Loyalty Under Fire (Operation: Hot Spot Book 3)

by Trish McCallan

  “Uh, Rio?”

  “Yeah?” His voice was absent. His gaze didn’t budge from the road. But the car suddenly slowed. “Hang on. I need to talk to my CO.”

  “Sure,” Becca said, her voice thin.

  With her heart beating way too hard and fast, she instinctively clamped her left palm to the ragged hole in her blouse, as though she could keep her blood inside by pressing hard enough. Instead, red liquid seeped between her fingers.

  “You should ask your CO who cleans your cars.”

  “What?” He shot her a confused look as he reached for the cell phone tucked into the console between the two seats.

  “They’ll need to know how to get blood out of upholstery since I’m bleeding all over your seat and floor.”

  “What?” His tone sharpened, as did the eyes that swung in her direction.

  “Pretty sure I’ve been shot.” She tried for the laconic tone Dean or Sam from Supernatural adopted during similar moments of crisis, but all she heard in her voice was disbelief, laced with shock.

  But then she wasn’t a SEAL or a police officer or a demon hunter. She was an average, run-of-the-mill psychologist. A profession that rarely had to dodge bullets.

  Rio didn’t respond to her announcement. At least not verbally. But he dropped his cell back into the console and guided the car to the side of the road. He hit the brakes, shoved the gearshift into neutral, and twisted his body until he was facing her.

  “Let me see.” He leaned across the console.

  Gladly.

  He was, after all, the expert on guns and all things bullet related.

  She turned her torso toward him and dropped her hand. “Do you see the hole in my shirt? Have I been shot?”

  Disbelief flashed through her. Never in a million years had she expected to utter those words.

  “Looks like it,” he said, hitting the laconic tone perfectly. But his face went tight and grim.

  Reaching to the right and down, he punched the button to the glove box and pulled out a red, zippered pouch with a big white cross blazoned across the front. He unzipped the pouch and pulled out a thick wad of gauze.

  “Here.” He shoved the pad into her left hand. “Press this against the exit wound. Keep the pressure on.”

  “Exit wound?” she repeated, her voice reedy as she took the gauze from him. The pain had settled into an endless searing burn.

  “Just press it against the hole in your shirt.” He shoved the gearshift back into drive, glanced in the rearview mirror, and shot back onto the street.

  “But… exit?” she repeated faintly, her head spinning.

  How much blood loss was too much? Shouldn’t he be more worried about stopping the bleeding?

  “You were facing me,” he reminded her. “The shooter was behind you. The bullet would have entered from the back and exited the front.”

  Great… she was bleeding from a second bullet hole too? One she couldn’t reach? A wave of dizziness swept over her. He sounded far too casual about the fact she’d been shot and was possibly bleeding to death. The man had no bedside manner at all.

  “Maybe you should park. Call an ambulance and try to slow the bleeding yourself.”

  He shook his head, expelling a tight, controlled breath. “Can’t chance it. We don’t know whether the hit-and-run and the shooter are the same guy. I can’t chance stopping again. Someone could be following us.”

  Which gave her something else to worry about.

  Perfect.

  “Relax.” He sent her a reassuring look. “You’ll be fine. The bleeding isn’t that bad, and the nearest emergency room is minutes away.” He leaned forward to flip a switch, and a siren blared. Red and blue flashes glazed the windows.

  Becca looked back down at the “not that bad” bleeding. The gauze was already soaked, and the crimson drip, drip, drip off her right hand had increased to a sluggish stream.

  If this was nothing to be concerned about, why was she feeling so sick and woozy? She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the constant radiating burn.

  Slowly a painful realization wiggled its way to the forefront of her mind.

  He obviously didn’t feel any lingering affection for her. Because if he did, wouldn’t he have shown at least a smidgen of concern for her welfare?

  Rio screeched to a stop in front of the ER, killed the siren, and laid on the horn. He’d opted out of updating dispatch and alerting the ER to his imminent arrival. No sense in advertising where she was headed so her would-be killer could finish the job. But there was a downside to that decision. He had no medical team waiting for him.

  Dammit.

  He glanced at his silent passenger as he grabbed his cell phone and shoved open his door. His stomach clenched at her white, wan face. Her eyes looked huge and black and terrified as they clung to his. The wad of gauze—along with her blouse, from her shoulder across her chest—was mushy with blood.

  She hadn’t made a sound since asking him to pull over and call an ambulance. Not one fucking sound. His stomach tightened and twisted.

  You should have stopped, dammit. Tried to stanch the bleeding.

  Except he’d made the right call. Intellectually, he knew that. He didn’t know whether the driver of the truck had also wielded the rifle. If the attacks had come from two separate individuals, someone could be following them. He’d be leaving her wide open to a third, possibly fatal attack if he pulled over, particularly if he was distracted by administering first aid.

  But emotionally… He flinched when she shut her eyes and rolled her head away from him. Emotionally he hated seeing her in pain. He hated the ashen tone to her face and the blood spreading across her chest and down her arm. He hated not being able to comfort her, to protect her, or stop the bleeding.

  He tucked the cell into his back pocket and threw himself out of the Crown Vic. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of someone dressed in green scrubs.

  “I need a gurney,” he yelled as he booked it around the hood of the car.

  He closed on the passenger door without waiting for a response.

  “Hey.” He forced his voice to normalcy as he knelt beside Becca. “How you holding up?”

  “Couldn’t be better.” Her voice was whisper thin and cracked in spots. “You know, considering I’m bleeding all over your car like a stuck pig.”

  The threadbare smile she sent him ripped at his heart.

  “Don’t worry about the damn car.” His voice came out rough and raw. He cleared his throat. “Let’s get you into the clinic.”

  “Sounds good to me.” She caught her breath as he leaned forward, working his left arm behind her back and his right beneath her knees.

  Although he avoided her shoulder and arm, she groaned as he eased her out of the seat.

  “I’ve got you,” he assured her tightly. Did the promise sound as solemn to her as it did to him?

  He smelled blood. Her blood. And sweat—his, along with a citrusy floral scent, as he rose to his feet. It wasn’t the same wild, flowery scent she’d favored as a teenager. This one had a tangy overtone that balanced the sweetness. Just one more difference to add to his growing list. In many ways the woman in his arms bore little resemblance to the Becca he’d known.

  Her courage during the shooting and subsequent race to the ER illustrated that difference. Other than the surprised little cry she’d let loose when the passenger window had shattered, she hadn’t screamed, hadn’t complained, hadn’t cried. Instead, she’d faced the circumstances and pain with wan smiles and stoic silence.

  “You should put me down,” she told him, even as she cuddled into his chest. “I’m too heavy. You don’t want to strain your back.”

  In the distance the rattle, rattle, rattle of steel wheels over cement announced the arrival of the emergency room crew.

  His arms tightened, and he forced a light chuckle. “The day my back gives out because of carrying a pretty woman is the day I’ll give up my badge and retire.”
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  “Pretty?” Her laugh was breathless and pained but still wry. “Oh yeah, blood and bullet holes are so attractive.”

  No, but this black-haired woman with the big brown eyes and quiet courage sure as hell was.

  The rattle of the gurney came closer. “Hang in there, baby. They’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

  “Did you just call me baby?”

  Suddenly she grimaced, apparently misreading the shock on his face at the inadvertent slip.

  “Sorry. I must be hallucinating.” She offered him a wobbly smile. “I hear blood loss can do that to a person.”

  “What do we have?” a man in blue scrubs asked. He pushed the gurney up next to Rio.

  Thank Christ for doctors, nurses, and gurneys. The combination saved him from having to address his Freudian slip.

  He didn’t bother to present his badge. The flashers and siren had already identified him. Besides, most of the staff would recognize him. Too many witness statements were taken next to an ER bed.

  “Gunshot. High on the shoulder,” he told them tersely.

  “You didn’t dress the wound?” The doctor sounded surprised.

  Since it was obvious he hadn’t dressed the fucking wound, Rio let the question hang. There were other matters that demanded his attention.

  “Our arrival needs to be kept quiet. If anyone inquires about a gunshot victim, you know nothing. Got it?”

  The doctor nodded, sudden understanding on his face. “You can put her down now.”

  Rio stopped walking. “Pass it around. Nobody’s seen her. Nobody’s treated her. She was never admitted.”

  The nurse glanced at him, exasperation touching her face. “Got it. Now put her down.”

  Rio’s arms tightened, the reluctance to release his hold on Becca digging deep.

  “We can’t treat her if you don’t let her go,” the doctor reminded him dryly.

  “What’s wrong?” Becca asked, her head rising from his chest. She glanced around the ER entrance. “Is it not safe here?”

  He felt her heart rate and breathing increase. Fuck, his procrastination was scaring her to death. Bending, he carefully lowered her to the gurney, settling her on her back. It took way too much effort to force his arms to let go.

  When he straightened, he found his right arm, from hand to shoulder, soaked with blood. Her blood.

  Jesus. She’s bleeding badly.

  His breathing hitched a few times before he got it under control.

  The nurse leaned over her, attaching a blood pressure cuff while the doctor directed a string of questions at Becca. Rio tagged along behind the gurney as they wheeled it toward the ER.

  As they approached the entrance, the nurse turned to him. “You’ll have to move your vehicle. We need the loading bay for ambulances.”

  Yeah. Wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t leaving Becca alone.

  “Call security. Have them move it,” Rio said as he grabbed his cell. He needed to update Fuentes but after he called in Taggart and Trammel.

  Protecting Becca was his top priority.

  He followed the gurney through the sliding doors and into the belly of the ER as his call to Tag rang through.

  “Rio. What’s up, bro?” Tag’s slightly hoarse voice asked.

  Relief lightened some of the worry. At least ST7 hadn’t been called up for deployment. He’d spent the previous Saturday at one of Tag’s barbeques, but you never knew when it came to the teams. Home one day, called out on rotation the next. With luck, his buddies wouldn’t get the call until Rio had put Becca’s attacker behind bars. But if they did, he had plenty of names in his SEAL Rolodex to call.

  “I need your help.” Rio dropped the pleasantries in favor of getting the protective detail rolling.

  “You have it.” Tag’s voice sharpened.

  “Meet me at the ER. Fifth Avenue. Bring Tram.”

  “On our way.” The call went dead.

  As the doctor slid a needle into Becca’s arm, attached a line, and hooked up a drip, Rio dialed Fuentes’s direct line. The call was picked up on the first ring.

  “Where the hell are you?” The question was hard and pissed. The captain obviously knew it was Rio calling. The wonders of caller ID.

  “At the ER. Rebecca Blaine took a hit.”

  “Shit.” Fuentes’s voice went flat. “She alive?”

  “Yeah. She took it in the shoulder.” He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to exorcise the image of blood dripping from manicured fingernails.

  “Okay. I’ll call the clinic admin. Have them keep her presence quiet.” A short pause crawled between them. “What about you? Any damage?”

  Rio’s fingers tightened around his cell. “No. The bastard was aiming for her.” He shook off a burst of rage. “What about Herrera? Simmons? Anyone else hit?”

  “No. You’re right. The shooter appeared to target her exclusively. SWAT’s on the way. They’ll sweep the buildings.”

  Rio glanced toward the curtained cubicle they’d wheeled Becca into. “What about the hit-and-run? Has the truck been located?”

  “It has. In a parking lot behind Aero. An easy walk to the crime scene. It’s being hauled in for processing.”

  Frowning, Rio eased closer to the curtain they’d drawn around Becca and paused to listen. A running litany of orders and questions drifted through the fabric. But the voices were calm, unhurried, missing the terse urgency of a life-and-death struggle.

  The sudden release of tension left his muscles weak. He struggled to focus on the words coming through his phone.

  “…sit on her until we figure this thing out. I’ll send some units over.”

  “No need.” Rio glanced toward the curtain again. “I’ve cashed in a favor. Brought in some experienced outside help.”

  No way was he trusting Becca’s life to someone he didn’t know inside and out. Tag and Tram, hell—the four years he’d spent slogging through hell and high water with them by his side assured him they could be trusted.

  A bark of laughter traveled down the line. “Let me guess. You called in those SEAL buddies of yours. Well, they owe you big for that business last year.”

  That business, as Fuentes called it, had gotten Rio his detective badge. Recovering half a million in stolen diamonds made the department look good.

  “Soon as they get here, I’m headed back to the scene.” Assuming he could tear himself away from Becca’s side.

  Fuck… What the hell was happening to him?

  Once Fuentes had hung up, Rio stuffed the cell phone into his back pocket and took to waiting. The free time gave him too much time to think, and one thing kept circling through his mind. Since the truck had been found so close to the crime scene, the shooter was probably the hit-and-run driver. Which meant Rio could have stopped… could have tended to her… could have stanched the bleeding. He grimaced at the second-guessing.

  A blue-suited security guard swung by, and Rio handed off the keys to the Crown Vic. More waiting.

  It seemed to take forever before the doctor ducked outside the cubicle to update him. “We’ve stopped the bleeding. It was a clean in and out. No damage to nerves or blood vessels. No need for surgery. She’ll require a couple of stitches, front and back, and we’ll admit her for the night to keep an eye on her. But she should be good for release tomorrow morning.”

  The breath Rio freed sounded raw with relief. “How much blood did she lose?”

  “A fair bit. We’re giving her fluids. She’s responding well.”

  Another deep, raw breath. This time it lifted his entire chest. “Thanks, Doc.”

  “No problem. We’ll get her cleaned up, put some stitches in her, and then you can see her.”

  The doctor had barely ducked back behind the curtain when Tag and Tram showed up. Rio caught the appreciative looks from several nurses, as his old teammates headed across the ER toward him.

  They greeted each other with fist bumps and back pounding.

  Rio turned to Trammel. “You cast off y
our seat in the beach boat yet?”

  Tram had turned in his retirement papers right after he’d hooked up with Emma, his fiancée. But the release date had been a year out. If he remembered correctly, the papers were due to go into effect any day now.

  “Next month,” Tram said. He glanced around the ER, his gaze shrewd. “What’s going on?”

  “You two up for a bit of guard duty?” Rio asked.

  “Absolutely.” Tag shot him a grin, but fatigue clung to the edges, as though he hadn’t gotten much sleep and was just going through the motions. “What’s the situation?”

  Rio frowned slightly, eying his buddy. But hell, even without sleep, he’d take Tag over pretty much anyone. Well, except for the rest of the guys he’d served with on ST7.

  “You’ll be guarding Rebecca Blaine. She came in this morning and requested we take another look at her mom’s suicide case. A few hours later, she barely escapes a hit-and-run. Forty minutes after that, someone took a couple of shots at her.”

  Tram glanced toward the curtain behind Rio, his brown eyes thoughtful. “Sounds like someone’s running scared. She took a slug?”

  “Yeah.” Rio’s belly rebelled at the memory of her pinched, white face. Christ—he needed to get these fucking reactions under control. “It was a clean shot. In and out. They’re keeping her overnight for observation. Releasing her in the morning. I need someone I can trust to sit on her while I work the case.”

  “Rebecca Blaine?” Tag’s eyebrows bunched. “Why does that name sound familiar? Do we know this woman?”

  Not exactly. He might have mentioned Becca a time or two during the various barbeques and get-togethers when the team had been on leave. But he’d never introduced Becca to any of his mates back then.

  “Rebecca Blaine… Rebecca.” Tag frowned harder. “Becca…” Suddenly he snapped his fingers, an a-ha look on his face. The expression quickly shifted to one of concern. “Wasn’t that the name of the gal who had you all twisted up after that one leave, back when you rode the beach boat with us?”

  Fuck Tag and his memory. Rio scowled.

  “Hell, Rio.” Tag dragged a hand through his hair, only to drop it so he could hide a yawn. “Do you know what you’re doing? Hate to see you get all tangled up in her again.”