“This is taking too damn long.”
Sam slammed his hand on his thigh as he watched the dot hover over the same spot on the map. Bridgette had been at her house nearly ten minutes, and he knew she’d be keeping track of the time. Rushing to leave on the chance he’d figured out her plan and was on his way.
He’d nearly jumped out of his seat when his phone had buzzed, signaling an alarm as she’d entered through the front. She’d reset the panel, but knowing she was already there—was preparing to run—had made him acutely aware of every passing second. And how they didn’t have any left to spare.
Ice sighed. “Going as fast as I can, buddy, without crashing. Snow’s thick. But we’re close. Another five minutes.”
“That’s four minutes too long. She’ll be gone. That’s assuming Brock wasn’t waiting for her.”
His stomach clenched at the thought as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His skin felt tight, as if it didn’t quite fit, and there was a light sheen of sweat dotting his flesh.
He hated feeling like this. Being afraid. He’d never balked at a mission. Never lost his cool. And, yet, there he was, sweating like a pig, imagining every sick thing Brock could do to her if he didn’t get there in time.
Ice nodded, expression flat. “You think he was the sniper that got away. That the other guy we found was just lucky on our part.”
“Or part of Brock’s plan to make us think it was over. That she was safe.”
His phone sounded, again. Kitchen door bypass.
“Shit. Someone’s there.”
Ice fishtailed his truck around a corner, doing his best to keep up the speed. “How do you know?”
“The alarm for the kitchen door just went off. Only, whoever opened it, tried to bypass the code. I rigged it to beep then turn off so any intruder would think they’d disarmed it.”
Ice hit the accelerator. “Just a few more minutes.”
Sam didn’t reply. They both knew Bridgette could be dead and Brock long gone in a few more minutes. Instead, Sam checked his gear, needing to do something besides scream silently inside his head. Ka-Bar, right holster. His M9 in the left. He removed it, checked the magazine. One in the chamber, another fourteen in the clip. He had two more clips in his pockets, and a Glock 19 strapped to his ankle. More firepower than he would need, and yet, it might not be enough to save her.
He glanced at the clock. Two minutes. He could infiltrate a compound, kill the guards, extradite a prisoner, and be out in that amount of time. And Bridgette was alone. With that sick son of a bitch.
It was Brock. Somehow, Sam knew. Felt it. Sixth sense or just logic, it didn’t matter. It settled with unforgiving certainty in his chest. He could picture it. Visualize a dozen different ways it could play out. But they all ended the same. Bridgette dead.
Ice rounded another corner, closing in on her street. Three more minutes, maybe less. A large black truck was parked on the side of the road, half hidden behind a bunch of scrubby bushes.
Brock’s truck. The taillights looked the same as what Sam had watched disappear over the rise at Hank’s ranch. Brock was smart. He’d ensured he and Stevens’ men had the same make. Same model. Same damn tire tread.
Sam glanced at Ice. “See the truck.”
Ice’s lips were pursed into a grim line. “Looks the same as the one the sheriff found. Betting that’s Brock’s.”
“No reason for a local to park it there. You ready?”
“Been ready since I had to change my tire.” He gave a hint of a smile. “She’s smart and resourceful. She won’t be an easy target.”
“She’ll give him a beating. No doubt. Hard to outrun bullets, though.”
More alarms flashed on his phone. Motions up the stairs then down the hallway, ending with the contact alarm on her bedroom window. There were a few moments of silence before another round lit up.
“There’s something going down. I’m getting multiple alarms. Windows. Doors. Now, a motion by the side gate.”
Ice nodded, still barreling through the streets. If there’d been any speed traps, Sam doubted the cop could have kept up. “I know how much she means to you. How desperate you are to get to her, but… Don’t go barging in there half-cocked with no plan. You can’t help Bridgette if you let yourself get shot by some pansy-ass rich boy.”
Alarm. Front door.
Sam clenched his teeth. “Completely focused.”
To his credit, Ice didn’t roll his eyes. He knew Sam was riding the edge. “Any chance he could turn this into a hostage situation if he knows we’re coming?”
“He doesn’t strike me as the type. He needs this to be anonymous. Have Stevens take the hit for killing her. Brock wouldn’t do anything that could draw attention to himself. Though, I can see the bastard using her as a shield if he gets caught in there. Until he got the upper hand. Then, he’d plan on killing everyone. No loose ends, this time.” Sam stared at his buddy. “But I only need one inch of him visible to take a shot.”
Ice nodded, again, swerving around another corner then homing in on house. Trees and snow rushed past the windows, blurring into a wash of muted colors. He fishtailed it into her driveway, following Sam out while the chassis was still rocking to a full stop. Sam fanned to the right as Ice panned left, carefully stalking their way to the door. A bloody trail led toward the backyard, the front door slightly askew.
Sam focused on the mission. On silently pushing open the door then clearing the main room. On anything other than the possibility it was Bridgette’s blood on the floor. Each drop bringing her closer to death.
Ice shadowed him. They moved seamlessly together. A well-oiled machine. A few hand signals, and they’d cleared the next section, quickly bearing down on the kitchen. The odd smudged boot print marred the floor, the tread larger than Bridgette’s.
The remains of one of her bookcases was scattered across the hardwood, surrounded by broken bits of pottery and chunks of wood. A few threads of fabric had gotten caught on the sharp edges, as if it had been used to block the entrance. Though, it obviously hadn’t done much more than slow the other person down as they’d kicked their way through.
Good girl. Make him work. Keep him off-kilter. Get him angry because he can’t think straight when he’s angry.
More blood.
Two distinct trails. One leading upstairs. The second back into the kitchen. There was a splatter on the far wall, half a bloody handprint on the floor. She’d been hit. But she’d managed to get away. That meant there was still time. Ice motioned to the entrance, carefully stepping over the debris.
“You’ll fucking pay for making me chase you, baby.”
They froze as the deep male voice echoed through the house. They were in the kitchen.
“I was going to make this painless, for old time’s sake. One tap to the head. But, now…now, I’m going to take my time while I watch you bleed out.”
Ice palmed Sam’s shoulder when he went to step through, shaking his head at him. Sam resisted the urge to knock off his buddy’s hand. Ice was right. Barreling in blind wouldn’t help her.
He made a series of signals then quickly backtracked, disappearing around a corner. He was going outside—heading for the kitchen door.
Sam inched forward as he drew his knife, using the blade as a mirror to get a better look inside the room. Brock had Bridgette pinned against the wall on the far side of the kitchen, close to the other door. It was in a bit of a nook. Sam couldn’t see much of her from this angle other than her left arm. The one dripping blood onto the floor.
He clenched his jaw to stop from acting impulsively. He didn’t have a clear shot at Brock from this angle. Whether the guy had planned it that way or had gotten lucky by choosing the spot closest to the back door, Sam didn’t know. But as it was, he’d have to shoot through Bridgette to hit Brock. No way Sam would do that. She’d already been compromised. But it also meant he had little chance of sneaking up on the bastard.
He scanned the room. Brock had left his Glock on the island. Big sucker. Probably a twenty-three. Suppressor screwed into the threaded barrel. It packed a hell of a bunch.
The fucker had to have a knife. Probably trying to recreate that first night. The ultimate payback in Brock’s mind. Terrorize her before he killed her.
Asshole would pay.
Sam sheathed the blade, calmed his mind, then stepped out. “Let her go, Worthington.”
Brock jumped, but not in the direction Sam had hoped would make this a simple take down. All he’d needed was for the jackass to look toward the door. One second, and Sam would have put a bullet between his eyes.
Instead, the other man ducked farther behind the corner then spun Bridgette, holding the edge of an enormous blade across her throat as he hid behind her. It wasn’t easy. The guy was nearly as tall as Sam, with wide shoulders and a muscular frame, but Brock managed to hunch down—eliminate any viable target that would end this rather than simply piss the guy off.
The only solid mark was the guy’s hand, with his beefy fingers gripped around the knife’s hilt. Sam could hit the fucker’s knuckles. But, this close, the bullet would go right through. Peg Bridg in the chest. Not an option.
He kept the gun leveled at Brock’s head, not giving the guy an inch. “No way out. Drop the knife, and you might walk out of here alive. Might.”
Brock cackled. No other way to describe the throaty sound that rasped out of his throat. “Drop your gun, and back the fuck up, or you’ll watch me slit her throat.”
Sam risked a glance at Bridgette. Blood soaked the left side of her shirt, smears of it across her neck and face. There was a bluish tinge around her lips, and a bruised look to the skin beneath her eyes.
She’d lost a lot of blood.
He went against the voice in his head and glanced at her eyes, inhaling sharply. Calm, almost cold. Not an ounce of fear. In fact, she looked at peace. That’s when he realized, she hadn’t planned on getting out of this alive. She’d fought back, had made the bastard chase her in order to leave clues—the partial bloody boot treads down the hall. The bits of fabric that had caught on the broken bookcase. And, somewhere along the way, Brock had scratched his left arm, the wound no doubt leaving small drops of blood on the floors or the snow. A thousand ways to place him at the house. Prove he’d killed her.
Fuck that. Brock could fry for his crimes, but there was no way Bridgette was dying. Not on Sam’s watch.
“You touch her any more than you have, and I’ll forget about the might.”
“Make all the threats you want, cowboy. There’s no way you can get off a shot without clipping her. And she’s already halfway dead. Another hit, even a minor one, and you’ll kill her.” Brock yanked on her hair, scratching a line across her skin. “Put that fucking thing down, or I swear I’ll gut her. You’ll kill me, but you’ll have to watch her die, first.”
Sam held firm. He didn’t need Brock to give him a target. He just needed to get the bastard to move his hand slightly. Remove the blade from in front of her throat and over to the side. Somewhere it wouldn’t involuntarily hurt her when he went down. And the bastard was going down.
Sam smiled, slowly lowering his gun. “Fine. We’ll play it your way.”
Brock’s muscles eased, and his hand drifted over. More. More. Just a little bit more…
Sam raised his gun then fired, hitting the creep in the wrist, paralyzing his hand, just as Ice barreled through the backdoor, clipping Brock in the back of the head. A red mist exploded in the room, shooting across the cupboards as Brock’s body quivered then dropped. Hard.
The force knocked Bridgette backwards. Ice dove at her, catching her head in one outstretched hand before it had bounced off the floor. The reverberation from the shot lingered for a few more seconds, then silence.
Sam holstered his gun then cleared off the island with a sweep of his hand—tossing Brock’s gun onto his corpse. Ice lifted her over, placing her on top then angling her onto her right side. Her skin was deathly pale, the red splotches of blood standing out in stark contrast. Her head lolled against the counter as her eyelids fluttered but didn’t open.
Sam grabbed her hand, squeezing it to gain her attention. “Bridg.”
She blinked a few times, half opening unfocused eyes before drifting off, again.
“Damn it, darling. Open your eyes. Look at me.” Sam glanced up at Ice. “Russel. Brother, you have to save her.”
Ice paused. Sam had only ever called him Russel during a mission once before, and he hadn’t been able to save Gray that night. Ice nodded, searching through the drawers until he found a stack of tea towels.
He cut away her shirt, frowning when Bridg groaned as the fabric pulled a bit on her skin. “Shit. Hold these. Tight against the wounds. Two on the back, one on the front. Equal pressure both sides. I’ve got a medic bag in my truck. I’ll be right back.” He stopped in the doorway. “Tight, Sam.”
Sam pressed on the padding until his damn hands cramped. Bridgette’s eyes flew open, the blue color more faded. Dull. She opened her mouth, took a few gasping breaths—sounding as if each one would be her last. She managed to grab his wrist with her right hand, leaving a smear of blood and sweat on his skin.
He leaned over her. “I know it hurts. But we need to stop the bleeding.”
Her eyes darted from side to side, and her tongue swept weakly across her lips. “Brock…”
“No longer a concern.”
A small twitch of her lips. “Fucking…A…”
“Listen to you. A few weeks with an ex-soldier, and you’ve developed quite the potty mouth. No, no, no, darling. Stay with me.”
Her eyelids fluttered, and her grip weakened.
“Bridgette!”
He put every ounce of command in his voice. The hard tone that had made new recruits scramble to attention. Bridgette barely opened her eyes.
“Eyes on me. I want to see those beautiful baby blues, okay? Russel’s coming right back. He’s got a magic kit with him. I’ve seen him scare soldiers back from the dead with it. So, just…keep your eyes on me. Just a bit longer. Give him a chance.”
A hint of a smile this time. “Must…be serious.” She coughed. Grimaced. Looking weaker by the second. She managed to lick her lips, staring up at him, glazed. Lids starting to close. “You called…him…Russel.”
“Can’t fool you.” He leaned in closer. “Don’t die on me. Please, Bridg.”
Ice appeared in the doorway, huge black bag over one shoulder. He placed it next to her on the island, spreading open the sides. He motioned for Sam to release the back wad of towels, as Ice grabbed a bunch of supplies, working quickly. Then, he leaned over her. “Hey, sweetheart. I’m going to walk you through this, okay?” He poured some liquid onto a pad. “This will cleanse your wound. It’s gonna sting but only for a few moments.”
Bridgette stiffened the second he touched her puckered skin, wiping away the top layer of dried blood and bits of material from her sweater. Her grip on Sam’s wrist tightened, turning his skin white around her fingers as Russel worked on her wounds.
Sam bent close. “I’m right here.”
She whimpered, and something turned over hard in his chest. He wanted to take it all away. Change places. He was the soldier. He was the one who was supposed to die like this. Not her. Not at the hands of some sick prick.
Ice sighed. “Great job. That part’s over. Now, I’m gonna put on some coagulating powder. Nothing to it. It’ll help stop the bleeding. Do you know what blood type you are?”
She was fading, eyelids drooping.
Ice did something—pushed on some part of her—and her eyelids fluttered open. “Bridgette? What blood type are you, sweetheart?”
Her lips formed an O, but the word barely registered.
“She’s O, Ice.”
He nodded. “Positive or negative?”
“Neg…” That’s all she managed before it morphed into a groan.
“O negative. Got it, sweetheart.” He looked up at Sam as he layered on some kind of bandage then started taping it in place. “You’re O neg, aren’t you, Midnight?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I’ve got help on the way, but…we might have to do a direct transfer. She’s…dangerously close to hemorrhagic shock.”
“How much do you think she’s lost?”
“Over a liter.”
Sam swallowed. How the fuck was she still conscious? Still breathing? He stared at her. Willed the pulse beneath her skin to keep fluttering. Those gasping, rough breaths to keep filling the room.
“We need to lay her flat, now. Let me deal with the through and through.”
Sam helped ease her onto her back when Ice’s words finally registered. “Through and through? How many times was she shot?”
Ice was already cleaning her wound. “Twice. One’s still in there. Hopefully, it’s in her scapula and didn’t ricochet.”
“And if it did?”
Ice gave him a cold stare but kept on working.
Sam lifted her hand, sandwiching it between his. “Bridgette. Eyes on me, beautiful.”
It took her a few agonizing moments to work up the energy just to look at him.
He leaned in until his mouth was inches away from her face. “Almost done. Then, it’s just a ride, okay?”
She squeezed his hand. Barely noticeable, but he returned the light touch. “Not…your fault.”
Tears burned behind his eyes. “We can discuss blame later. Just focus on staying here. With me.”
“I’m…sorry, Sam.” She gulped in air, but it didn’t seem to do much good. “Should…have told…you. Never…should…have…ru—”
“It’s okay. It’s over, now. And you’re going to be okay.” He glanced desperately at his buddy. “Russel.”
“She was shot point blank. We’re lucky she’s as stubborn as you are and wasn’t killed outright.” He cocked his head to the side. “Sirens. But she can’t wait. I’m starting that transfusion.”
Sam rolled up his sleeve. He’d give her every last drop if it would make a difference. Russel used another thick bandage and wrapped some kind of tape around her shoulder, keeping everything tight. It looked as if he’d stopped the bleeding, though, based on the white cast to her skin, she was already on the edge.
Sam squeezed her hand. No response. “Bridgette!”
A grimace. Nothing else.
Ice scraped a chair across the floor. “Sit.”
Sam wasn’t sure if he sat or if his knees just buckled, plunking him down in the chair. Russel wiped something on his arm, then there was a small prick. Sam glanced down, staring at the red-colored tube connecting his arm to hers. When had Ice gotten it all ready?
Shit. Sam was losing it. Losing pockets of time. Bits of his soul as he sat there, holding Bridgette’s hand, wondering if this was the last time it would have any warmth. If he’d never get a chance to tell her how he felt.
Voices sounded in the background then the room exploded with people. Police. FBI. Hank and Kujo appeared beyond Ice’s shoulders, mouths pinched tight. Ice was talking to everyone, recounting what had happened. Then, he was giving a couple of paramedics the run down. Rattling off her vitals, not that Sam had even realized Ice had taken them. Sam had tunnel vision. Deadly, but he didn’t care. He was focused on Bridgette. On not letting go of her hand. Not letting go of her.
He bent low, brushing his lips across her ear. “Don’t you die on me. Not now. Because I love you, Bridg. And, damn it, we’re going to spend the next fifty years driving each other crazy. Do you hear me? I love you. And you’re going to live so you can tell me you love me, too.”