Slow Burn

by Cheyenne McCray

  “I won’t let anything happen to you.” His words were fierce, determined. “No one is ever going to harm you.”

  She didn’t know how he could promise that, yet she believed him with all her heart and soul. “I know you won’t.” The words came out in almost a whisper. She put force behind her statement to show how much she trusted him. “When I’m with you, I know I’m safe.”

  “Today you saved yourself.” He reached up and brushed his knuckles over her cheek and then slid his fingers into her hair. “If you hadn’t acted so quickly…” He blew out a breath. “Things could have turned out much differently.”

  She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face against his chest. His shirt muffled her. “I just want this to end.”

  “I know, sweetheart.” His words were soothing and it was easy to believe him. “Soon it will all be over and you can move on with your life. Not much longer and you’ll have your life back.”

  She nodded against his shirt and felt dampness against her cheek. Tears she hadn’t realized she’d been crying had wet his shirt and her cheeks. When she looked up at him again, he pressed his lips beneath each of her eyes, kissing away her tears.

  ~~*~~

  A whirlwind of activity surrounded Christie as she tried to process everything that was happening. She had been scurried away to another suite on a different floor in the hotel, male and female agents posted inside and out. Agents were everywhere. Some of them wore earpieces, the wires coiling down their necks and beneath the collars of jumpsuits they had changed into. The change of clothing surprised her. The jumpsuits were something that blue collar workers tended to use, not FBI agents.

  Trace never left her side, and his presence was a comfort even with the danger waiting for her. Whenever she met his gaze, he would give her a reassuring look that calmed her nerves, at least a little.

  “This is all so crazy.” Christie spoke to Trace in a rare moment they were alone. “My head is spinning.”

  He looked like he wanted to take her into his arms, but she knew it wouldn’t be appropriate with all of the other agents around. “Everything is going to be fine.” He spoke in a positive tone that made her feel a little better. “Do you want anything to eat? A couple of the agents are going out for Chinese and taking orders now.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think I can eat after—after what happened earlier.” She tried not to think of the body and the smells of hamburgers and death. Instead of hunger, a squirming feeling in Christie’s stomach made her feel like she would throw up again at any moment.

  He studied her. “I’ll put in an order for something light that your stomach will be able to tolerate.”

  She didn’t think she could tolerate anything right now, but she didn’t argue.

  He nodded in the direction of an agent carrying a pen and paper. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay.” She tried for a smile, but she didn’t have it in her.

  As he walked away, her head swam from the flurry of activity and the knowledge of just how much danger she was in. She had to admit to herself that she’d been stupid and naïve to think that she didn’t need the FBI. She’d just been so sick of being under Salvatore’s thumb that all she’d wanted was her freedom.

  Instead, she was still in his control. And she would be crushed in his hold until she testified against him and put the last nails in his coffin.

  Of course she had to be alive and make it to the damned courtroom. Just thinking about seeing his face made her stomach feel even worse. She hated the thought of facing him again. What if she fell apart in front of him?

  No, that was not going to happen. She was a different woman now, one who would never be intimidated by a man again. Counseling had helped her with that, and she’d grown a lot on her own, too.

  Eventually a female agent showed up with a jumpsuit in Christie’s size. The jumpsuit was like the ones the FBI agents wore, but Christie was allowed to wear her athletic shoes. The agent had also purchased a long brunette wig and heavy make-up. Stillwater had given information over the phone regarding what Christie was currently wearing and had passed on her clothing sizes.

  The agent brought a jumpsuit for Trace to wear so he would also blend well with the FBI agents and could accompany her without sticking out.

  Trace and a female agent went with Christie into the bedroom. She didn’t realize her hands were shaking until she applied the make-up while looking into a vanity mirror. The foundation covered the freckles. She wasn’t sure she liked the look, but she did look different with the wig and the thick make-up.

  Early afternoon sunlight squeezed through a slight gap in the blackout curtains that made it difficult to have an idea what time of day it was. The agents kept Christie away from the windows and sliding glass doors, as well as the door, as a precaution. She glanced at the digital clock beside the bed and saw that it was three in the afternoon. After all that had happened, it felt like it should be well into the night by now.

  Somewhere along the way, the agents brought in Chinese food. Christie stayed in the bedroom and managed to get down the egg drop soup and steamed rice that Trace had ordered for her. Both were bland, but that’s what her stomach needed right now, and she was grateful to him for being so thoughtful.

  As she ate, Trace dressed, strapping on a bulletproof vest before pulling his jumpsuit all the way up and covering his vest. He looked sexy even in a plain navy blue jumpsuit. In his Wranglers, T-shirt, and overshirt, he was extraordinarily good-looking, but she would take him any way she could get him.

  It was interesting, because the jumpsuits were specially made so that Trace and the other agents still had access to their guns.

  After Christie ate, Stillwater walked in, carrying a smaller bulletproof vest. “You’ll wear this beneath the jumpsuit for protection.”

  Christie nodded then pulled on the jumpsuit to her waist. Trace helped her put on the vest. It was much heavier than she’d expected. It had to weigh at least twenty-five pounds. Stillwater watched as Trace finished fastening Christie’s vest.

  When it was time to leave, Christie was given a pair of sunglasses. With Trace at her side, she walked out of the bedroom, carrying the sunglasses, and she blinked in surprise. Two other women with long brown wigs, who were also petite and looked very much like her, were in the room.

  “Are those women decoys?” Christie held the sunglasses in one hand. She looked at Stillwater. “I don’t like the idea of other people putting their lives in danger because of me.”

  “What do you think every other agent here is doing?” Stillwater spoke matter-of-factly. “It’s our job to protect you. The decoy agents are armed, wearing body armor like you, and just as capable as any other agents here.”

  “I wasn’t saying they’re not capable.” Christie frowned as she felt her own vest weigh her down. She wondered how law enforcement officers could do their jobs wearing something so heavy. Men’s vests had to weigh even more than women’s. “By pretending to be me, it makes each of them a target.”

  “Don’t worry about the agents.” Stillwater buttoned up her own jumpsuit over a vest. “The concern is your safety.”

  Christie said nothing as she thought about the situation she was in. That they were all in. What it came down to was that she had jeopardized everyone’s life by coming to Arizona without arranging it with the FBI first.

  “What have I done?” Christie looked up at Trace as Stillwater turned away. “One stupid mistake and—”

  Trace shook his head. “Don’t play the blame game with yourself. This is all on Salvatore Reyes.”

  Christie looked into Trace’s eyes, wanting to throw herself into his arms yet having to restrain herself. It wouldn’t do for him to be seen holding her the way she wanted him to.

  An agent came up to Stillwater and said something to her that Christie couldn’t hear. Stillwater nodded and turned to Christie. “We’re ready to move you to a new location.”

  Christie shivered. She hadn
’t realized how afraid she was until the time came for her to be out in the open again.

  She looked at Trace again and he rested his hand on her good shoulder. “I’m here with you every step of the way.”

  “I know.” She took a deep inhale and let out her breath. “You don’t know how grateful I am.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was all so crazy. Christie’s heart pounded as the next ordeal started. She hadn’t fully grasped the trouble she was in or the mess she had caused until now. She had never realized that her ex-husband could be as powerful and well connected as he apparently was.

  According to Agent Stillwater and Trace, Salvatore’s ties with the Jimenez Cartel were significant, and he’d been, and still was, a valued part of their organization. The cartel apparently didn’t plan on letting him go to prison if it could be prevented.

  Now it was time to leave to go to what would hopefully be a safe location.

  Christie had been told that agents had cleared the way, making sure no employees or guests were nearby as Christie, Trace, the decoy agents, and the protection detail left the room. The weight of the body armor seemed to grow as they went. Her whole body felt heavy, which had little to do with the vest. It had more to do with a frozen feeling that had sunk into her bones.

  They went down in the service elevators. Christie stood beside Trace, having to look up at him as always because he was so tall and she was so petite. “If the cartel knows we’re here, are you sure no one can follow us?”

  “The FBI has secured the area.” Trace sounded confident, but she wondered if he was as confident as his tone would lead her to believe. “No one is getting near you.”

  Christie bit the inside of her lip. Her skin prickled, an uneasy feeling making the Chinese food not sit so well with her any longer.

  “Reservations have been made at multiple hotels under various names.” Trace looked thoughtful. “We’re hoping that will throw off the cartel.”

  Everything became a blur as agents escorted Christie through the back of the hotel and out to one of three waiting vans. Each van looked different—none of them were black like agency cars or SUVs.

  On the older-looking vans were different decals. One had “Harper’s Plumbing,” on it, another had “Professional One Day Dry Cleaning,” and the third advertised “Valley Landscaping Services.” Each vehicle could easily get lost in Phoenix, unnoticed, which was obviously the idea.

  Christie was glad they had dressed her like the agents. She blended in well, especially since the decoy female agents were close to her size and weight, and all three of them wore matching sunglasses.

  Trace was at her side every step of the way. She met his gaze as they reached the white paneled van with “Harper’s Plumbing” on it. The door was open. She noticed that Trace didn’t help her into the vehicle, as was his normal habit. It was probably to keep from making her stand out from other agents who would not be receiving the same treatment.

  She climbed inside the dim interior of the almost empty windowless van and saw that there were no seats. The only thing in the van was a big wooden box, the size of a coffin.

  The floor was cool beneath her as she settled herself on the ridged metal.

  “Not much for comfort.” A man sitting in the driver’s seat looked over his shoulder at them. “But we’ll get you to your next location safely, Ms. Simpson.” He, too, wore sunglasses and a jumpsuit, and he also wore a Bluetooth earpiece.

  “Thank you.” Christie shifted so she was closer to Trace who had sat down beside her. His presence was a comfort even when she didn’t feel like she deserved it.

  She wanted to apologize for putting everyone in so much danger, but she held her tongue. What good would apologies do? She’d screwed up and good. Trace had told her not to play the blame game, and that this was all on Salvatore. No matter what Trace had said, she did blame herself.

  After a few moments, the agent put the van into gear and pulled away from the building. “On the move,” he said as the van jostled them while it went down the back alley. She guessed he was talking to whoever was on the other end of the Bluetooth.

  Downtown Phoenix was full of one-way streets. The only time Christie had come to this area she had gotten totally turned around and almost went the wrong direction on a street. She was glad she wasn’t the one driving.

  She and Trace swayed as the van turned a corner.

  A metallic sound startled her.

  Trace threw himself on her, slamming her onto the van’s floor. “Down!”

  Her skull struck the ridged metal floor. The sunglasses skittered away. Pain shot through her head and her mind spun.

  In a flash she realized that what she heard was the sound of bullets piercing the side of the van.

  Terror ripped through her like knives flaying her skin.

  “We’re under fire!” the driver shouted as he gunned the engine. Despite the terror, Christie registered that he had to be shouting the information over his Bluetooth.

  The van’s tires squealed.

  Another vehicle’s tires echoed the sound.

  Light came through round perforations in the white panels.

  Christie and Trace were thrown around the back of the van as the driver took tight turns.

  The driver shouted for backup as he drove.

  A pause in the rapid-fire.

  Trace started toward the coffin-sized wooden box.

  The metallic pings started again and Christie wanted to scream to Trace to get down, too.

  Oh, God. They were all going to die.

  Adrenaline pumped through Trace’s veins as he stayed low while he shoved up the lid on the box filled with weapons, extra body armor, and other vital equipment. Within seconds he had pulled out a lightweight assault rifle, checked to make sure it was loaded, and flicked off the safety. He grabbed a flash-bang and shoved it into a pocket of the jumpsuit.

  “Stay flat on the floor,” he ordered Christie before he scooted closer to the front of the van.

  “On the right, coming up fast.” Rich, the agent driving the van swerved again. “That fucking car can move.”

  Rifle gripped in his hands, Trace climbed into the passenger seat. In the side view mirror he could see the car speeding up.

  He had a brief moment to be glad they were on one of the wide one-way streets and that it was a Saturday so that the downtown Phoenix streets were mostly empty.

  A man leaned out of the back passenger window of the approaching car that was even with the rear wheels of the van. The shooter aimed what looked to be an AR-15 assault rifle at the back of the van and pulled the trigger, spraying the back of the van with bullets.

  Trace’s focus narrowed on the shooter as he swung his own rifle so it was pointed at the man. Trace pulled the trigger, the rifle recoiling from the several shots he got off.

  Blood spurted from the shooter’s throat and blossomed on the front of the white wife-beater T-shirt he wore beneath a striped overshirt that fluttered in the wind.

  The shooter’s body went limp. The rifle tumbled to the street. His body hung half in and half out of the car.

  Just as Trace started to aim for the driver, Rich shouted, “Brace yourself.”

  Trace pulled back inside the van and grasped the “oh, shit” handle with one hand. He gripped the rifle in his other hand, just in time for Rich to drive the van through an empty intersection

  Rich jerked the steering wheel to the left, causing the van to swerve, and he rammed a vehicle coming up on the driver’s side. The impact jarred Trace’s teeth and Christie screamed as she slid across the floor and slammed against one side of the van and then slid across the floor to hit the other side.

  “How did they know Christie is in this van?” Trace shouted. “Or are all the vans under attack?”

  “All.” Rich clenched his teeth. “Stillwater is filling me in over the Bluetooth.” He glanced out the driver’s side mirror. “Shit. Here they come again.”

  Trace glanced at the pas
senger side mirror. “Goddamn but they’re coming fast on the right, too. I got one of the shooters, but there’s another.”

  “Watch out.” Rich hung a fast right onto yet another one-way street. “We’ve got to get out of downtown and lose these fuckers.”

  The side of Rich’s head exploded.

  Blood splattered Trace.

  Christie shrieked.

  Rich slumped onto the steering wheel. He landed on the horn and it blared.

  Trace tried to grab the steering wheel to get some kind of control. Rich’s dead weight slid off the wheel. He flopped to the side and his head landed in Trace’s lap.

  Rich’s foot still pressed the gas.

  The van sped toward a brick wall.

  Trace jerked the wheel to the right.

  The van lurched into a parking garage.

  The striped wood arm exploded as the van ran straight through it.

  Rich slipped further to the side. His foot must have slid off the gas and the van began to slow.

  Trace’s heart was like a jackhammer.

  As he tried to wrestle control of the slowing vehicle, he chose the lesser of two evils.

  Instead of slamming into a concrete wall, he aimed the van for two parked cars.

  Metal crunched. Trace was flung forward, his head hitting the windshield. Stars sparked in his mind.

  Christie gave a loud cry, more of shock than pain. A mere instant of a thought flashed in his mind. As long as he heard her cries and screams, he knew she was alive.

  The van came to a hard stop and Trace was thrown back into his seat. His mind spun but he didn’t give into the dizzying sensation.

  Tires screeched, the sound echoing through the parking garage.

  Trace saw the first car come up on his right. He fumbled in his pocket as the car came to a screeching stop, the driver’s side window almost aligned with the passenger window of the van.

  Trace jammed his hand into his jumpsuit pocket. He grasped the flash bang and jerked it out.

  “Plug your ears, Christie.” Trace shouted. “Now.”

  Before the driver had a chance to use the gun he was bringing up to point at the van, Trace threw the flash bang through the car’s open window. It landed somewhere in the car. He saw the panicked look on the driver’s face.