Sam wouldn’t back down, wouldn’t flinch. He’d take those men out or die trying. Russel backed off enough he’d be clear of the wreckage. He couldn’t help Quinn, drag Sam’s ass out of a burning vehicle if he got caught up in the carnage.
Whoever was driving—Russel was pretty damn sure it was that mother fucker Thomas—swerved at the last second, hit the curb, rode up and through the barrier, then disappeared over the edge. Water exploded into the air, raining down on the pavement as the car torpedoed into the ocean twenty feet out from the break wall.
Russel watched it all happen in slow motion. Playing out like every damn mission he’d been on over the past fifteen years. Saw the trunk jerk open, Quinn’s head pop up as she tried to climb out, only to get bounced back inside as the car tipped forward. He heard the horn blast through the relative silence, dying off when it hit the water, sinking beneath the inky surface. Even the droplets hovered in the air, like tiny specks of glass glinting in the setting sun, as the scene paused…
Then, it came rushing back. The car cutting through the water, the sound of metal twisting, glass breaking. He aimed at the spot where they’d gone over, with every intention of driving the bike in after them. Save the few precious seconds it would take to stop it, jump off, then dive in. He’d survive the impact, no question.
But, just as he went to gun it, give himself an extra boost of speed, Sam scrambled over the edge, paused to take a couple of long, deep breaths, then dove in.
Russel screeched to a halt at the lip of the curb. He dropped the bike, ignoring the metallic scrape as it hit the cement, and ran to the edge. White-tipped waves curled in toward the land, an expanding ring of ripples the only proof the car had impacted the surface. A faint glow penetrated the darkness—the headlights mapping out the path of the vehicle toward the bottom.
He mentally counted the seconds since the car had struck the surface. Sam, Russel, Hank and the others—they could hold their breath for a couple of minutes while carrying out an op. Maybe three if they were still. But civilians… They didn’t practice prolonged dives. How to regulate their movement to use the least amount of oxygen—give themselves a few more moments of air. And, if Quinn had hit her head… Been knocked unconscious… She’d have breathed in the water the moment it filled the trunk.
Forty-five seconds.
It was taking too long. The water was cold. Even in the summer, people died of exposure in the Pacific. Couple that with the growing darkness and having to navigate the sinking car—Sam might not be able to get her out.
Fifty-five seconds.
He’d wait ten more, then he was going in.
The waves crashed against the wall, spraying a soaking mist into the air, as Russel ticked off the last five seconds. Surely, Sam would be topside, by now, if he’d been able to get Quinn out.
Russel started a series of deep breaths. He needed to oxygenate his lungs—fill them as much as he could. Maximize the amount of time he could stay submersed. The cold would slow his heart rate, but it might not be enough.
He focused on the last hint of light, calculating his impact point—the one that would get him the closest to the sinking vehicle—when Sam crested the water, gulping in air. Quinn was limp at his side, eyes closed, arms dragging behind them. Sam swam for the edge, boosting Quinn from below as Russel grabbed her arms and lifted her clear of the wall. Five steps and he had her on the ground, head tilted back, ear pressed to her mouth, fingers along her carotid.
No whisper of breath against his cheek. No strum of blood beneath his hand.
He gave her a couple deep breaths, watching her chest to see it rise, then started chest compressions. “Sam.”
His buddy dropped down beside him, water dripping off him and onto the pavement. “The damn trunk got jammed. I had to pry the fucker open with my knife. I don’t know if she hit her head or couldn’t hold her breath that long. She was limp when I finally got in.”
Russel nodded, counting out each push. “When I tell you, position her head and give her two deep breaths. Just two.”
Sam moved into position, bending over and breathing into her cold, pale mouth when Russel called it out.
Nothing.
He resumed the compressions, still keeping a running clock in his head. “Water’s cold. That’s good. Less chance of her sustaining any brain damage. You were only down there a minute. Pretty fucking fast for having to jimmy that damn trunk. Again, Sam.”
Sam followed Russel’s lead, breathing every time the man motioned to him. Two minutes turned into four. Then five.
Russel kept working. “Come on, sweetheart. Just one breath. That’s all I need. You’re stronger than this.”
Sam bent low, again, giving
another two breaths, when she coughed.
“Rolling her.”
Russel tipped her over, keeping her head aligned with her spine as she coughed and heaved, emptying everything in her stomach onto the asphalt. It took her a minute to get it all up before she was gasping in air, her arms and legs moving in an effort to sit up.
He checked her mouth, ensured it was clear, then rolled her back, waiting to see if she’d stay conscious, ready to do whatever it took to keep her alive.
She blinked a few times then kept her eyes open, staring up at them. She squinted then smiled. “You came.”
Russel did a quick body sweep, checking her reflexes, then pulled her into his chest, holding the back of her head with one hand and her waist with the other. “Of course, I came. Can’t get rid of me that easily.”
“How?”
“I’ll explain everything, later. Just…let me hold you.”
She wrapped her arms weakly around him. “Is it over?”
Russel looked up at Sam. The guy nodded.
“It’s over. Thomas can’t hurt you ever, again.”
She nodded, her fingers fisting around his shirt. “Good. Bastard deserved far worse, but I’ll take what I can get.”
“You scared another ten years off my life, tonight. Firefights. HALOs. Getting pinned down by fifty cal rounds. Nothing came close to how I felt when that car went over the edge. When Sam dragged you up. Promise me you won’t ever do that to me, again.”
Quinn pulled back enough to stare up at him. She placed a small icy hand on his chin, her thumb stroking his cheek. “Sounds like you might need to stick around to make sure I stay out of trouble.”
“I’m not sure merely being by your side is enough. I’ll have to take more drastic measures.”
Her smile flourished. “Is that so? Like what?”
“Like legally binding you to me. Maybe then, I can tame that stubborn streak of yours.”
“Unlikely. But it’s worth a shot.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Was there a question?”
He laughed. “Damn, I love you. So, what do you say, Harlequin? Marry me?”
Quinn’s face lit up. “I love you, too. And, yes, after you tell me one more thing.”
“Anything. What do you want to know?”
“What’s my new last name?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I swear, Ice, if you don’t help me get out of this bed and out of this hospital, I will blow up your damn truck.”
Russel chuckled as he eyed Rigs from the end of the bed, casually flipping through the man’s chart. The jackass had come dangerously close to dying, a fact he seemed more than willing to ignore.
Russel placed the clipboard back on the foot rail. “Do you know how much blood you lost? Three liters. Most people are dead by that time.”
Rigs shrugged. “We both know I’m not most people.”
Russel continued. “And then, there’s the tissue damage from those bullets ricocheting around inside you. Not to mention a couple of broken ribs. Bitch all you want, but you won’t be blowing up anything for a while longer.”
Rigs glared at him. “You willing to put that Tacoma of yours at risk? I know how much you love that truck.”
“But he loves you more.” Quinn ambled up beside Russel, planting a kiss on his cheek, a brown bag in her hand. “You guys think you’re all so tough. But it’s a regular bromance in here.”
Rigs grunted. “If that’s chick-speak for wanting to kill one of your best buddies, then, hell yeah.”
She merely shook her head then held up the bag. “I brought you a burger. And fries.”
Rigs arched a brow. “Pickles?”
“Extra. Told them to load up on the ketchup, too. It’s practically drowning the meat.”
He motioned with his fingers, rustling the paper as he opened the sandwich. “Fine. I won’t blow up the new bike jackass got you. But his truck is still on the line if I don’t see some pants by the time I finish this burger.”
“Is he still bitching about his damn pants? You’d think he’d be kicking back, enjoying all those free sponge baths.”
Russel grinned as Hank walked through the door, stopping next to him.
Rigs gave the man a death stare. “You might not want to get too cocky. You’ve got even more fun things I could wire up.”
Hank laughed. “You wouldn’t want to cripple your own company, would ya, Rigs?”
Russel looked from Montana over to Rigs then back. “You got Rigs to sign up? Was the devil involved? Someone have to hand over a golden fiddle?”
“That’s right, Ice. Keep joking, and I might forget to tell you where I put your tracker.”
Quinn giggled beside him, pursing her lips when he looked at her. She smiled then turned back to Rigs, giggling, again. She hadn’t been overly amused when she’d discovered her tracker, even if it had saved her life. She’d had Russel check every square inch of her skin for more—he’d enjoyed that part. Had been tempted to pretend to find one just so he could do it all over, again.
Hank crossed his arms over his chest. “So, Harlequin. How’s your dad?”
Quinn had decided to go back to her full name. Had said that, with the threat over, she could honor her mother without worrying about being pegged as a crime heiress. Not that she cared, anymore. She also said it went well with Foster.
Russel’s chest squeezed tight. He still couldn’t believe she’d said yes. It had been insanely quick. He knew it. He just didn’t care because the proof of her love was in every smile. Every touch. Plan for the worst. Hope for the best, and this was definitely the best.
Her smile faded for a moment before she sighed. “He left with a contingency of US Marshals last night. From what I heard, he’s being extremely cooperative. Bridgette says they’ll have him in a variety of safe houses until the trial, which won’t be for several months at the earliest. I guess there’s a lot of files to go through. Connections to make. And, with Thomas gone, my family’s empire pretty much imploded.”
“You okay with all of that?”
“Still a little shell-shocked but…” She looked up at Russel, and the world dimmed as her face glowed. “I’ve got all I need right here.”
“So, I heard. Congratulations on the engagement. Still baffled how a thug like Ice landed such a beautiful lady, but we’ll chalk it up to intervention by a higher power.”
“As long as that higher power sees that she gets to the chapel without being kidnaped or shot at or run off the road, I’m good.” Russel arched a brow at Rigs. “You think you’ll be able to stand up long enough with Midnight to be a witness? Or will we have to get married in this room?”
“Watch it, or I might just steal the bride.” Rigs winked at Harlequin. “The girl’s got a soft spot for me.”
“Probably has something to do with you taking a bullet for her. Which reminds me… Did Henry’s files uncover any other moles inside the Bureau?”
“Two.” Hank shook his head. “Half a dozen police officers, too, including the one who was instrumental in Harlequin’s abduction. I think it’s safe to say none of them will be seeing this side of a jail cell for a very long time. I did get a personal thank you from the feds. Said if we ever needed a favor…”
“A favor from the Bureau? Not sure I want to know what that looks like.”
Hank nodded at Harlequin. “I only wish we could use it so you and your father would be able to communicate after the trial. Must be hard having to let him go.”
She snorted. “Please. My father evaded federal prosecution for thirty years. Ran a high-level money laundering scheme. I’m pretty sure he can find a way to give me a call if he wants.”
Hank chuckled. “I suppose he could. Then, it’s a good thing you’ve got Ice around. I have a feeling this isn’t the last time trouble might come knocking on your door.”
“Trouble can knock, but… My kickass PJ won’t let them in.”
Rigs huffed. “Of course not, because I’ll make sure I show him how to rig the damn door. You two really need to start embracing the art of blowing shit up. Now, about those pants…”
* * * *
Russel relaxed against the headboard, watching Quinn—Harlequin—brush her teeth in the adjoining bathroom. They’d been staying at her loft while they waited for Rigs to recover—and for the endless rounds of questioning to stop. Despite all the evidence, the feds and the lawyers seemed to constantly think up new questions that only she could answer. Though, it looked as if it was all finally over.
He’d caved and allowed Rigs to talk him into leaving the hospital. But only on the condition that he hung out with them—was on a twenty-four-hour watch. If Russel thought for a second that the man’s condition was worsening, he told Rigs he’d have his ass back at Harborview quicker than Rigs could blink.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Russel blinked. Quinn had made her way over to the bed and was sitting on the side, those stunning green eyes fixed on him. God, he could stare at her for a hundred years and never get tired of the way she smiled back at him. Eyes bright and full of love.
He rubbed the spot on his chest where it hurt then offered her his hand. She took it, climbing over him until she was straddling his legs. He inhaled as she settled her butt right over his erection—the one that never seemed to go away whenever she was in the room. Or the house. Or on the same planet.
Her eyes widened as her breath released in a raspy hum. She wiggled against his dick, grinning when it swelled beneath her.
“Looks like someone’s happy to see me.”
“Extremely happy. Possibly happier than I’ve ever been. But…”
“Again, with the but.”
“It’s late. Rigs is in your spare room—”
“Rigs has heard us before. We’re not going to shock the man.”
“And,” he continued, “you’re still recovering from your concussion followed by nearly drowning on me.” He shivered at the thought. Christ, as long as he lived, he’d always remember the fear. Her limp body held in Sam’s arms as he dragged her over to the wall. “You’re just lucky I didn’t crack any ribs. I was so focused on getting you to breathe…”