“Until they take her.”
“What the fuck?” Clay bellowed. “We’re getting fucking warnings now?”
Bryce nodded, looking back at the three of them as though he weren’t seeing them but rather was somewhere off in his head.
“Where’re Josh and Ian?” RT asked, referring to the agents who’d been assigned to keep their eyes on Marissa.
“I don’t know,” Bryce said warily. “According to the message, Josh may be out of the equation.”
Trace knew exactly what that meant, and he didn’t want to think about the possibility that Josh was…
The intercom buzzed and Jayden’s concerned voice filled the air. “I’ve got Ian on line three. Said he needs to talk to someone ASAP.”
Without hesitation, Bryce hit the line three button, and the call was placed on speaker. “Ian? Where the fuck are you?”
Sounding out of breath and slightly out of sorts, Ian said, “I took a bullet to the shoulder. We were parked down the street. Josh went after them, but he’s… Son of a bitch. I’m pretty sure he’s … dead.”
“Where are you now?” RT questioned.
“Hospital,” Ian answered roughly. “It’s not life-threatening, but it’s… Fuck, it’s not good. I need to go back to Marissa.”
“No, you don’t,” Trace declared. “Stay where you are. We’ll send someone to you. You hear me?”
“Yeah,” Ian answered. “Fuck. I’ll stay here.”
“We’ll call you back,” Bryce informed him, hitting the button to end the call.
“Who’s closest to her?” RT asked, looking to both Trace and Clay for answers.
Clay already had his phone to his ear. “Son of a bitch. Her phone line’s disconnected.”
Trace swallowed hard, ignoring the roaring in his head. He looked at RT, then to Clay, and then back to Bryce, unable to speak. Without a sound, he turned and left the room. He didn’t walk; he didn’t even think. After a quick detour to his office to grab his go-bag, Trace took off at a dead run, checking only to make sure he was armed.
“Hey! Where the hell are you goin’?” Hunter’s voice sounded from somewhere above him as Trace shot down the stairs, choosing to take seven flights of stairs rather than waiting for the elevator to the first floor.
By the time Trace reached his bike, his cell phone was ringing. He ignored it at first, more worried about hitting the road.
Two miles into what would be a three-hundred mile trek to Bum Fuck, Oklahoma, Trace answered the next time his phone rang.
“What?”
“Where are you?”
Trace didn’t even dignify the question with a response. If Clay didn’t know him better than that, the man didn’t deserve an answer.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” Clay finally said when he must’ve realized Trace wasn’t going to answer. “I’m with Dom and Austin. We called the local PD, told them to do a welfare check. Not a top priority of theirs, but Bryce called in a few favors. I just got off the phone with Tanner. He’s two and a half hours away and the closest to her right now.”
Trace didn’t give a shit who was closer or how long it would take them to get to her. He would be there first. And he’d protect her and find Josh, no matter what it took.
Trace didn’t respond to Clay. He focused on the road, switching into a lower gear as he shot through the heavy flow of traffic.
“Let me know when you get there, Trace. I’m fucking serious. I’ll keep you updated as soon as I know something. RT’s getting the jet ready. He’ll be on the ground before you get there.”
Maybe, Trace thought to himself as he hit the gas. The only thing on his mind was getting to Marissa. Because he wouldn’t let this bastard get her. There was no other choice. And from there, he would never trust another soul to protect her. No one other than him.
The sound of laughter coming from the TV pulled Trace from his thoughts. That had been one hell of a week for all of them. The fact that Josh had been killed and the knowledge they were working against time to protect Marissa, needless to say, everyone had been on edge.
Especially Trace.
And then, his life had nearly come to a blinding halt when he’d realized he’d been too late. By the time he’d gotten to the safe house—long after the local cops had done a drive by, and still within the fucking three hours they’d given them, at that, which, as it turned out, had been pure bullshit—Marissa was gone. It was obvious whoever had taken her had done so against her will.
Running on nothing but fear-induced adrenaline and pure determination, Trace had found her.
It hadn’t hurt that they’d been dealing with a hired gun, an amateur. A psychopath, really. No, the merc who’d been hired to kidnap her definitely hadn’t been the brightest bulb. Thank God for that because they had needed a shit ton of miracles, and somehow they’d gotten them.
RT had beaten Trace to the safe house, but barely. By minutes, actually. As soon as they’d realized she wasn’t there, they’d begun combing the area, praying the guy had fucked up somewhere along the way. After all, they’d had absolutely nothing to go on. The neighbors hadn’t been much help, and the only lead they had received was from an old lady who’d deemed herself the president of the neighborhood watch, which meant she spent hours sitting in front of her window watching her street.
White Ford Taurus. That was the extent of the details they’d received from the nosy neighbor.
But it had been enough.
Dom and Austin had hacked into the traffic cameras that led into and out of the small Oklahoma town and located no fewer than ten white Ford Tauruses over the course of an hour. It was a wild goose chase if there ever was one, but they’d been lucky that day.
Trace had been lucky that day.
Marissa had been drugged and unconscious, stuffed into the trunk of the nondescript white car in the parking lot of a rest stop not far out of town. The dumb fuck who’d snatched her had actually stopped for dinner, clearly thinking he had all the time in the world.
Well, Trace had decided to surprise the bastard. Right after he’d made a quick call to RT, who was halfway across town, having gone after a different white Taurus. RT had arrived in time to get Marissa’s unconscious body out of there long before their brilliant kidnapper had finished his steak and mashed potatoes.
No one had ever shared with Marissa who had found her, and Trace damn sure didn’t need the glory. It had been the only thing he cared about during those hellish three hours. His decisions after that weren’t some of his best, though. What had happened later had been completely and entirely Trace’s fault.
A decision he’d live with for the rest of his life.
By the time the ordeal was over, Marissa was safely stashed, albeit temporarily, once again, Ian was undergoing surgery for the bullet in his shoulder, Josh was dead, as was the mercenary, and Trace had taken a bullet himself—to the arm. At that point, Trace had gone nose to nose with both RT and Bryce, informing them that he would be responsible for looking after Marissa going forward. Whether they liked it or not.
He had fought tooth and nail to keep her from being shipped off to the next safe house—in Maine—but he’d lost the battle. Both Casper and Bryce, and even RT, had insisted it was the best thing for her. Trace had disagreed. But he’d also packed a bag, taken his Escalade, and hit the road then, too. He’d been in Maine before the private jet carrying her had ever hit pavement.
And he’d remained there, despite his father’s grumblings, for the first week. No one had questioned him. Well, no one but himself. Not after she’d been snatched right out from under their fucking noses. There hadn’t been a question in his mind who should’ve been protecting her, but he had been lost on what his motivation was. Something deep in his soul had urged him to protect her, to make sure nothing happened to her. He still battled the all-consuming need to possess her as his, and for the sake of his own sanity, keeping Marissa with him was the only logical answer.
And yes, maybe Trace had le
t the bastard get a little too close for comfort the last time, but he’d been after revenge, wanting to follow the trail that would lead him back to the man responsible for all of this. His emotional reaction hadn’t fared well for Josh, unfortunately, and thanks to the lapse in judgment, Ian had nearly lost his own life in the process because the not-life-threatening bullet wound that Ian had initially claimed to have, was, in fact, that. Fucking life-threatening. It’d hit a fucking artery.
Not that Marissa would ever know that.
And ever since that horrific day when Trace had thought he’d lost the one thing he cared about more than anything in the world, he’d been her shadow. Hiding in plain sight, unwilling to leave her for too long. He’d remained in Maine until he’d had no other choice but to head off on another assignment. Only then had he made sure that someone with more skills than poor Josh was in place.
His assignment had lasted two fucking months, but the minute he was back in Texas, debriefed and rested, he’d packed his shit and prepared to head out once again only to learn that they’d moved her. According to Bryce and Casper, that was the new plan: continue to move her as they tried to make heads or tails of the entire clusterfuck.
When Trace had demanded to know where she was, insisting he was the only one equipped to protect her that time, no one had questioned him directly, but he was pretty sure his father had recognized Trace’s reasons for going back. Trace cared about Marissa. More than he even admitted to himself. It had been during his battle with his emotions that Bryce and Casper, and even RT, had convinced him to sit on it. To try and lure the guy out of hiding one more time.
Wanting nothing more than to end the bullshit, Trace had somehow forced himself to sit back and wait for a solid fucking week and a half. He’d gotten Marissa out of the Connecticut safe house, but he had sacrificed the asshole who had set the bomb in the process, much like the guy before that, the man who’d kidnapped her from a fucking safe house and stopped for dinner, forsaking any possible chance of finding the man responsible for it all. The man behind the instructions.
Trace brought the TV into focus, trying to force the memories of that day away. He’d gotten Marissa out safe and sound, which was all that mattered. The fuckhole Trace had encountered in the Connecticut house hadn’t been willing to talk anyway, so the bullet Trace had delivered to the man’s brain had been the only option. Trace had been on borrowed time, and dragging the body down the hall and into the bathroom hadn’t been high on his list of things to do, but he couldn’t bring himself to let Marissa see what was left of the guy.
When she’d emerged from her bedroom, Trace’s instincts had kicked in. They were down to mere minutes, and his only hope was to get them both out of the house safely. He’d suspected the first guy hadn’t been working alone, but Trace didn’t have time for another encounter, so he’d approached her quietly, and then they’d run like hell.
To this day, he had managed to avoid answering most of her questions. He wasn’t sure he’d be willing to give her all the details, not wanting to subject her to the horrors that seemed to be going on around her.
And now, the only thing he could think about was keeping her safe from the evil lurking in the shadows.
□«»□«»□«»□
Marissa sat cross-legged in the big comfy suede chair as she tried to focus on the television. Whatever Trace was watching hadn’t captured her interest, but at least she wasn’t having an anxiety attack. That was saying something.
Ever since her conversation with RT, she’d been reliving the nightmare that’d claimed her life for the past year, as though it were happening to her all over again. Being with Trace, watching him as he moved around his house so effortlessly, had been the only thing to take her mind off the fear. And at times, even that wasn’t enough to ward off the chill that had taken up residence in her bones.
For a brief time, he had retreated to his bedroom, closing the door behind him and effectively shutting her out. She’d been somewhat grateful for the opportunity to be alone, choosing to shower while she had the opportunity, but then when that task was completed, Marissa had found the silence nearly unbearable. Strange, considering she’d spent so much of the past year with only her thoughts as company, and it had never bothered her as much as it had today.
She’d actually fought the urge to run to Trace, to open his bedroom door and throw her arms around him, seeking the safety and security she only felt when she was with him, but she had somehow managed to leave him be.
Relief had swamped her when he’d reappeared nearly two hours later, looking worse for wear, even though he’d attempted to smile. Since that point, conversation had been slow, although there were a million questions running on an endless loop in her brain, but she refused to ask them. Trace wouldn’t answer them; she knew that much. So, she had busied herself by cleaning up the kitchen and doing her best to preoccupy her mind with whatever sitcom that was playing on the giant television mounted on the wall.
It wasn’t working.
She wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball until the world around her righted itself and things could get back to normal. For the last year, her work had taken a hit, her social life was precariously thin, and her sex life, until the last few days, was obsolete. It was as though she’d become a shell of herself, and with every minute that passed, she’d found herself withdrawing that much more.
Until Trace.
Until he had put light back into her life, a smile back on her face. He was the good she’d been searching for, the safety she’d thought was lost. Except now she feared he’d put that invisible wall back up, the one that had kept her away from him.
The only positive out of all of this was the fact that Marissa knew she could still feel something. And that something was completely focused on Trace. When he was around, she wasn’t sure she’d care what was on television or whether the world around them had stopped moving. Her entire focus was on him. At the moment, she considered him her lifeline.
Trying her best not to be obvious, Marissa found herself glancing over at him repeatedly. She was absorbing every inch of him with her eyes, and with each observant pass, her body temperature was steadily increasing, effectively pushing the morbid thoughts away once again.
Marissa was having a hard time finding the negative in that.
The man was… God, she wasn’t even sure she could describe it. The way he lay prone on the sofa, his head propped on a small throw pillow, his hands resting on his flat, chiseled—and very naked —stomach had her attention focused there. He was wearing black sweat pants that rode low on his hips, highlighting that muscular V that made her pulse rate skyrocket.
She recalled watching him move around his kitchen while she’d sat at the table drinking the water he’d thrust at her shortly after she had joined him when he’d offered her lunch. When he’d shoved the boxed meal he’d retrieved from the freezer into the microwave, Marissa had been intently focused on his ass. A perfect, drool-worthy ass that looked as though quarters could be bounced off the hard, defined muscles.
His back was corded, the defined muscles visible beneath the black T-shirt he’d had on. His thick biceps had bunched and flexed as he’d retrieved plates and silverware during his preparations. Had she not been so fixated on him, she would’ve had the good sense to offer to help. It was his own fault.
As if that hadn’t been enough, once he’d emerged from his bedroom after disappearing for a few hours, she had been surprised to see that he’d changed. Gone were the black tactical pants and in their place were a pair of black sweat pants that clung to every muscle so deliciously she shouldn’t have been expected to help. Especially since he’d opted to go shirtless. Again.
And now, Marissa wanted to be the one to run her hands over his short, spiky hair, just as he did every few minutes. A nervous tic, maybe? Or perhaps he could feel her watching him. Either way, she wanted to touch him. She could imagine herself propped over him on the couch, their mouths fused together as
the stubble along his jaw and chin scraped sensually against her face as it had so many times over the last few days.
Slow down, girlie.
Her subconscious might be offering warnings, but her eyes weren’t willing to respond. He was too much temptation all wrapped up in a sexy, sinfully delicious package, and Marissa desperately needed a distraction.
Trace cleared his throat and Marissa’s gaze darted back to his face. She was pretty sure she turned three shades of red when she realized he was staring back at her. Unable to say anything, she merely forced her attention back to the television, her hands knotting in her lap.
Yeah, she wasn’t sure how long she was going to be able to do this. After all, she might be fighting for her life, but she wasn’t dead yet.
Thirty-Six
“You wanna talk?” Trace asked when he found Marissa staring at him once again.
“About?”
“Up to you,” he told her, not bothering to move from his position on the couch.
“Is that an offer to answer my questions?”
Trace glanced over his shoulder, meeting her gaze head on as he considered that. He merely shrugged, figuring he had nothing left to lose. If she wanted to question him, he had quite a few questions of his own that needed to be answered.
“What happened to Josh?” she asked, her voice soft.
Swallowing, Trace looked up at the ceiling, deciding to go all in. “Josh and Ian had been assigned to keep an eye on you in the Oklahoma safe house. The day that asshole grabbed you, Josh took a bullet to the head.” Trace knew he was being harsh with his explanation, but he couldn’t see any other way to describe it. He wanted Marissa to understand just how real this was. How real it would be tomorrow when they ventured right into the fray, putting her directly in the line of fire for the sake of drawing this bastard out.
“And Ian?”
“He took a bullet to the shoulder. It hit an artery. They did surgery to repair it, managed to save his life.”
“And you?” she asked, her voice trembling.
Wait for Morning (Sniper 1 Security #1) Page 31