Hit Man’s booted feet moved toward her.
Gripping her gun hand hard with her left to minimize the quaking, she squeezed the trigger and got a shot off. It went wide.
She squeezed again.
The gun clicked benignly. Out of ammo.
She unzipped her jacket’s inside pocket and reached for her backup weapon, but it snagged on the pocket liner.
Another spray of bullets rocked the table. Her time was running out. She fumbled with the jacket pocket but couldn’t control her fingers enough to untangle the gun. Adrenaline and fear were making her clumsier with every passing second. With her pulse whooshing in her ears, she scrambled out the other end of the table.
Keeping low, she slipped back into the public area of the now-deserted store. The gunfire had done an effective job of clearing out shoppers. She dashed past the milk refrigerators toward the bakery, fumbling in her jacket pocket as she moved.
She veered behind the bakery display counter and hurled herself to the ground. Her hand shook so hard she couldn’t close her fingers over the gun, much less unsnag it from the pocket lining and bring it out. She ground her teeth with rage against her stupid limitations that were about to get her killed. Taking a second deep breath, she focused on steadying her hand, but it was too late.
Hit Man dragged her up and punched her square in the cheek he’d already pummeled. This time, Camille hit back. She put all her weight behind a right uppercut to his chin and when she retracted her fist, she backhanded the other side of his face.
He grabbed hold of her left wrist and torqued it until she screamed. She was millimeters away from having her arm broken and so she pivoted, desperate to straighten her arm. As soon as her back was to him, he released her wrist and locked his arm around her neck in a stranglehold.
She gasped for air that would not come. He tightened his grip and the edges of her vision went black. Struggling against an onslaught of shock, she shoved her quaking hand inside the pocket of her jacket, threaded the gun under her armpit and clamped down with her arm to steady her grip.
She fired twice.
Hit Man slumped over her. The unnatural warmth of spilled blood pooled across her back. Shouldering him off, she left the gun in her now-ragged jacket and ran out the screen door at the rear of the bakery, into an alley.
She paused and did a quick assessment of herself. Her side ached, probably from bullet shrapnel, she had a mean shiner on her cheek and she was covered in blood. It saturated her jacket, splattered into her hair and ran down her arms and legs.
Her cell phone rang again, a confusingly normal sound that blended with the wailing of multiple police sirens closing in. She wouldn’t answer Aaron’s call because no matter what she said, the fear and adrenaline in her voice would come through and she couldn’t take the chance that he’d come for her. She’d rather die before dragging him into this new danger. Until she could guarantee Aaron’s safety, she’d have to make due on her own.
She fished out the phone, turned the ringer off and ran.
She ran as fast and as long as her leg and its debilitating pain allowed. Then she kept going anyway, more slowly, but still making progress. Keeping to alleyways, trash heaps and abandoned buildings, she shrank into the shadows of the city and disappeared.
* * *
A tingling of dread niggled at Aaron when Camille didn’t answer her phone. He called her at noon like he’d promised and again a few minutes later, but it rang and rang. After that, the phone was answered by a computerized message. Either her phone had been switched off or destroyed. Any way he looked at it, something was wrong.
His simmering dread devolved into full-fledged panic when, at three o’clock, he stopped by Ana’s apartment and Camille was not there. Bags of new clothes had been piled on the sofa, but no Camille. He jogged to the supermarket where she’d planned to shop.
At the edge of the supermarket parking lot, he dropped to his knees at the sight of three covered bodies being loaded into ambulances. The parking lot was nearly empty of civilian vehicles and it didn’t take any time at all to locate Ana’s car.
Crazy with fear, he raced back to Ana’s apartment to wait for her to come home from work so he could enlist her help. The market was crawling with cops and no way could Aaron take the chance of being recognized. If Camille was alive, what good would he be to her if he were taken into custody? Ana was already home when he arrived and agreed to go to the market to ask witnesses about the identities of the dead. Or, at least, if any of the bodies were an American female.
Dear God, let her be alive.
Aaron kept vigil at the apartment, holding on to hope Camille would show up at five o’clock as they’d agreed. He cleaned and reloaded his guns twice, checked the strength of his phone service every minute or two and paced in circles around the kitchen table. He put in a call to Nicholas Wells, his task-force buddy, but word of the market shoot-out hadn’t trickled Stateside.
Five o’clock came and went.
Ana returned at five-thirty, frustrated by the lack of information she’d been able to elicit from onlookers. All she learned was that the market was a wreck, with blood and knives and bullets everywhere.
Together they waited thirty minutes more, until Aaron could no longer bear the idleness. After scribbling his cell phone number, he grabbed the bags of clothing and their stash of weapons, slung them around his body and loped to the dirt bike he’d purchased that morning. The heavy load was awkward and took a lot of concentration to balance, but he was grateful for the distraction to keep his mind from hurtling off the deep end.
After dropping the clothes and guns off at their new hideout, he sat on the bike on the side of the road, fingering his phone. If he didn’t hear from her by midnight, he’d call Dreyer and enlist Santero’s help. His terror at Camille’s fate was palpable—like a second person standing too close, whispering, I told you it was a bad idea to split up over and over into his ear. Every five minutes, he redialed her number.
He decided not to search for her. It was a strange city, so large that the futility of a search was bound to destroy whatever hope he had left. And he might not hear her call over the high-pitched whine of the bike’s engine.
At nine o’clock, after nine full hours of experiencing a level of panic he hadn’t known was possible to survive from, his phone rang.
“Aaron?” Camille’s voice was weak and breathy.
Aaron gritted his teeth against the emotion welling in his throat. She was alive.
“You scared me.” His choked whisper sounded oddly similar to hers. “What took you so long to call?”
“I think I passed out.”
Aaron closed his eyes. Now was not the time to lose the careful control he’d clung to all day. “Tell me where you are and I’ll come get you.”
She directed him to a partially constructed cinder-block structure in an alley off a major thoroughfare and asked him to bring her a change of clothes. She swore to him she’d keep her phone close at hand while she waited. Still, he hated the uncertainty that came with hanging up the call.
He flew through the streets in a daze and stopped next to a darkened cinder-block shell of a house, disbelieving that his Camille was inside such a cruel, filthy place. He’d never let a woman he knew walk through this alley, let alone linger after dark with only rats, roaches and stray dogs as company.
Camille sat in the far corner of the structure, propped against the wall. The bright lights of the thoroughfare streamed in through the empty spaces that would have been windows if the house had been finished. It was enough light to see Camille’s swollen face and the dried brown blood that coated her like paint.
He ran to her and dropped to the ground.
“Where are you hurt?” He ripped the blood-drenched jacket and shirt over her head. “Where are you hurt, goddamn it?”
“It’s not my blood.”
He smoothed his fingers over her back, inspecting her skin, slick with blood and sweat, for the wound that
was most certainly there. The jacket bore the irrefutable evidence of a bullet hole and a life-threatening wound.
“Where were you hit, Cam? Talk to me.” His voice was frantic as his hands finished with her back and started on her front, roving over her stomach and sides and arms.
“It’s not my blood.”
“Like hell it’s not. There’s too much of it.”
With a violent yank of material, her bloody, tattered pants were off. His hands grazed the lengths of her legs. Bits of glass were embedded in her calves, but that wasn’t what he was looking for.
“Aaron, stop. It’s not my blood. I swear.”
Finally, with no inch of her body left unchecked, he stood. His pulse was racing, his breath coming in ragged fits. Impossible that she could be covered in so much blood and not be injured. Impossible. But whatever her wounds were, he had to get a grip before he got them into more trouble.
He had to get Camille to safety. The urge to protect her was fierce. At that moment, there were fifty-fifty odds he’d call Dreyer to get them out of the country by morning. They might have to hide for the rest of their lives in WitSec, but she’d be safe and that was all that mattered.
He looked her way. Wearing nothing but panties and a bra, she sat utterly still, chanting quietly, looking more fragile than he knew her capable of being. That certainly got his attention.
Finally, he heard what she was chanting.
“It’s not my blood.”
Blinking rapidly, he nodded, processing. “It’s not your blood.”
“No.”
“Whose?”
“Two men from the compound and another I didn’t recognize.”
“You killed them?”
“Yeah,” she said wearily.
“You weren’t shot?”
“No, just a little beat up.”
Aaron looked around the ground for the change of clothes he’d brought, that he’d dropped in a fit of panic when he’d seen her. “Here, hurry. We need to leave.”
She put her clothes on while sitting, even her pants. Aaron couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, as if his sight held the power to keep her from evaporating into thin air. When she was done, he handed her a helmet.
“A motorcycle?”
“Dirt bike. With helmets on, there’s no chance of being recognized.”
Camille nodded. Aaron offered her a hand, which she accepted. She grimaced as she pushed to her feet, as though she was injured worse than the superficial wound on her ankle. But he had inspected every inch of her body.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she replied thickly. “Get the bike started. I’ll be out in a sec.”
“No. You’re not getting out of my sight again.”
“I’m right behind you.”
“What are you hiding from me, Camille?”
“I need a minute.”
Then he noticed the way she stood—on her right foot. The pieces fell into place. The grocery store was at least six or seven miles away.
“You ran, didn’t you? From the market?”
“I did what I had to do. Please, wait at the bike. I’ll be there in a sec.”
Aaron lifted her into his arms. Her bad leg had to be killing her, and she didn’t want him to see her limp. Stubborn, stubborn woman.
“You promised—no pity.”
“Right. No pity,” he murmured absentmindedly as he walked.
“Then what do you call this?”
Taking care of you, my proud warrior. “Only trying to speed things along.”
They barreled through the city. The feel of Camille, with her arms holding tight around his middle and her warmth pressed against his back, was a balm against the fear and regret that had consumed him. She was alive, relatively uninjured and safe.
Pulling into a private marina, Aaron cut the engine on the bike and used his feet to walk them down the ramp to the dock.
“You bought us a yacht?”
“Yeah.” He helped her from the bike and over the railing of the boat. “Transportation-slash-housing all rolled into one.”
Camille nodded. She looked exhausted.
He lifted the bike over the rail and onto the deck of the boat. Its lightness was one of the main reasons Aaron bought a dirt bike instead of a motorcycle. The other was its ability to traverse both streets and off-road trails, wherever their search for Rosalia Perez took them.
“The bathroom’s by the bed,” he said. “I’m going to get us offshore, then we’ll talk.”
“Okay.” But she didn’t move, just stood on her right leg, probably waiting for him to turn away so he wouldn’t see her limp. Stubborn woman. Though he wanted to carry her, her safety was more important. Every moment on land kept Camille in danger.
Aaron untied the ropes that anchored them to the dock and climbed the ladder to the bridge. With a turn of a key, the boat rumbled to life. He pushed the throttle forward and the boat responded, racing them into the safety of the deep, black sea.
One hour later, with the boat anchored in a leeward cove of a tiny island off the coast, he sat on the bed and waited for Camille to finish showering, holding a pair of scissors and a box of hair dye he’d found amid her purchases. He worshipped her hair but valued her life even more. Maybe if she’d disguised her appearance sooner, before Aaron stopped her, the shoot-out could’ve been avoided. He wouldn’t make such a careless mistake again.
She emerged from the bathroom dressed in sweatpants and a white T-shirt. The bruises on her cheek looked even worse in the light. Her left eye was almost completely swollen shut, but she zeroed in on the items in his hands and nodded.
She took a step and sniffed. Gathering her in his arms, he ignored her weak protestations and deposited her on the toilet lid.
Without a word, she turned, offering him access to her hair. He gathered it in his hand, gave it one final caress.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. Then he made the first cut.
Before long, blond locks littered the floor. Camille remained still and silent as Aaron snipped her hair to chin length. When he’d finished, he opened the box of dye.
“I don’t know how...” he started.
She turned toward him and set her hand over his. “I’ll help you.”
Her fingers were cold, shaky. He dropped to his knees and brought her hand to his lips. He felt a welling of sorrow and anger stir within him, threatening his careful composure, and cleared his throat. “We’ll save enough dye for my hair, too. We’re in this together.”
She nodded and took the box of dye. Bent over the instructions together, they got to work.
An hour later, they were brunettes. Aaron dabbed her hair one final time with a towel, then lifted her into his arms. She complied without complaint as he carried her to the bed.
Rolling to her side, she stared at the wall with stormy intensity.
After turning off the lights, Aaron stripped to his boxers and slid beneath the covers, all the way over to her. She didn’t acknowledge his nearness, but she didn’t protest either. He rested the entire length of his body along her back, spooning her tightly. His fingers locked with hers.
He spent nine hours that day thinking she’d died in a vicious gun battle. Though he knew better now, he felt damaged by the experience. Tonight, he needed to hold her as much for his own healing as for hers.
Tonight, she let him.
Chapter 9
Camille woke with Aaron’s nose touching her cheek and his arm draped across the underside of her breasts. She should get up. They had so much to do. Every moment they wasted kept their families and Rosalia in danger. But his body felt heavy and good and she dreaded moving her throbbing left leg.
She worked her fingers through the tips of Aaron’s thick hair and felt the ends where it curled around his ear. He looked as handsome as ever with brown hair. Her fingers glided over his earlobe and around the strong angle of his jaw. When she did not dare explore him further, she rested the palm of her hand agains
t his neck and concentrated on the beat of his pulse.
It would be worse now for her. If they survived this mission, it would be painful in a way she wanted to deny but couldn’t—not if she was being honest with herself. She’d invested years of her energy hating Aaron, on actively trying not to think about what she wanted from him. That would be impossible now. The man she held for this brief moment in time beneath the palm of her hand would exist forever on the fringe of her life, unattainable and heartbreaking. She should have tried harder to hate him.
When the tickle of blinking eyelashes brushed her cheek, her hand flew from Aaron’s neck. Silently, he levered himself onto an elbow. She met his fathomless brown eyes, felt his arms slide along her shoulders, caging her beneath him, his fingers tangling in her hair. He lowered his mouth. Through no conscious will of her own, Camille’s lips parted. Hovering only centimeters above her, he closed his eyes, his breathing strained, shallow.
A lock of his hair fell forward, skimming her forehead. She closed her eyes, the effort to stay still, to not pull his head down that final bit, sapping her already negligible strength.
He sucked in a deep, tremulous gulp of air, rolled off the bed and staggered to the bathroom. Camille let go of the sheet she was twisting and pushed to a seated position at the edge of the bed. Her whole body hurt, as if the pain of her leg had seeped into her bloodstream and spread while she slept.
Good. Anything to keep her mind from dwelling on what just happened.
When Aaron emerged from the bathroom, neither spoke as he carried her up the three stairs to the sofa. She let him because, frankly, she couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.
“This is the living area,” he said without meeting her eyes. “There’s a deck out back with a ladder that leads to the bridge. The boat’s only thirty-three feet long, which is tiny, I know, but it was the best I could do.”
In addition to the sofa on which Camille sat, the main cabin housed a dining table and a kitchenette complete with a sink, mini-fridge and microwave. “Actually, it’s not much smaller than my apartment. How much did you pay?”
Seduction Under Fire Page 9