by Zoe Dawson
“Come on, Emma,” he growled. In moments she was up and racing after him.
Into the darkness.
Hunted.
A door slammed, and Derrick swore under his breath. Hell, no, they weren’t out of this, not yet. Voices were coming from the back of the hotel, one yelling orders, another demanding answers, and in the middle of all the shouting, someone made a threat and backed it up with Los Equis’s name.
Dammit. It was time to get the hell out of this red zone.
His hand still firmly grasping Emma’s, he went into a crouch and took off, keeping low. The profusion of vegetation, small trees and thick brush would have to do. Doing his best to keep them out of sight, and a firm grip on her hand, he ran past an outcropping and a cluster of small trees. He didn’t stop and he didn’t need to listen. There was no mistaking the sound of men in pursuit, the crunch of footfalls behind them enough to spur him on.
Running was their only option.
So they ran, and they kept running, Derrick dragging Emma with him through an endless chaparral and over arid, hard-packed earth. Supporting her when she stumbled. Down into a dry riverbed, they slid, vegetation all around them, except for the long tract. Changing direction, the going easier, they pelted along the bank until they came to a small, tree-enclosed area.
As they came out of the depression, he slipped his gun into his shoulder holster. Taking in deep breaths, he released the death grip he had on her arm. His arm was hurting like a son of a bitch. He breathed around the pain. “You’re doing great,” he said, impressed as hell by her quick thinking in a battle and her survival instincts.
He tapped her shoulder and they moved back into the deeper cover of the small strand of trees. He had a round in the chamber of his 9mm and about seven left in the magazine, with a spare in his jeans pocket.
Under the best circumstances that was a damn short firefight. Under the worst circumstances it was a disaster waiting to happen. Going up against men armed with automatic weapons wasn’t his idea of a good plan. Stealth always won out for him. If he had his sniper rifle, he might even the odds, but that wasn’t something the Mexican government had approved. Thirty-eight rounds weren’t enough for him to win a gun battle if Los Equis chased them down.
“How much ammo do you have?”
“All of it.”
“That evens it up a bit.” Even with her one hundred and twenty rounds, they were still woefully outgunned.
“There were at least ten of them. We downed four—that leaves six against two. Not bad odds.”
“We’re not going to engage them. We’re getting to cover and getting out of the desert. We can’t survive here for more than a few days, not with four bottles of water between us.”
She nodded.
He froze. There was blood on her sleeve. He turned toward her, his grip inadvertently tightening on her hand, his gaze dropping to her arm. “Are you hurt?” he asked gruffly.
“No…I—no.” She sounded upset.
There was a bloody smear at her waist, but she couldn’t have run the way she had, for as long as she had if she’d been hit. The material wasn’t torn. It was just bloody.
“It’s yours, Derrick. Are you all right?”
He must have gotten blood on his hand when he’d clutched his wounded arm. Relief rushed through him. The thought of her hurt, even a little, sent him into a tailspin.
“You’re the one that needs attention. Let me look at your arm.”
“Not yet. But damn, woman, you were badass.” The words popped out of his mouth; the recognition of how well she’d followed his lead, covered his back and helped to get them out of that tight situation was warranted. He was incredibly grateful. It all could have gone so much worse—but he wasn’t going to think about that.
Her gaze lifted to meet his, and he felt his heart beat in triple time, even with the adrenaline still pumping into his system. Her eyes were steady, darkened by the low light and the shadows. She was panting slightly, her skin gleaming creamy white in the night.
“How many men have you killed?” he asked, his voice rough and low.
“What? What kind of question is that?”
“A damn good one.” He wished he hadn’t been pressured to bring her along. He wished he was alone; risking his own life was…familiar but working with her felt too much like working with an asset, and he hated how that felt. She hadn’t been exposed to this kind of danger, brutality, although an LAPD detective was no pushover. If she’d made it that far into their ranks, Emma really was badass. He knew the score. He knew the playing field they were on, and he knew exactly what would have happened to the two of them if they were anything less than what they were: better than the bad guys out for their blood. “How many, Emma?”
“One, dead center, with no hesitation.”
Better was right. Better than any of these monsters who were hunting them, smarter and faster. Derrick didn’t have to be the best, but he knew with every cell in his body that he always had to be better, every single time, without fail. There was only one rule in warfare he’d been trained for: win or die. For many years, light years away from Emma’s, it had been stark and dangerous and had no room for errors. “So none with your bare hands?”
Her voice shook a bit, then steadied. “No, that was a first.”
“Yeah. May not be your last. Let’s get going.”
He scanned the area, listened intently, but heard nothing, sensed no movement. Checking again just to make sure, he grasped her hand again and pulled her out the other side of the copse.
They had to evade capture, get out of this desert and secure a vehicle. Then it was back on the road and in pursuit of that killer/kidnapper.
They ran for what seemed like miles until the sun started to lighten the sky. He’d had his eye on a rocky outcropping in the distance. He picked up his pace and Emma matched his strides. She was quite the trouper.
He approached the rocks with caution, looking intently for snakes who liked this type of shade from the rising sun as much as he and Emma needed the shelter. He would be on the lookout for spiders and centipedes for their venom. Those creepy-crawlies would also like the shade of rocks to get out of the sun.
They couldn’t travel by day. It was too damn hot and would deplete them much quicker than traveling at night.
He looked around and spied a stick. Picking it up he probed the craggy depressions, displacing a few scorpions. Satisfied there were no more threats, he knelt down and pressed his back against the rock, exhausted.
Coyotes and bobcats were probably their biggest worries; they could smell blood on the air and the former ran in packs. He glanced down at his arm. His sleeve was torn and bloodied.
The sooner he covered the wound, the better. Last night they hadn’t been able to stop running; the sound of four-wheel drives motoring in the distance told him they were being hunted. So far, so good. There hadn’t been any dogs involved, but he wouldn’t put it past the cartel to go that route.
He needed to get them out of here and back to the car. Being trapped in the desert with very little water was dire. Food they could do without for weeks, but water…twenty-four hours was all it took for dehydration to occur.
“What’s the plan?”
“We lay low until nightfall, then we hightail it parallel to the hotel. The hotel was in that direction.” He used his thumb to indicate the general area behind him. “Hopefully we’ll come across someplace where we can get some help or phone reception.”
“You have your cell? That’s a good break.”
“In my back pocket. You have yours?”
“No. I left it back at the hotel. We’re both armed, have your cell and some supplies. This won’t be so bad.”
He nodded, playing along.
“We make a good team.”
He didn’t respond. Truth be told, the last gig he’d had, pulling Rock Kaczewski and Neve Michaels, Amber’s sister-in-law, out of the fire on a lone sniper trip to the Darién Gap in Latin America
, was more his speed. Working with Austin and Amber had been an anomaly in his life. As an operative, he’d been alone most of the ten years he’d been with The Company, except for that brief time with Afsana. He didn’t like Butch and Sundancing it—going out with bullets flying. A loner by trade and training, compliments of The Farm, the CIA’s boot camp, going solo was always Derrick’s preferred modus operandi.
Emma cared only about three things: getting cool, hiding from the cartel and looking at Derrick’s arm. She worried every step of the hours they’d run in the darkness about his arm, blood loss, his well-being. He was so in control: no panic, no headlong dash, just a steady movement. He grounded her and the sudden thought of being stranded out in this wasteland without him was sobering. She shifted to look at his arm. “Can you take your shirt off? Let me see what I can do.”
He reached for the buttons, and Emma noticed the grimace on his face. “Let me do it,” she said softly, gently nudging his hands away. She started to unbutton his shirt, her fingers nimble and fast.
“You all right?” he asked, closing his eyes and leaning his head back.
She pushed back the material, revealing the smooth skin, her fingers brushing his warm, damp chest. “Yeah, same since the last time you asked me, cuts and bruises. Apparently, I can duck better than you can, or is it that I make a much smaller target?”
He chuckled. “Duck better, probably.”
When she pulled the shirt away from his skin, he sucked in a breath.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured and braced herself. There was a nasty gash across the upper part of his arm, just above the elbow, and it clearly needed stitches. But it wasn’t the ragged cut that made her stomach roil; it was the cloth caught in the wound. Her stomach dropped when she realized she’d have to extract it.
Knowing how much it must hurt, she carefully turned his arm around. There was no damage to the back. Shrugging out of her pack, she rummaged around until she found the first-aid kit. She opened the box and grabbed one of the packs that held a sterile dressing. She ripped it open with her teeth, gently supporting his arm; her voice wasn’t quite steady when she spoke. “This needs stitches, Derrick.”
There was a brief pause, then he finally answered, his voice gruff. “I figured.” He held her gaze for a minute, then looked away, the muscles in his face taut. “In this case, in this situation, it’s best not to suture it. A bullet containing oil and gunpowder passing through cloth and dirty skin creates a contaminated wound. Closing it traps everything inside. Clean as best you can, pack it with gauze and antibiotic ointment. It’s going to seep and will need to be changed frequently.”
“All right. I have some anesthetic and painkiller.” She reached for both, gave him the tablets and the water. Then she administered the anesthetic. While it worked to numb the area, she reached for the sealed antiseptic swabs and the forceps that went with them, her hands not quite steady as she broke open the seal. The thought of poking around in his wound to clean it of all debris made her stomach shrink to a hard, little knot.
He only made one sound initially, his mouth tightening, the muscles across his chest contracting when she went for every bit of cloth she could find. His face was pale by the time she finished. Then she was generous with the antibiotic ointment, packing the gash with gauze, then binding it securely with an elastic bandage to keep everything in place.
“Thank you,” he said.
She met his dark eyes and hated causing him pain, but it had to be done. His features softened. Emma looked back down at the bandaged wound, feeling just a little too vulnerable. She nodded. “At least it missed the bone and there’s no bullet to deal with.”
A hint of amusement appeared in his eyes, and his expression relaxed a little. “Silver lining?”
She smiled slightly. “Usually there is one.”
“Ah, glass half-full.”
Emma looked at him, caught off guard by the glimmer of humor in his eyes. She didn’t know how to respond. The glimmer deepened, and suddenly the knots in her stomach relaxed. She gave him a warped smile, her tone dry when she responded, “Yeah, that’s me.”
It happened then, a disarming, sensual, intimate smile that did unbelievable things to his eyes and even more amazing things to her insides. The smile held, the creases around his eyes deepening, the glint in his eyes turning her heart to jelly. “Help me with my shirt,” he murmured. She got him back into it, so sensitized to him that she was conscious of every movement, every breath. “There you go, Mister Glass Half-Empty.”
Smiling back at him, she fell victim to the sparkle of amusement, to the glimmer of intimacy that she saw in his eyes. Oh, yes. She could care very easily for this man. So very easily. Flustered by that random thought, she dragged her gaze from his, her pulse erratic. She had to stop doing that—letting her mind wander—or she was going to end up in big trouble.
He held her gaze for a long, drawn-out moment; something…desolate…in his eyes made her heart contract, then he looked away, his profile tense.
Digging back in her bag, she grabbed another bottle of water and held it out to him, along with a nutrition bar. They consumed the food and water in silence.
“Let’s get some rest. We’ll have to be up and ready to move by nightfall,” Derrick said.
Emma nodded and was surprised when he pulled her flush to him with his good arm. His closeness overwhelmed her senses, and she swallowed hard, trying to struggle with the longing that surged through her, making her heart race even faster. She couldn’t stop remembering his body after that shower, and more importantly, the kind of man he was, all of which drew her in.
His muscled arm went around her, and he pressed her to him. “Sleep. We’re safe for now. I’ll take the first watch.”
“Derrick—”
“No arguments, Emma.”
They were two fiercely independent people, but right now, this minute, leaning on him felt so damn good. Along with the feeling of safety his arms offered, there was emotion filling her chest.
There was a line she couldn’t cross. She couldn’t. And it had everything to do with her sister and Matty. Everything to do with this man, who was doing something to her that no other man had been able to do.
They had a job to do, working together imperative.
Blurring the lines, getting romantically or physically involved with Derrick was a big no-no. Emma wasn’t going to go down that road. The biggest reason really had nothing to do with her sister or this mission.
Derrick, stoic, brooding Derrick, scared the living daylights out of her.
Chapter Seven
Emma rested heavily against him as he propped his back against the outcropping. The sun had been up for hours. They were resting in the depression in the earth he’d made to bring down their body temperatures, along with the cool, dark shadows that kept the increasing heat directly off them. But more importantly, it hid them from sight.
His arm tightened around her, both protective and impressed. Time to assess the damage. They were compromised here, stranded in the desert without adequate food and water, pursued by the cartel, and he was wounded. But they had his cell, ammo, his wound wasn’t that severe, and they both had their documents still around their waists.
He was under no illusions here. This was a serious situation, and the Sonoran Desert was no joke. But he was a master at surviving in a large desert—in Afghanistan.
He shifted and winced as his arm protested. He flexed it; the pain was manageable. He’d been shot before, but grazes were the worst and the best. At least the bullet wasn’t still in his body.
Taking a steadying breath, he looked down. Her thick, copper lashes lay on her cheeks and he caressed the fine bones of her beautiful face with his eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, her skin glistening. It was hotter than hell in the Sonoran Desert in mid-June, sometimes reaching 120 degrees. It was imperative they sleep in the day and travel at night. But Derrick didn’t like the feeling of being pursued. He wasn’t exactly the full-frontal as
sault guy. He liked to work from the shadows. Traversing the desert was dangerous enough without having a bunch of crazy, gun-toting killers after them. He also felt protective of this woman, even though she knew how to handle herself. He wanted her out of danger. He would put his mind to a plan.
She was asleep beside him, a disquieting feeling settling in his gut. She was lying with her head on his shoulder and her arm around his chest, the rhythm of her breathing indicating a very deep and heavy sleep. It wasn’t a surprise. They had pushed themselves hard yesterday.
He focused on her mouth. He couldn’t help it. Her lips were slightly parted, pink and inviting, looking soft and warm. All he had to do was move his head just a bit and he could press his mouth against them, take something he’d been thinking about since she’d eyed him coming out of the shower.
He wasn’t oblivious to the kind of attention women paid him. He understood he was handsome. He’d used that to his advantage more than enough in the past. His looks aside, he was aroused by the way her eyes sort of…took him in. She wanted him, at least physically, but he wanted something more. Disturbed by that thought, he tightened his arm around her reflexively, the erection he’d woken up with hardening. The attraction between them was inescapable. He was a realist, and Derrick wasn’t going to waste his time or energy denying it. Emma might, but that was her prerogative.
She shifted and made a sleep-soft murmur, then settled deeper into his arms. Never in his wildest dreams had he expected something like this to happen. Not now. Not after so many years of keeping himself…separate. In the deepest part of his heart where he’d let go of his love for Afsana and the pain of not being able to claim his son, he acknowledged that getting involved with someone he worked with again was completely stupid.
And he wanted to get involved.
Fully, with full-body contact involved.
His expression grew more somber. He was aware why that rock in the pit of his gut sat there heavy and undeniable, growing into a boulder. He was self-aware, analyzed his feelings as he was taught, looking for a work-around. He was heading for the kind of mistake that could really screw him up, screw up this mission, something he wasn’t about to let happen.