by Trish Loye
They dove back inside the house, chased by the popping of gunfire.
“We’re surrounded,” Quinn said. “Shit. You shouldn’t have come for me.”
Marc shook his head. “Get your head in the game, Red. One problem at a time. For now, we hold off the assaulters.”
Right. She was an operator with the SRR. Don’t give up. Ever.
She pushed through her pain and fatigue, and snatched the rifle off the dead body in the kitchen. “I’ll cover the back.”
Marc nodded and ran for the front.
Fuck. Marc loaded his last mag into the rifle and shot again at the men attempting to sidle around the back of the house. The men weren’t thinking. All they had to do was wait and he and Quinn would be sitting ducks. He had to get her out.
“Ammo check,” he said just loud enough for Quinn to hear.
“One mag for the rifle and one—” The crack of a bullet rent the air. “Less than one mag for the Glock.”
Two men sprinted in opposite directions from the truck out front. He sighted on one, fired, and, without waiting to see the man fall, moved to the next and fired again. Two more down.
A new truck peeled into the yard, men with rifles swaying in the back. Marc fired at the driver’s window.
Once. The windshield spiderwebbed.
Twice. The truck slowed and rolled to a stop before it could make it to the side of the house. Men tumbled from the back and hid behind it. Marc shot as many as he could, but they were outnumbered and outgunned.
He kept his gaze scanning. Someone put a hand out, hoping to draw his fire. And make him waste ammo. No fucking way.
But there were too many of them. How was he going to get Quinn out?
“Almost clear,” Quinn called from the back. “Two left. And Pérez is somewhere out there too.”
A spear of hope ran through him, almost painful in its sharp thrust. “Draw them out,” he said over the shouts of the men outside. “But be careful!”
“Be prepared to run,” she called back.
“There’s a truck at the end of your path,” he yelled. “Keys are in it.” She had to know where to go. Even if she cleared the back, the men in the front would overwhelm them the moment they tried to run. He would stay and keep them off her. “I’ll be right behind you,” he lied.
“Damn it, Marc! We are going together or not at all.”
Stubborn woman. “You’ll run when I tell you.”
“We’re partners. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
He fired at a man’s head that popped up. “This isn’t a joke,” he yelled back, desperate to make her see reason. “We’re not both going to make it out of this.”
“We have to make a run for it. Together,” she said.
Two more pickup trucks, their backs crowded with men, drove down the road.
Fuck.
Marc sent a blast of rounds out the front window and raced to the kitchen.
Quinn fired out the smashed window over the kitchen sink just as Marc skidded into the room.
“More reinforcements,” he said. “Time to run.”
She nodded and pulled back from the window, her movements lacking her normal grace. She was fading.
As if she sensed his thoughts, she lifted her chin. “Two men behind the car,” she said. “It’s the best we’re gonna get.”
Marc glanced out. “I’m going to cover you while you get to the jungle.”
“We go together. You’ll be caught if you stay.”
“There’s no time for debate—”
A shitload of gunfire sounded from out front. It was as though all the men had decided to fire off their rounds at once. “What the fuck?”
The front door crashed open. They spun toward it, rifles raised, but the three men who dashed in turned their backs to Marc and Quinn and continued to fire out front. “What the fuck?” Marc said again. “They look like they’re fighting each other.”
A moment later, the men jerked and twisted as bullets riddled them and their blood splattered the walls. Their bodies dropped to the floor, just as two more men entered. One of them had an AR-15 leveled toward Quinn and Marc. The other had dropped his weapon upon sighting them. Marc recognized that large hawkish nose and black eyes.
“Fuck. It’s Vicente Ramirez.” He pushed Quinn behind him.
“Diabla Rojo?” the man called in his gravelly voice. “Come. Here.”
Marc pushed Quinn, and they fell out the back door. He kept his rifle trained on the house while Quinn shot at the car and the two men left there. The amount of gunfire from the front of the house sounded like World War Three had started.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” Marc said.
Quinn pulled on Marc’s sleeve, urging him to run toward the jungle. “I called him.”
“You did what?”
Ramirez appeared at the back door. The men behind the car shouted and started to fire at him. Ramirez brought up his handgun and fired back almost casually. “You’ll regret this, Diabla Rojo,” he yelled. “I will find you.” Someone fired at Ramirez from inside the house and Ramirez turned and shot back.
Marc raced with Quinn for the jungle. “You called the leader of Los Urabeños? Are you fucking insane?”
“It seemed like a good idea when I was back at the hotel. I told Ramirez that Pérez’s defenses would be down and it’d be a perfect time to strike.” She fired back at the house. “I thought they could be my backup.”
“You asked the leader of the biggest drug cartel to be your backup?” He had no words. “Holy fuck, I’m falling for a crazy woman.”
They hit the jungle, and she pulled up. Smoke from the burning coca fields hung in the air, scratching his throat.
“You’re falling for me?” she asked.
He raised an eyebrow. She was bruised, covered in blood—both her own and others—and held an assault rifle. “What more could I want than a nice girl like you?”
She laughed and took off down the path. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“Wait.” He chased the battered redhead in front of him. “Aren’t you supposed to say something back?” She was supposed to say something back. Wasn’t she?
Someone stepped from behind a tree just as he passed it. He twisted away but it was too late. Pain exploded in the side of his head and he fell. Blackness encompassed him before he hit the ground.
A grunt sounded behind Quinn and she whirled to see Marc fall to the ground. Pérez stood above him, blood dripping from his forehead and an assault rifle gripped like a battering ram in his hands.
“Marc!” She swung her rifle to point at Pérez and fired. Nothing happened. A glance showed it had jammed. She automatically tapped the mag and racked the slide, trying to clear it. Pérez laughed and pointed a pistol at Marc, who lay unconscious at his feet.
She threw the rifle aside and launched herself at Pérez, tackling him to the ground before he could fire. Her momentum caused her to roll over him. He went with her, trying to land on top. She brought her knees up as she landed on her back with Pérez dropping onto her. She kicked out, hitting him square in the chest with her boots. He grunted and slid off to the side. She rolled into a crouch. Pérez did the same.
He held a bowie knife. Her Glock lay on the dirt path just beyond Pérez. She must have lost it in the tackle. Wetness trickled down her back. Darkness ate at her vision. She was losing too much blood. Her breathing sounded harsh in her ears. She was on her last legs, but she would not let this asshole hurt Marc.
He would not win.
She had to draw Pérez away from Marc and that meant away from her weapon too. “Come on, asshole.” She backed away. “You gonna try to finish what you started?”
Pérez stalked her, and satisfaction went through her. She might be hurt and bleeding, but surely she could take on one man.
She kept backing away.
“Are you frightened?” Pérez kept pace with her.
“Of you?” She snorted. And then she stumbled on
a tree root.
He leapt toward her, and she twisted away, but not before he carved a line of fire down her arm. She gasped and stumbled back. Pérez laughed, and anger speared viciously through her. She ignored the pain in her arm, back, and stomach, and struck hard and fast.
Left, right. Left hook.
With each hit, satisfaction swept through her as Pérez’s head jerked from the force of her blows. He blindly stabbed with the knife. She swept the blade aside and did a palm strike to his nose, and then grabbed the back of his neck and pulled down while striking hard upwards with her knee.
His arms flailed and the knife landed, grazing her ribs, but she didn’t slow her attack. She gripped Pérez’s hair and smashed her knee into his face again. Blood spurted from his nose. He stabbed at her, but she didn’t release her grip. A frenzy overtook her as she slammed her knee into his face over and over. All the frustration and fear of the past few hours ripped through her.
He was the cause of it. Slam.
He’d beaten her. Slam.
Damien was dead. Slam.
Marc was hurt. Slam.
Pérez was a dead weight in her hands. She dropped him facedown in the dirt. She panted, her throat dry with her harsh breathing. Pérez lay lifeless, and she didn’t care.
She had to get back to Marc.
She stumbled back to the path, pushing branches out of her way, amazed at how far they’d come in their struggle. She hit the path. Where was he? “Marc?”
“Is he your lover?” She whirled as Ramirez stepped onto the path, his dark gaze glittering with malice. “I will kill him, and you for giving me false information.”
She took a step back. A whisper of sound made her glance behind her. Two thugs had appeared on the path.
She was fucked. Her body wanted to buckle and drop to the ground. She was so tired, but she had to keep fighting. She had to find Marc.
She straightened her sagging shoulders. “I killed Pérez,” she said. “Now you can have his coca fields.”
“You mean the ones you set on fire?” He shook his head. “I’m not a man to be trifled with. You—”
Crack!
Ramirez’s brains blew out the side of his head. He toppled to the ground. Quinn ducked, not wanting to be in the way of the shooter. Two more simultaneous shots, and the two thugs fell before they could even take a bead on her.
Simultaneous?
Alarm shot through her and then receded when Marc stepped out onto the path, holding her Glock in his hand. Beyond him stood a tall blonde woman and an even taller blond man, both wearing cargos, t-shirts, and bulletproof vests, and both loaded with weapons. Marc’s team.
Marc nodded at them. “This is backup.”
She rolled her eyes. “Picky, picky.” Her voice came out hoarse.
“Picky?” He stepped closer, frowning, and lifted the arm Pérez had cut. “Red, your backup was going to kill us.”
“One problem at a time,” she quoted back to him. “He worked initially. Totally distracted Pérez.”
Marc just nodded while he lifted the side of her t-shirt. Blood made it stick to her body. “You’re a bit of a mess, Red.”
She opened her mouth to respond, and the world slipped to the side. She swayed to stay upright.
Strong arms came around her, lifting her. “I’ve got you,” Marc said.
“Spooky,” the blonde woman said. “We’ve got to go. The bird is waiting.”
“Roger.” He started down the path with Quinn still in his arms.
“I can walk,” she protested.
He tightened his arms around her. “I know,” he said softly, “but there’s no need. It’s my turn to carry you.”
Exhaustion and pain overwhelmed her. She laid her head on Marc’s shoulder and let him carry her from the smoke-shrouded jungle.
23
It had been a long twenty-four hours since they’d escaped Pérez’s compound. Marc sat at a conference table in a secure room of the HMS Iron Duke, a British naval ship that had been in the area. Cat and Rhys sat with him. They’d been separated from Quinn almost as soon as they got on board. Blackwell had arranged a pickup, which should be arriving within the hour.
“I’m not leaving without seeing Quinn,” he told the officer who sat in the room with them. “I don’t understand the issue.”
The officer, a young lieutenant with pale skin and horse teeth, shook his head, arrogance rolling off him. “The issue, like I told you already, is that she has been confined to quarters. If she’s released, then at that point you may see her.”
“Our issue,” Cat said in a quiet voice, “is that we want to know why she’s confined to quarters.” She held up her hand when he would have said something. “If the information is above your pay grade, which it obviously is, then find someone who can answer the question.”
“Now,” Marc growled when the young man didn’t move.
“All right,” he said. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
He left, and Marc waited all of thirty seconds before he opened the door to follow.
“Not waiting for permission?” Cat asked.
“Why bother when we know they’re not going to give it.”
She nodded. “We’ll keep them distracted.”
He smiled and started to prowl the ship.
It was big, but there were only so many places a guest could be confined to quarters. Marc made his way one deck below where they’d given him and the team a room to wash up in.
A solidly built young man who probably wouldn’t even be allowed to drink in the US stood in front of a door.
Bingo.
The kid stiffened when he saw Marc approaching. He didn’t want to hurt the kid, but nothing was going to stop him from seeing Quinn one last time.
“I’m sorry, sir, but this is a restricted area.”
He nodded his understanding and then yelled, “Quinn? You in there?”
A muffled voice answered from within. Then the door handle turned and Quinn appeared. She looked worse than she had when he’d carried her out. The bruising had purpled, and her face was swollen. She moved carefully, as if she were in a lot of pain. He wanted to gather her in his arms and tuck her into bed.
“You look like hell,” he said.
“Sir, you’re not supposed to be talking with the prisoner.”
Marc scowled. “Prisoner? What the fuck is going on?”
Quinn answered. “I was considered a rogue agent, remember? I have to clear my name before they’ll release me.”
“But everything on the flash drive should do that.”
She nodded. “Yes, but no one on this ship has the clearance to view the flash drive. I’ll have to wait until I get back to England.” She gave a weak smile. “At least it’s not a shoot on sight order.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’ll be okay, Marc. I managed to speak with Fletcher, Agent Bishop’s handler. He’s arranging for me to be released into his custody when I make it back.”
“Good,” he said. What could he say next? Anything to prolong the conversation, because he didn’t want to say good-bye.
But Quinn beat him to it. “Were you ever going to tell me Anna had survived?”
He sucked in a breath. “Shit. I forgot—”
“You forgot to mention that a woman I thought I’d left to die alone while fending off the criminals who’d tortured her was alive?” She pulled back. “I guess I shouldn’t have expected the truth from you, but…” She started to close the door.
His hand shot out, stopping it.
“Sir!” the kid said.
“Back off,” Marc snarled at him as he pushed past and into Quinn’s tiny bunkroom. It wasn’t much bigger than the bunk it held. Quinn stood nose to nose with him. Anger radiated off her.
“I told you as much truth as I was allowed at the time,” he said.
“When did you know Anna was alive?”
How could he make her understand? “It was need-to-know information
.”
She crossed her arms. “You couldn’t tell me she’d survived? What about the night we—” Her gaze went to the kid in the passageway listening avidly to them.
He shut the door on the kid. “Honestly, Red, I wasn’t thinking about anything but you that night.”
She rolled her eyes. “Cut the charm. You’re not getting out of this that easily.”
And something about the way she said those words made his heart lighten, almost as if she expected him to grovel more than once, which meant she wanted to see him again.
“I will take all night to apologize to you when this is over,” he said.
She put on a smile, but her eyes dimmed, and his radar went off.
“What are you thinking, Red?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I look forward to your apologies, but I think it’s time you left.”
Oh, no. He wasn’t leaving until he’d figured out what was going on in that head of hers. “I think—”
The door swung open. Beyond the red-faced kid stood the buck-toothed officer and an older gentleman with lots of gold on his epaulets. “I believe you’re in the wrong room,” the older officer said in an I-eat-ships-for-breakfast voice. “Your ride is here. It’s time you got off the Iron Duke.”
Damn it. “This isn’t over,” he said to Quinn. He wanted to kiss her, but she stepped back.
“Good-bye, Marc.”
He refused to say the words. “I’ll see you soon, Quinn Sinclair,” he said quietly instead.
A few days later, a sharp knock woke Quinn from a nap and a young officer opened the door to her bunkroom. She struggled to stand. She ached everywhere. Her cuts and ribs had been bandaged, but it would take her awhile to heal, the doctor had said.
Awhile for her body to heal. How long would it take her heart?
She firmed her lips. It was silly to keep thinking Marc would show up again. He’d left the ship. But she couldn’t suppress the surge of hope every time someone knocked on the door.
“Follow me, please.” The officer turned smartly and strode away.
Nice of him to account for her injuries. When she stepped into the passageway, the asshole stood at the far end, tapping his foot.