THE EDGE OF TRUST (TEAM EDGE)

by KT Bryan

“I don’t have them.” This man might very well kill her for not having the flash drive, but that would be failure on his part, and not something Sanchez would tolerate. “You can tell Sanchez to go screw himself.” Step closer, you bastard.

  He kept his distance. No way to disarm him without getting closer.

  “I’m going to enjoy killing you, you stupid bitch, but first we’re going for a walk. Turn around.”

  He discreetly jabbed the gun into her back and shoved her along in front of him as they moved further down the deserted hallway. “Turn right at the next corridor.”

  She dragged her feet, moving slowly in between shoves, and listened for voices.

  No one around that she could see or hear. No innocent bystanders to get hit by a stray bullet.

  The next hallway loomed just a few steps away. She didn’t know where it led or what the man planned to do to her once they got there.

  Didn’t matter. She had a plan of her own. The man was closer now, and if she spun, grabbed his gun hand, pushed up, threw a jab--

  In the split second before she turned the corner, a movement caught her eye and she felt herself being yanked by the shirt face first around the corner toward the floor.

  Everything blurred as she hit the ground and rolled. She heard a soft spit, a thud, and the sound of something metal sliding across the floor.

  Someone grabbed her. A man.

  Sanchez.

  Black panic closed in for a split second before instinct took over.

  Harness the fear.

  She jumped to her feet.

  Neutralize the threat. Counter-attack.

  Strike.

  Groin. Throat. Eyes.

  Strong arms seized her around the middle, trapping her arms, holding her in the same body lock she’d been taught. “Sara. It’s okay. You’re all right.”

  Seconds felt like hours before the haze of adrenaline faded and she realized the roughly gentle voice belonged to Dillon.

  She sagged with relief. His arms loosened.

  Safe. She was safe now.

  Safe with Dillon.

  <><><>

  Dillon pressed Sara’s head against his chest and inch-by-inch felt her tension begin to subside.

  “I’m sorry, I--”

  “It’s okay, it’s over. You’re fine.”

  Her eyes were still big, round, not quite calm. And again he wondered what the hell had happened to her.

  With a resigned sigh, he set her away and said, “We have to go.”

  She nodded and he let go of her to bend down and retrieve the weapon the gunman had dropped.

  Sara glanced at the man laying face down at her feet. Tried not to shudder. “Dead?”

  Dillon eased Sara aside, pointed the silenced gun at the back of the man’s head and pulled the trigger. “Yes,” Dillon said grimly, and stuck the weapon in the waistband of his jeans. Sara looked like she’d had about all she could take so he grabbed her hand and led her in a quick jog toward a side exit.

  God almighty, when he thought about what could have happened to her--

  “Should we go back and warn Craig?”

  “Craig’s fine. He’s got armed feds outside his door.” Not to mention a U.S. Senator.

  “I need to see him.” Sara tried digging in her heels. Dillon didn’t stop.

  “Not tonight. Craig may be safe, we however, aren’t.”

  “But--”

  “Tomorrow, Sara. Tomorrow’s soon enough.” He pushed through the exit door, pulling Sara behind him. They hadn’t taken more than five steps into the parking area when, from out of the darkness, a bullet zinged past his head.

  Adrenaline propelled him sideways into Sara. In less than a second he pushed her down behind a blue sedan, throwing his body over hers. Another series of bullets ripped through the air shattering the windows of the car. “Son of a bitch.” Instinct had him checking the clip in the gun he’d taken, then firing toward the shooter.

  Sara lay unmoving beneath him. An instant of panic hit. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded and a muffled “yes” came out near the asphalt. He shifted his weight, moving off her enough so she could get to her knees.

  Two more shots pinged into the car. They were in a hot spot here, the bullets too close. “When I tell you to, I want you to run like hell for my car. Don’t look back, just go. Okay?”

  Sara nodded again, and even crouched in the shadows, he could see how shaky she was. Exhaustion overload. Well, if her legs wouldn’t hold, he’d carry her.

  He stilled, listening for sounds, footsteps or rustling, anything that might give the shooter’s position away. When he heard nothing, he methodically shot out the lamps in the security floodlights, hoping the cover of darkness would hide them.

  Hearing no movement, he grabbed Sara’s hand. “Now!”

  In a silent rush, they ran.

  <><><>

  By the time Sara slammed the car door closed, fatigue and frustration were burning her eyes. How, with everything that had happened, was still happening, was she going to get her child? Would Matt show tomorrow? The next day? How would he get a hold of Craig?

  She needed to go back. “Stop! I need…we need to make sure Craig is all right. Go to the front entrance, there’s more light, more people--”

  As the Corvette’s engine roared to life, another series of bullets ripped into the rear quarterpanel and Dillon pushed her face down across the console between the seats.

  “Dammit, Sara, stay down!” Thrusting the gear into reverse, he floored it. The tires spun backward and he cut the wheel as they swerved on the blacktop. “I told you, Craig’s fine. What the hell’s gotten into you?”

  More shots fired out of the darkness. Sara covered her head with her hands, waiting for a bullet to shear through the fiberglass and slam into her body or Dillon’s.

  Tires screaming, Dillon spun the car in the opposite direction, shoved it into drive, and shot out of the parking lot onto the street. He flipped the headlights on. “Are you okay?”

  She raised her head and looked down the street behind them. “Yeah.” No, not even. “Is he following us?”

  “I don’t think so. Not yet anyway. But whoever they are, these boys won’t quit.”

  No, they won’t quit. Not until we’re dead.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Journal Entry

  Adoña’s lovely, but still, there must be something off there since she did, after all, marry Rafe. Although, to be fair, I think maybe she married him hoping to get away from this life. The violence of it. Or maybe she wants out for Dreena’s sake. Not sure, but I see a hard edge in her eyes when business is discussed. Maybe someday she’ll tell me. Better yet, maybe she’ll figure out how to get herself and her child away from Sanchez before they’re all killed in this unholy drug war.

  Marco’s a talker. Bumping coke makes him a wildcard, removes the censor, and his mouth spews out shit better left unsaid. He’s reckless and twitchy and stupidly dangerous.

  Xavier is shrewd, smart, but weak. A dreamer. His attention to detail is impressive yet he lacks the guerilla instincts of his brothers. At this rate, I put his life expectancy at less than five years.

  Dreena’s innocent, just a child, and it makes me sick when I think of her with this family as an influence. Her innocence can’t last, and that’s just a tragic reality. ~~ D.C.

  <><><>

  Midnight had come and gone by the time they were settled in a safe house in a quiet residential neighborhood on the outskirts of the city.

  Sara was in the shower, and Dillon was making--he didn’t know what to call it. Dinner? Breakfast? A midnight snack?

  Whatever. He pulled eggs out of the fridge, a pan out of the cupboard, and set about making ham and cheese omelets with toast and coffee.

  Over the years, how many omelets had he made for Sara? Fifty? A hundred? And how many of those omelets had grown cold because one of Sara’s favorite things to do had been to sneak up behind him and blow in his ear while he was cooking? O
r wrap her arms around him and sneak her hand down the front of his pants?

  He glanced at the solid oak table sitting in the middle of the kitchen. It wasn’t much different from the one he and Sara had bought four years ago. The one they’d shared more than just meals on.

  Sweet kisses. Laughter. Sex so hot his balls practically jumped up and danced.

  For an eerie moment, he felt the months vanish, like time going into fast rewind. Like they’d never been apart, and this was one of those regular days in the neighborhood. She’d stroll in from her shower, all damp and girly smelling, wrap her arms around his waist, nuzzle his neck. And he’d kiss her. Maybe dance her around the kitchen a little. Then he’d make love to her, maybe twice if he was lucky, and let yet another meal go down the tubes.

  He still couldn't believe she was here. In this house. Just down the hall. Alive.

  The egg he held crushed in his palm. Why had she let him believe she was dead? How could she have let him live with his gut twisted with grief for all those months? Dammit, how could she?

  He tossed the egg into the sink. As he washed the slime off his hand, he tried to be reasonable. Wait and see what she has to say.

  Taking a deep breath, he cracked the rest of the eggs into a bowl and added milk. Deliberately relaxed his muscles. Whipping the egg mixture into a light batter, he told himself he'd have his answers soon enough.

  “Need help? I can finish that if you like.”

  He glanced up and, sweet Jesus, started to sweat. His chest felt like he’d just hit a brick wall going a thousand miles an hour. All he could do was stand there and remind himself to keep breathing.

  The kick-ass reporter, the Columbia grad, the smart-mouthed rich kid with the vulnerable look in her eyes caused from a gut-wrenching childhood, was back. This was what she did, never leaving any middle ground. She wound his guts into knots and then tied them around his neck until he couldn’t think straight. Not that she meant to. Or even realized her power. But he knew where she came from, what she’d made of herself, and seeing her now, bruised and exhausted and wanting to help when she obviously needed help herself, made his knees go loose.

  He set the omelet mixture on the counter and without thinking, without guilt or worry or suspicion uppermost in his mind, he took two slow, easy steps toward her.

  Their gazes locked, and her eyes held no fear, no condemnation, no anger. Surprisingly, what he did see was shyness and maybe a small spark of desire.

  A very small spark, but enough to move him closer still. Close enough to touch. He reached out and gently sifted soft tendrils of hair through his fingers. His eyes drifted half closed and he simply reveled in her beautiful, golden hair as it fell through his fingers.

  He wanted to fold her into his arms and hold her, to feel her warmth and breathe her in. And beg her forgiveness for everything he’d done. But forgiveness was a big if and a long way off. For now he’d have to settle for embracing the knowledge that she was real and alive and here.

  The here being mere inches away, and if he moved just a little bit closer...

  Her body swayed toward his.

  Hope flared.

  But then, just when he thought he might get lucky enough to hold her, maybe even kiss her, she took a step back and his hand fell away.

  And poof, just that fast, whatever longing she might have had in her eyes was gone. Now she just looked worried and sad. And…edgy.

  He wanted to howl.

  Instead he sighed, glad at least that she looked like she was back in the pocket, tired yes, but fresh and clean. He picked up the bowl and started beating the crap out of the eggs and milk.

  “Dillon? You want some help?”

  He cleared his throat. “No, I’m good, thanks. Why don’t you just sit and take a load off. I’m almost done.” Or better yet, step into my arms, and remind me again, that yes, you’re really alive and I’m not losing my entire friggin’ mind.

  Of course the angry, hurt side of him wanted to say, “Or better yet, remind me again about the hell you put me through for the last fucking year so I can maintain my damn distance.”

  Sara pulled out a chair and sat at the square oak kitchen table. Jiggled her foot.

  Sara wasn’t a jiggler.

  “Feeling more human?” He asked the question simply to be civil. Because God Almighty, the weight of betrayal was pressing and it was all he could do not to snatch her up and start demanding answers.

  She nodded. “Tired, but miles better than that nasty seaweed feeling I had earlier.”

  Dillon’s mouth firmed as he poured them both a cup of coffee. He made hers sweet and light, then set it down on the table in front of her. And in one terrifying mental back-flip, he saw her hurtling through the air, flying off the dock, then nothing.

  Until now. Now he wanted, needed, some answers.

  “Thanks,” Sara said, staring into her coffee as he slid an omelet and toast in front of her. “This looks great. I guess swimming works up an appetite.” She picked up her fork, took a bite, and instantly looked uncomfortable.

  After sliding an omelet onto a plate for himself, he sat across from her, picked up his fork and studied her. “You going to tell me about that?”

  “I’m not sure where to start.”

  “The beginning’s usually a good place. How about you start with why you followed me to the pier. I mean, what the hell were you thinking?” Dillon rubbed the back of his neck. Sanchez had wanted blood that night, and maybe he’d have gotten it. Maybe he’d have killed Dillon, or maybe Dillon would have killed him. Instead, Sara had served herself up on a neat little platter. And his life had ended anyway.

  He’d expected to grab Vega, even the odds somewhat, but when Sanchez showed instead, the stakes had risen significantly, and Sara should never have been there. True, he hadn’t known the pier was rigged to blow, but Sanchez had miscalculated Dillon’s position. He hadn’t been close. Sara had.

  “That night on the pier wasn’t in any way the beginning. You’d shut me out, Dillon. Out of your heart, your mind. Your life. And that’s just crap. You don’t shut your wife out because you’ve got a leftover agenda on vengeance.”

  “This isn’t about vengeance, it’s about justice.”

  “Your quest for justice nearly cost me my life!” She slammed her fork down. Pushed her plate away in a grab for control and composure. “You came back from Mexico, mission complete. Only it wasn’t. Because Sanchez was still free. But it’s more than that. Something happened down there that you’ve kept to yourself. You think I didn’t see it in your eyes? You were home and gone, off and on for three years. Which you’d promised would only be one. And when you came home that last time, something had changed. You changed. Why?”

  “Jesus, Sara, why do you think I changed? I didn’t just mingle with the criminal element, I was the criminal element. For three years.” She had no idea what he’d gone through, what he’d had to do to keep his cover and stay alive in that secret inner sanctum that was a world unto itself. “So yeah, I guess I did change. But not about you. Not about us.”

  “Bullshit. You’re whole moral compass changed. Your directional north used to be the god of the alpha male that said the bible, clean living, helping old ladies across the street, always doing what was right but not what was easy, ruled you. Your unwavering commitment to us as a couple served as my compass too, my anchor. I needed that. We both did. Sanchez took that from us and you let him. You’re still letting him.”

  No, he thought, I’m ending him. The way he ended my family. And realized, with brilliant, belated insight, that Sara probably didn’t know. And he didn’t know how to tell her that less than twenty-four hours after he’d lost his wife, he’d also lost his parents and his sister. “I’m still the same man you married. But there’s more to this and I--”

  “Do you know why I became a reporter?”

  “Of course I do. You’re changing the subject.” And he was going to let her because telling her what had happened to his famil
y, and hers by marriage, was no doubt going to level her.

  “I need you to understand.”

  “Okay, fine,” he said, wondering where she was going with this. “Go ahead.” From the things she’d told him over the years, his guess would be that it all stemmed from her childhood. Not that she’d told him every detail flat out. But between the old media reports she kept and the things she had said or let slip, he’d pretty much pieced the story together. Her father had been a monster.

  But Sara hadn’t let her past define her. She’d become the woman she was today with a lot of hard work, love, and trusting relationships. She’d been a victim, a survivor, and lastly a conqueror. She’d reclaimed her power, her very being. And nothing had threatened that until Sanchez.

  Of which, Dillon had been the catalyst.

  “I needed fairness. Needed the ability to make judgments free from discrimination or dishonesty. To tell the story, whatever story I was working on, the right way. Matt was only twelve when he shot my father. The press got a hold of his story and mangled it. Their bias sent him to prison.”

  “He committed murder.”

  “Murder is committed every day. Should Matt have paid a higher price just because of his name?”

  “The rich and famous usually get off easier than most.”

  “The rich and famous also get slandered. Matt didn’t go to prison for murder so much as he went to prison to save me. He didn’t tell the cops my father had raped me continuously since I was five. He also didn’t tell them my father had murdered my mother just before my fifth birthday so that he could have his kiddie porn in real life. Matt wanted more for me. He wanted me to have a chance at life without the ugly truth, or the media, dogging my heels.”

  “Your mother died from mixing booze and pills. The whole free world knew she had a problem. She’d been in and out of rehab for years. Hell, your father’s biggest platform was illicit prescription drug use.”

  “My mother had been clean for over a year. But my father, the most prestigious neurosurgeon in the country, mixed her a nice lethal juice drink. The ME and the press chalked up her overdose to a relapse. My father was never even questioned. Never looked at. After all, he was going to be the next Surgeon General. He wielded a great deal of power.”