Slow Burn

by Cheyenne McCray

  Trace dropped his rifle and stuffed his fingers in his ears. He ducked down in the van so he wouldn’t see the flash.

  Even with them plugged, his ears rang from the explosively loud flash bang. The flash was bright enough that he saw red behind his closed eyelids.

  Most of the sound and flash was contained in the car, which would easily have put its occupants out of commission.

  With a burst of strength, Trace pulled Rich’s body between the front seats so that he could see the car coming up on the other side.

  He drew his Walther 9mm from the special pocket in the jumpsuit.

  In the driver’s side view mirror, he saw two men shoving their doors open and climbing out, rifles raised

  Trace scrambled into the back of the van. He glanced at Christie and held his finger to his lips. She looked terrified but she nodded.

  He kept low, waiting just where he could see from between the seats. Adrenaline caused his heart to thunder and his body to vibrate. But his grip was steady as he braced his right hand with his left and aimed the gun at the open driver’s side window.

  A man with long hair and a sneer pointed his rifle into the van.

  Big mistake. When it came to close targets, a rifle was not the optimum choice. The man should have grabbed a handgun.

  The thought was fleeting as Trace aimed for the man’s forehead. The weapon’s report echoed in the van.

  A hole appeared in the man’s forehead. He dropped. Trace heard the clatter of the man’s rifle as it hit the concrete below.

  After sucking in a deep breath, Trace prepared for the second man to approach the window. Instead, the man retreated in a hurry. He bolted back to his car and then flung himself into the driver’s side.

  Trace climbed into the van’s driver’s seat at the same time the car’s tires squealed in the man’s rush to back up.

  Trace reached the window and aimed his Walther at the other car. The front window spider webbed and a hole appeared in the center of the webbed safety glass.

  The car didn’t stop. It shot forward, speeding out of the garage.

  Trace let out a breath. He knew the occupants of the other car would be incapacitated just long enough for him and Christie to get out of here.

  “Come on.” He looked over his shoulder and looked at Christie. She’d lost the brunette wig and her red hair was like a flame against her skin. “Grab the wig if it’s close.”

  She looked dazed but she immediately picked up the bundle of hair. She lurched toward the front.

  He swept his gaze over her. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” Her expression turned fearful. “You’re bleeding. Your neck.”

  He was so pumped with adrenaline that he felt nothing. “It’s fine. Hurry.”

  She obeyed and she scurried up to him. They climbed out of the van. He heard the sounds of the men in the other car as they moaned and groaned. Someone was retching so loud it echoed in the concrete building.

  Trace swept the garage with his gaze and saw nothing that concerned him. He looked over his shoulder and held up his hand to tell Christie to wait. She froze in place. He continued forward and peered around the van.

  The shooter Trace had killed earlier was still hanging half in and half out of the car. Blood had flowed down the side of the car but was drying.

  Two men in the car stirred. Trace watched as the clearly dazed men began fumbling with weapons. Trace took careful aim at the driver as the man started to open his door.

  When the door was open a foot, Trace leveled his weapon at the man’s chest, center mass. Trace pulled the trigger and shot the man three times. The man slumped to the side and fell out of the car. He hit the concrete floor of the parking garage with a thump.

  Trace crouched and moved closer to the car. Through the open gap in the driver’s side door, he saw the other man leaning out the opposite window. It looked like he was vomiting, but Trace wasn’t sure since the man’s back was to him.

  His weapon in a two-handed grip, Trace neared the door. Just as he reached it, the other man swung around, a handgun in his grip.

  Trace pumped three shots into the man’s chest. The shots were loud in the garage.

  When he was certain both men were dead, he returned to Christie. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  She nodded and he grabbed her hand. Instead of running out of the entrance and into the street where they had entered, he pulled her to the opposite side of the garage where the exit was located.

  He kept a grip on her hand as they hurried away from the garage. He’d had to come to Phoenix for work several times, but not enough to be too familiar with the buildings and definitely had no idea where a hotel might be in the downtown area.

  It was nearly dark now and he drew Christie into the shadows. He pulled out his cell phone and did a quick search for a hotel in downtown Phoenix. He found a small boutique hotel in a fairly close building and used the phone’s GPS to get directions.

  “Get out of the jumpsuit.” He helped her unbutton it and she stepped out of the suit after pulling it over her shoes. He gritted his teeth as his neck started to burn. He put his hand up to it and it came away streaked with blood.

  “I think it’s superficial.” Christie peered at it and frowned as she looked at him. “But we need to get it cleaned up. You also have a huge lump and cut on your forehead.”

  “I’m fine.” He shed the jumpsuit as fast as she had. He wiped away the blood from his neck and forehead with the suit. Fortunately, the blood had only gotten on the suit and the wounds were already closing. They tossed the suits into a nearby garbage can. The body armor would stay on.

  Christie remained silent as they slipped through the growing darkness and hid with him in deep shadows, away from streetlights when the occasional car passed by. One thing about downtown Phoenix, if a baseball game or convention wasn’t going on, most parts of the area were dead.

  He felt no relief when they reached the small hotel. He wouldn’t feel relief until Christie testified.

  The lone clerk gave them an odd look as they walked inside. No doubt the body armor drew her attention.

  “We need a room.” Trace pulled out his creds and showed them to the clerk. “Your absolute discretion is required. Are any employees around?”

  The large-boned woman with black hair shook her head. “Not right now. We only have one room. It’s a king.” She gave him a steep price, par for the course in Phoenix in the winter months, which were the busiest times of the year.

  “We’ll take it.” Trace gave her his bankcard. “I need you to hurry.”

  She did and it wasn’t long before Trace and Christie were headed upstairs on the lone elevator.

  He focused on Christie, who looked pale and exhausted. After everything she’d been through today, it was a wonder she was holding together as well as she was. Some people would have fallen apart by now.

  When they finally reached the room, Trace was pleased to find it was a heavy metal door and it had a sturdy bolt lock.

  Christie walked into the room then turned to look at Trace. The next thing he knew, she was in his arms and they were holding on to each other with a fierceness that he’d never known before.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The monster slammed Salvatore up against the cell’s concrete wall when the guard left. Salvatore’s skull hit the wall with a hard thunk as John rammed him against the wall again.

  Salvatore’s mind swam. He’d never expected to share a cell with the massive man and had walked on eggshells ever since they were forced into the same cramped space. He had known the man was watching him, but he was the kind of man whose expression never changed. He always looked like he wanted to kill anyone around him.

  And now John was going to kill Salvatore.

  He felt blood roll from his scalp, down the side of his face.

  The monster, who never did more than growl, put his mouth near Salvatore’s ear. He wasn’t surprised that John’s voice was deep, even as he kept his v
oice low.

  “El Verdugo grows tired of this game. If he can’t kill your ex-wife, then he’s going to kill you.” John’s voice was controlled as he shoved Salvatore’s face harder against the wall. “Problem solved, case closed. Blood ties do not matter when it comes to protecting the rest of the family.”

  Salvatore was surprised at John’s command of the English language. He’d expected the multi-tattooed brute to speak in monosyllables and slang.

  The thoughts of John’s speech were from Salvatore’s mind trying to escape the reality of his situation. El Verdugo, Salvatore’s blood relation, was going to have him killed if Christie testified and Salvatore was convicted. No doubt if he was convicted of the other charges, he’d be killed anyway.

  The only thing keeping him alive was the possibility that the jury would acquit him of everything, including murder and rape. Only Christie’s testimony could seal those last charges.

  That fucking bitch and the Circle of Seven. If it wasn’t for them…

  Salvatore’s throat worked as he swallowed, the concrete cool against his cheek. “My wife won’t make it.” Salvatore’s words came out in a squeak, an emasculating sound. His balls had shriveled at John’s words, so maybe it was no surprise he sounded effeminate.

  “I could kill you now.” A smile crept into John’s voice and in his strangely perfect English. He sounded as if he was college educated. “However, I do not care to be put into solitary confinement and face another murder charge.”

  John moved his face closer to Salvatore’s, his hot breath causing Salvatore’s hair to stir on his forehead. “Believe me, Salvatore Reyes, it will be easy to find the opportunity to do away with you without anyone knowing who performed the deed. If not me, it will be someone else. I hope I will be the one to wipe out your sniveling presence from the face of this planet.”

  Salvatore’s stomach went queasy and he was afraid he’d throw up the dinner he’d managed to shove down. If he threw up on John, the educated monster might just kill him now and be done with it.

  The monster jerked Salvatore away from the wall, then shoved him toward the bottom bunk bed. This time, the back of his head struck the steel bottom rail of the upper bunk. Lights sparked in his mind like falling stars.

  Salvatore collapsed onto the bottom bunk. He didn’t think he could move.

  “If you get blood on my blanket, you will give me yours.” John walked away, unzipped his fly, and pissed in the toilet.

  Salvatore lay on the bed for a moment, waiting for his head to stop spinning. He ignored the blood that was now dripping over his ear and likely onto the blanket. He reached up to touch the back of his head where it had struck the metal rail and felt sticky wetness on his hand and in his hair. He pulled his hand away from his head and raised it in front of his face to see blood on his fingers.

  His body went entirely limp. He knew he should get up. He was lying on the monster’s bed, and the beast might come back and finish what he started.

  Salvatore forced his muscles to cooperate and pushed himself to a seated position, hunching his shoulders, bent over, so that his head wouldn’t hit the upper bunk. He staggered to his feet, looked over his shoulder, and saw the spots of blood.

  Without looking at John, Salvatore stripped the blanket off his own bed and traded with the monster. At least the blood hadn’t gone through to the sheets.

  Salvatore almost fell off the ladder as he climbed up to his bunk. He managed to make it up and flop onto his thin mattress. He stared up at the ceiling and all he could think about was Christie with a bullet through her brain.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Salvatore was going to catch up to her. She ran faster. Her heart pounded so hard it was like drums in her ears.

  Branches slapped her face, roots tripped her, thorns scratched her arms and tore holes in her light dress as she ran through the forest.

  What forest? Where was she?

  Trace’s forest. She had to get to the cabin, had to get to Trace.

  Salvatore closed in on her. She could hear his heavy panting, his every breath hot on the back of her neck. It burned as if he was spitting acid on her.

  She pushed herself harder, but it was growing darker and she had a harder time seeing and dodging obstacles. Where was the cabin? Where was Trace?

  “I’m going to kill you, bitch.” Salvatore’s voice echoed through the forest. “You are mine. You will never belong to anyone else. You are my possession.” His voice grew even more hideous. “I will kill you for letting anyone else touch you.”

  She held back a sob. No matter how fast, how hard she ran, she would never get away from him. She would never be free of him.

  A cry tore from her as she tripped over a huge rock. She landed hard on the ground, her head hitting a stump as the rock scraped her bare legs at the same time. Pain shot through her skull and her legs burned from the scratches.

  Dizzy from hitting her head, she scrambled to her hands and knees.

  Salvatore tackled her. He slammed her to the ground, knocking the breath out of her as her arms and legs buckled. His full body weight was so heavy, pressing her into the soft earth. He was bigger than her and easily pinned her down. She struggled but he had her.

  With one hand he shoved up her dress and tore away her panties.

  “No!” she screamed and fought with everything she had. She twisted in his hold. Her hand connected with flesh and she scraped her nails across his skin and she screamed again.

  “Christie, wake up.” Trace’s voice.

  Another scream died in her throat. Wake up. It’s Trace.

  His firm and soothing tone tore her away from the nightmare starring Salvatore. She shook the cobwebby feeling from her head as she raised her eyelids. Her eyes widened when she saw red welts on Trace’s cheek.

  He released her wrists. She hadn’t known he was holding them.

  “I scratched you.” She reached out and cupped his stubbly jaw, avoiding the scratches. Her voice was thick with the tears she wanted to cry. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” He smoothed her hair away from her forehead. “Want to talk about it?”

  She looked down and away and saw that the covers were twisted. She must have been tossing and turning during the nightmare.

  Talking about her bastard ex-husband was the last thing she wanted to do, but this was Trace and she owed it to him. “It was about Salvatore.” She swallowed. “He was chasing me through a forest. I think the one where we were staying. He said he was going to kill me and then he started to—” She swallowed again. “—rape me. Just like the times he really did.”

  “Sweetheart.” Trace brought her close to him, holding her in his arms and squeezing her so tightly she almost couldn’t breathe. “He will never touch you again. I promise you.”

  “I know.” Her words were muffled against his T-shirt. His skin was warm to her face. “It just feels like I will never be free of him.”

  “You will.” Trace kissed the top of her head. “After today, you won’t ever have to see his sorry face again.”

  She nodded, feeling the comfort of Trace’s body against her. “I believe you.”

  As she slowly came to her senses, she remembered there were two FBI agents in the room and that Trace hadn’t slept last night with her thanks to the guards posted inside and out.

  Trace had stayed on watch, too. His eyes looked tired and she wondered if he’d slept or not in the stuffed chair near the bed. She knew the FBI agents had been changed out, so they wouldn’t be tired like Trace was.

  “Thank you.” She drew away and smiled at him. “I feel better now, thanks to you.”

  “It’s inside you.” He fingered strands of her hair. “You’re getting stronger every day.”

  ~~*~~

  Soon it would be time to go to the U.S. District Court on Washington Street and face Salvatore. Christie’s gut twisted. She had to come up with some way to distract herself, but she had no idea what that could be. Read a magazine? Strike u
p a conversation with a busy agent? Trace was talking with Stillwater. Christie wished he were with her instead.

  She wanted to push her way through the wall of FBI agents and go to the window. She would pull aside the curtains and stare out to see for herself what kind of day it was. Blustery? Rainy? Mild? Sunshiny? Phoenix could be any of those in February. But of course the roomful of agents wouldn’t let her near the glass.

  After all that had happened, she couldn’t blame them. It still made her gut clench every time she thought of how Rich had been killed while driving the van. A couple of agents in the two other vans had been injured, but no one else had died. She had to be grateful for that fact, even as she found it hard to forgive herself for being the cause of so much trouble.

  Trouble was putting it mildly.

  Fortunately the room she and Trace had been given in the boutique hotel the night before last was a decent size, or she would have been claustrophobic with all of the agents now here. There were so many inside and out. The agents were prepared to take bullets for her to get her safely to the federal courthouse, and she hated the thought of anyone taking a bullet for her again.

  The night of the chase, after they’d made it to the room in the boutique hotel, Trace had called Stillwater to let her know what had happened. She had wanted the address, but he’d said they were at a safe location and he’d give her the information the following day. Apparently she hadn’t been pleased with that response, but he’d disconnected the call.

  After he’d set his phone and weapon on the room’s desk, he had removed his body armor and helped Christie with the vest she was wearing.

  That night he had made love to her with wild intensity and she had answered with a fierceness of her own. It was as if they had to prove they were alive by touching each other and bringing it all to a climax that united them even more. They’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms, exhausted and spent.