CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
God, her head hurt. Every little movement sent a pulse of pain shooting across her temples. It felt worse than when she’d woken up with a hangover after having Russel drive her…
Russel!
Quinn inhaled, collapsing back on the hard, cold surface when she tried to open her eyes. The scenery washed across her vision—dull shapes entrenched in deep shadows. There was a steady hum beneath her, interrupted by the occasion squeak and groan. She wasn’t sure where she was, but she remembered seeing Special Agent Springer walk in. Listening to him talk about the Wit Sec program. Then, her father’s heart rate had gotten all jumpy, and the small bit of color he’d had in his cheeks had blanched out.
That’s when everything had happened at once. Springer had calmly pulled his gun and shot Rigs while the man was trying to move in front of her as he’d reached for his own weapon. She wasn’t sure how Rigs had clued in, but he’d been tossed across the room before collapsing onto the floor. The cop by the window had yelled at Springer to freeze, while drawing his pistol, but it was too late. Springer simply turned and capped him in the head while the man was still aiming.
She remembered the sound. The dull pops then the crack of the young man’s head snapping back, hitting the window before he fell forward. He crashed to the floor, the loud thumb reverberating through her shoes.
She’d reacted. Grabbed the bedpan and launched it at Springer’s head, but he’d fired some kind of dart at her. Hit in her the shoulder. She vaguely remembered Rigs getting off a shot—hitting Springer in the arm—before he’d passed out on the floor.
Tears burned her eyes. He was dead. He had to be. Blood had splattered everywhere. And he’d been so…still. Pale and unmoving and looking exactly like she’d imagined that man from the café looking. Limbs loose against the floor. Eyes closed. Skin already an eerie shade of white.
That was her last clear image, until now.
She blinked. She was lying in the dark, hard angles all around her. There was a hint of muted red light off to her right, reflecting an odd glow. She watched the shadows moving beyond the blurry surface for a few minutes before everything shifted into place.
Shit. She was in the trunk of a car, hands and feet bound in front of her. They hadn’t put anything in her mouth, not that she could talk. Scream for help. It took every ounce of strength just to open her eyes—look around. She managed to wiggle her fingers just enough to know they still worked before passing out, again.
When she woke the second time, the scenery stabilized. She took a few breaths, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. There were what looked like tools shoved in one corner, a set of jumper cables wrapped around her legs. A bit of light filtered in through the crack where the hood closed, the steady drone of the tires roaring in the background.
But beneath that were mumbled voices, echoing through the vents next to the backseat. It took her a few moments to place them. Springer and Thomas.
She should have guessed. That’s what her father had been trying to tell her. That Springer was on the take. That must have been Thomas’ plan all along. Why he didn’t put up a fight. Hadn’t looked remotely scared when Springer had taken him away in handcuffs the previous night. They’d planned it together.
Quinn took stock. She doubted she’d be able to fight both men, but that didn’t mean she was helpless. If she could crack one of the lights, there was a chance they’d pass a cop—get pulled over. It was a long shot, but at the moment, it was all she had.
She concentrated on moving—reaching out to grab whatever was rattling against the trunk’s wall. It made a metallic clang every time the car went over a bump, knocking Quinn’s head against the hard edges. She fought against the nausea, finally managing to wrap her fingers around the handle.
A screwdriver. Maybe things weren’t quite as bleak as she’d thought.
Served the fuckers right. If they’d had half a brain between them, they would have tied her hands behind her back. Given her more of that drug Springer had used. Instead, they’d simply dumped her in the trunk and made a half-assed attempt to incapacitate her. If nothing else, she’d be able to shove the slotted end into one of their guts. Watch the asshole’s eyes widen in surprise.
Yeah, she could get behind that. They’d still kill her, but she might take one of them with her. She’d read somewhere that stomach wounds were an excruciating way to die. They were agonizingly slow. Just what the bastards deserved.
First, she used the tool to break the zip straps around her ankles. She tried to do her wrists, but all it did was gouge her skin, cut into her flesh. So, she concentrated on the light.
It took her a while to steady her hands—gain enough motor control to slip the tip between the thin gaps in the metal and thrust it against the plastic covers. But with a little patience, and a shit load of luck, she was able to punch a hole in the right side.
A swirl of fresh air breezed over her, and she took a minute to breathe it in. It carried traces of exhaust and the salty scent of brine, but she didn’t care. It smelled like freedom.
She’d come so close. So close to actually being free. Starting a life with Russel. Even if Thomas had gotten off, she’d known Russel could handle the constant threat. Could deal with anything the creep sent their way. She only wished she’d told him she loved him. Face to face, without his buddies looking on. Allowed him to search her eyes—see her honesty.
More tears burned her eyes, but she wasn’t sad. She was angry. After all she’d endured, she deserved a chance, and there was no way she was going to give up. Russel wouldn’t. He’d find a way to bust out. Come back to her. She knew he would. Which meant working harder. Maybe if she could break enough of the light to see better, she could wedge the screwdriver under the latch and jimmy it open.
She worked at the plastic, chipping off bits until over half the covering was gone. Black asphalt stretched out behind her with the occasional glimpse of the ocean. The water was on the right side, which meant they were heading north. Probably to an industrial district. Or further up to one of the parks—somewhere they could dispose of a body without witnesses.
Except for the part where she was going to pop open this damn trunk and jump out. She could run with her hands bound, and she’d been tossed enough times in jujitsu to know how to roll. This toss would be harder and faster, but it was essentially the same basics. Tuck, lift her head enough to avoid contact, and keep moving to absorb the impact. Then run like hell.
Quinn used her feet to push up on the trunk until she could wedge the tip under the latch. A few hard twists and it gave. Lifting the lid slightly, she held her breath, gripping the edge with her bound hands. She’d wait until they were close to a park or a subdivision, then launch herself out.
The car wove along the street, nothing but warehouses and the steady rise of fall of the waves against the breaker walls. If they stopped before she jumped out, she’d never stand a chance. They’d be on her before she could do more than stumble to her feet and take a few steps. It had to happen, now. To hell with waiting for a better opportunity. Was the car slowing down?
She took a deep breath, readied herself then froze. Because what she saw defined logic. And it made her heart swell with hope.
* * * *
Russel revved the engine, twisted the throttle and took off. It had been a couple of years since he’d ridden a bike. But he’d taken advanced driving courses during his training—all Special Forces soldiers did—and there wasn’t a vehicle he couldn’t handle. Couldn’t wrestle into submission.
He started off easy, going through the gears as he reacquainted himself with the feel of the machine beneath him. The rumble of power between his legs. He took a few sweeping turns, let his muscles regain the sensory memory of leaning into the corners. Of being one with the bike.
Two minutes in, and he was flying. Shifting up and down, working the gears to get the most thrust, as he wove through traffic, passing on the inside, outside. Hell, he jumped a curb and shot across a crosswalk when the road ahead got congested.
He didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, using the tools he’d learned to stay ahead of any possible pitfalls. He’d check one direction, mentally note if there were any obstacles, then glance in the other, making the turn without wasting time checking, again.
He didn’t have any time. They must have jumped on the freeway. The dot was pulling ahead, sitting at the edge of the zone Rigs had mentioned. If Russel let them disappear, he might never find Quinn, again. Might have to spend the rest of his life knowing he’d failed her. Stare down at her dead body when it finally surfaced—if it ever did. Or maybe he’d have to live never knowing. Always holding out hope for the woman he loved but would never see, again. Never touch or kiss.
No. Not happening. He’d told himself repeatedly that she was his mission, and he didn’t fail those. He’d broken ranks, had gotten kicked out, but he’d never let his brothers down. Never left them behind when he’d had even a remote chance of bringing them back.
And Quinn wasn’t just any teammate. She was the teammate. His. The other half of his soul. The part of him he’d thought he’d lost when he’d stared down at the words scribbled across his discharge papers. One look, one smile, and he felt whole. Completely content.
He leaned down closer. Reduced his friction just enough to edge the bike faster. He was already screaming along the road, passing everything in a blur of color. Cars. Trucks. They all disappeared behind him. Forgotten. He hit the freeway and really opened her up. The revs whined, the needle pegged over to the right. He didn’t care. He’d buy Quinn a new bike. A hundred new ones if it meant he got to her before they’d hurt her. Taken her past the point he’d be able to help. What he’d told her was true. All his training. His years stitching soldiers up under fire. Carrying them across hostile territory. Keeping them from bleeding out. But he couldn’t raise the dead.
Images filled his mind. Quinn bleeding. Quinn lying in a pool of her own blood. Quinn limp and lifeless in his arms, those beautiful green eyes dull and unseeing. There’d be no heartbeat beneath his palm. No warm skin against his flesh. Just icy death.
Fuck that.
He glanced at the phone. He’d wedged it inside the instruments, half blocking the speed and tach. But he didn’t care. He wasn’t looking at the instruments. He was driving by feel. By the hum of the engine, the whine of the transmission. It didn’t matter how fast his was going, only that he needed to go faster. Close the gap more.
His earpiece buzzed. Sam.
“Looks like they’re heading for the warehouse district. I’ll cut over—try to get ahead of them.”
“Roger.”
He couldn’t manage more than a single word. He was too focused. Too obsessed at watching the dot slowly move closer. On milking every possible ounce of speed out of the motorcycle. On catching up.
The dot veered left, and so did he. Down the exit ramp, across the street and into an alley. A park loomed up on his right. He hit the curb, hopped a small planter then took the paved trail through the center. A few joggers jumped out of his way, shaking fists at him as he flew past, kicking up stones and dirt.
He kept going, kept pushing. An older woman appeared in front of him, and he shoved the bike into a slide. Sparks crackled around him before he was up, again, and popping out the other side. He’d cut the distance in half, Quinn’s beacon drawing him forward.
He hedged his bet that Sam was right and took another shortcut, dodging through a few open warehouses then rejoining the route. That got him closer by half, again. Just a few more minutes, a few more jumps and slides and skids and—yes. Red tail lights up ahead.
That was the car. Had to be. And, if they were still driving, it meant he hadn’t lost her, yet. Hadn’t failed.
He followed behind, slowly gaining on them. He didn’t want to let them pull away, but he couldn’t get too close without them making him. And, without knowing where she was in the car, he couldn’t anticipate which tactic to use. He could probably force them off the road, but the impact could hurt Quinn, or worse.
He could follow until they either pulled over or arrived where they were heading. But, if she was medically compromised, she might bleed to death before he reached her. He could shoot out a tire, but if the driver couldn’t handle the sudden shift in balance, he’d be back to crashing the car. And that was assuming they wouldn’t just turn around and shoot her.
Then, everything changed because bits of the rear right light were breaking off and bouncing along the ground. They scattered across the pavement, like tiny spotlights that winked at him when they caught the light. More chunks, each one bigger than the last until a hole appeared. He couldn’t see in but there was something sticking out. Something metallic that was glinting off the last of the sunlight as it started to dip below the surface of the water—flashing at him every time it poked through.
Shit. They’d put her in the trunk. It was the only explanation. The only way the plastic was slowly disappearing. She was conscious and trying to break the light—maybe hoping she’d get lucky. Have a cop see it and pull the bastards over. Russel edged closer, trying to stay in the driver’s blind spot when the entire trunk cracked open. The lid bounced on the hinges, lifting farther up with every bump. The car went around a bit of a corner, and Russel sped up, not wanting to lose a second of it in his sights. He banked left, and his heart stopped. Just stopped.
She was peeking out through the opening, looking as if she was going to jump. Actually, jump out of a moving vehicle. Then, her gaze landed on him, and damn if she didn’t smile. Whether she recognized his silhouette or her bike he didn’t know. But she knew it was him. He was sure. The way her eyes rounded, then her mouth lifted—it wasn’t just relief. It was joy. Joy and hope and, damn it, love—for him.
Was the car slowing down?
They were in an industrial area. Warehouses and shops. Was this their end game? Where they’d planned on leaving her body?
He cranked the throttle. This was ending. Now.
The bike roared, and he shot forward, quickly closing the distance. He thought he saw two heads in the front, but the light was fading and the seat rests were hiding most of his view. Then, the passenger window opened, and an arm appeared—a barrel pointed his way. He deked left as shots flew past. But he was streamlined, staying too far over for the asshole to clip him. Quinn was still watching him, bouncing roughly as the car hit every bump. Every damn pothole. She cracked her head against the trunk, but she didn’t lose focus. Didn’t try to protect herself. She stayed vigilant, watching him, probably still looking for an opportunity to leap out.
She’d kill herself at these speeds, not that she seemed to care. They rounded another curve, and she opened the trunk more, placed on leg on the edge before the driver punched it. The car leaped ahead, knocking her into the trunk then backwards. He lost sight of her as the trunk snapped shut.
Another few hits, and they might end up killing her.
Anger burned beneath his skin. He wasn’t going to lose her. He’d ram the damn car. Throw himself on top or snatch her out. Anything but watch her die.
He hit the throttle, picking up speed, not worrying about if the fuckers could see him or not, when tires squealed ahead of him and Bridgette’s Jeep shot out from a small side street. Or alleyway. Fuck, it looked like a damn bike path, not even big enough for the vehicle. But there it was, fish tailing on the pavement, skidding until it was barreling straight at the other vehicle. Sam wasn’t holding back. He had the Jeep pegged at some insane speed, heading directly at Thomas and Springer.
This wasn’t a game of chicken. It was a damn head on collision in the making. Russel knew Sam wouldn’t back down, wouldn’t flinch. He’d take those men out or die trying. Russel backed off enough he’d be clear of the wreckage. He couldn’t help Quinn, drag Sam’s ass out of a burning vehicle if he got caught up in the carnage.
Whoever was driving—Russel was pretty damn sure it was that mother fucker Thomas—swerved at the last second, hit the curb, rode up and through the barrier, then disappeared over the edge. Water exploded into the air, raining down on the pavement as the car torpedoed into the ocean twenty feet out from the break wall.
Russel watched it all happen in slow motion. Playing out like every damn mission he’d been on over the past fifteen years. Saw the trunk jerk open, Quinn’s head pop up as she tried to climb out, only to get bounced back inside as the car tipped forward. He heard the horn blast through the relative silence, dying off when it hit the water, sinking beneath the inky surface. Even the droplets hovered in the air, like tiny specks of glass glinting in the setting sun, as the scene paused…
Then, it came rushing back. The car cutting through the water, the sound of metal twisting, glass breaking. He aimed at the spot where they’d gone over, with every intention of driving the bike in after them. Save the few precious seconds it would take to stop it, jump off, then dive in. He’d survive the impact, no question.
But, just as he went to gun it, give himself an extra boost of speed, Sam scrambled over the edge, paused to take a couple of long, deep breaths, then dove in.
Russel screeched to a halt at the lip of the curb. He dropped the bike, ignoring the metallic scrape as it hit the cement, and ran to the edge. White-tipped waves curled in toward the land, an expanding ring of ripples the only proof the car had impacted the surface. A faint glow penetrated the darkness—the headlights mapping out the path of the vehicle toward the bottom.
He mentally counted the seconds since the car had struck the surface. Sam, Russel, Hank and the others—they could hold their breath for a couple of minutes while carrying out an op. Maybe three if they were still. But civilians… They didn’t practice prolonged dives. How to regulate their movement to use the least amount of oxygen—give themselves a few more moments of air. And, if Quinn had hit her head… Been knocked unconscious… She’d have breathed in the water the moment it filled the trunk.
Forty-five seconds.
It was taking too long. The water was cold. Even in the summer, people died of exposure in the Pacific. Couple that with the growing darkness and having to navigate the sinking car—Sam might not be able to get her out.
Fifty-five seconds.
He’d wait ten more, then he was going in.
The waves crashed against the wall, spraying a soaking mist into the air, as Russel ticked off the last five seconds. Surely, Sam would be topside, by now, if he’d been able to get Quinn out.
Russel started a series of deep breaths. He needed to oxygenate his lungs—fill them as much as he could. Maximize the amount of time he could stay submersed. The cold would slow his heart rate, but it might not be enough.
He focused on the last hint of light, calculating his impact point—the one that would get him the closest to the sinking vehicle—when Sam crested the water, gulping in air. Quinn was limp at his side, eyes closed, arms dragging behind them. Sam swam for the edge, boosting Quinn from below as Russel grabbed her arms and lifted her clear of the wall. Five steps and he had her on the ground, head tilted back, ear pressed to her mouth, fingers along her carotid.
No whisper of breath against his cheek. No strum of blood beneath his hand.
He gave her a couple deep breaths, watching her chest to see it rise, then started chest compressions. “Sam.”
His buddy dropped down beside him, water dripping off him and onto the pavement. “The damn trunk got jammed. I had to pry the fucker open with my knife. I don’t know if she hit her head or couldn’t hold her breath that long. She was limp when I finally got in.”
Russel nodded, counting out each push. “When I tell you, position her head and give her two deep breaths. Just two.”
Sam moved into position, bending over and breathing into her cold, pale mouth when Russel called it out.
Nothing.
He resumed the compressions, still keeping a running clock in his head. “Water’s cold. That’s good. Less chance of her sustaining any brain damage. You were only down there a minute. Pretty fucking fast for having to jimmy that damn trunk. Again, Sam.”
Sam followed Russel’s lead, breathing every time the man motioned to him. Two minutes turned into four. Then five.
Russel kept working. “Come on, sweetheart. Just one breath. That’s all I need. You’re stronger than this.”
Sam bent low, again, giving another two breaths, when she coughed.
“Rolling her.”
Russel tipped her over, keeping her head aligned with her spine as she coughed and heaved, emptying everything in her stomach onto the asphalt. It took her a minute to get it all up before she was gasping in air, her arms and legs moving in an effort to sit up.
He checked her mouth, ensured it was clear, then rolled her back, waiting to see if she’d stay conscious, ready to do whatever it took to keep her alive.
She blinked a few times then kept her eyes open, staring up at them. She squinted then smiled. “You came.”
Russel did a quick body sweep, checking her reflexes, then pulled her into his chest, holding the back of her head with one hand and her waist with the other. “Of course, I came. Can’t get rid of me that easily.”
“How?”
“I’ll explain everything, later. Just…let me hold you.”
She wrapped her arms weakly around him. “Is it over?”
Russel looked up at Sam. The guy nodded.
“It’s over. Thomas can’t hurt you ever, again.”
She nodded, her fingers fisting around his shirt. “Good. Bastard deserved far worse, but I’ll take what I can get.”
“You scared another ten years off my life, tonight. Firefights. HALOs. Getting pinned down by fifty cal rounds. Nothing came close to how I felt when that car went over the edge. When Sam dragged you up. Promise me you won’t ever do that to me, again.”
Quinn pulled back enough to stare up at him. She placed a small icy hand on his chin, her thumb stroking his cheek. “Sounds like you might need to stick around to make sure I stay out of trouble.”
“I’m not sure merely being by your side is enough. I’ll have to take more drastic measures.”
Her smile flourished. “Is that so? Like what?”
“Like legally binding you to me. Maybe then, I can tame that stubborn streak of yours.”
“Unlikely. But it’s worth a shot.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Was there a question?”
He laughed. “Damn, I love you. So, what do you say, Harlequin? Marry me?”
Quinn’s face lit up. “I love you, too. And, yes, after you tell me one more thing.”
“Anything. What do you want to know?”
“What’s my new last name?”