Quinn and Damien followed Marc up the stairs. They passed a body in the kitchen and moved to the back door. Marc looked out, cursed, and ducked.

Crack. Splinters flew from the doorframe.

“How many?” Quinn asked.

“Just one,” Marc said. “I left him alive, and now he’s holed up on the far side of the porch.”

“Keep him busy.” She hobble-ran for the front door, ignoring the pain of her back.

“Quinn, let me—”

She waved him off and slipped through the front door just as she heard the thwup thwup of an assault rifle. She used the cover of the sound to run along the porch and then peeked around the corner.

A man in a grimy white tank top crouched behind a barricade of a chair and a table. She sighted on him with her Glock. Her hands shook. Fuck, she wasn’t recovered yet.

It was only ten meters.

A car engine roared from the road behind her. The man in the tank top turned. His eyes widened.

She fired.

He fell onto his back. A clean head shot.

She turned to look at the road. A truck and a car skidded to a stop in front of the house. Adrenaline kicked through her. She raced around the back of the porch to the kitchen entrance.

“We have to go,” she yelled. “They’re back.”

Damien burst out the back door and ran down the steps. Marc stopped at the top of the steps, his rifle up and pointed back into the house, covering them. She raced down the steps after Damien who bolted for the wall and the jungle.

“To the right,” she yelled at Damien, directing him to the path.

That was when she saw the car. The one from the front hadn’t stopped. It had raced to the back of the house and drove straight for them. Timmerman sat behind the wheel, with Pérez beside him.

Damien didn’t try to jump out of the way; it was too late for that. He lifted the weapon Marc had given him and fired rapidly. The car struck him, and he bounced over the hood, hit the windshield, and flew off. It all happened in a split second, stunning her and rooting her to the spot. She was yanked back onto the porch just as the car roared by. It spun, hitting trees.

“Damien,” she called. The man didn’t move. His head lay at an odd angle. Regret washed through her.

Men charged around the side of the house, weapons firing.

“Broken neck.” Marc pulled her again by her shirt. “Come on. Inside.”

A glance at the car showed Pérez climbing out of the passenger seat. Timmerman lay sprawled over the steering wheel. At least Damien had finished one of the bastards.

They dove back inside the house, chased by the popping of gunfire.

“We’re surrounded,” Quinn said. “Shit. You shouldn’t have come for me.”

Marc shook his head. “Get your head in the game, Red. One problem at a time. For now, we hold off the assaulters.”

Right. She was an operator with the SRR. Don’t give up. Ever.

She pushed through her pain and fatigue, and snatched the rifle off the dead body in the kitchen. “I’ll cover the back.”

Marc nodded and ran for the front.

* * *

Fuck. Marc loaded his last mag into the rifle and shot again at the men attempting to sidle around the back of the house. The men weren’t thinking. All they had to do was wait and he and Quinn would be sitting ducks. He had to get her out.

“Ammo check,” he said just loud enough for Quinn to hear.

“One mag for the rifle and one—” The crack of a bullet rent the air. “Less than one mag for the Glock.”

Two men sprinted in opposite directions from the truck out front. He sighted on one, fired, and, without waiting to see the man fall, moved to the next and fired again. Two more down.

A new truck peeled into the yard, men with rifles swaying in the back. Marc fired at the driver’s window.

Once. The windshield spiderwebbed.

Twice. The truck slowed and rolled to a stop before it could make it to the side of the house. Men tumbled from the back and hid behind it. Marc shot as many as he could, but they were outnumbered and outgunned.

He kept his gaze scanning. Someone put a hand out, hoping to draw his fire. And make him waste ammo. No fucking way.

But there were too many of them. How was he going to get Quinn out?

“Almost clear,” Quinn called from the back. “Two left. And Pérez is somewhere out there too.”

A spear of hope ran through him, almost painful in its sharp thrust. “Draw them out,” he said over the shouts of the men outside. “But be careful!”

“Be prepared to run,” she called back.

“There’s a truck at the end of your path,” he yelled. “Keys are in it.” She had to know where to go. Even if she cleared the back, the men in the front would overwhelm them the moment they tried to run. He would stay and keep them off her. “I’ll be right behind you,” he lied.

“Damn it, Marc! We are going together or not at all.”

Stubborn woman. “You’ll run when I tell you.”

“We’re partners. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

He fired at a man’s head that popped up. “This isn’t a joke,” he yelled back, desperate to make her see reason. “We’re not both going to make it out of this.”

“We have to make a run for it. Together,” she said.

Two more pickup trucks, their backs crowded with men, drove down the road.

Fuck.

Marc sent a blast of rounds out the front window and raced to the kitchen.

Quinn fired out the smashed window over the kitchen sink just as Marc skidded into the room.

“More reinforcements,” he said. “Time to run.”

She nodded and pulled back from the window, her movements lacking her normal grace. She was fading.

As if she sensed his thoughts, she lifted her chin. “Two men behind the car,” she said. “It’s the best we’re gonna get.”

Marc glanced out. “I’m going to cover you while you get to the jungle.”

“We go together. You’ll be caught if you stay.”

“There’s no time for debate—”

A shitload of gunfire sounded from out front. It was as though all the men had decided to fire off their rounds at once. “What the fuck?”

The front door crashed open. They spun toward it, rifles raised, but the three men who dashed in turned their backs to Marc and Quinn and continued to fire out front. “What the fuck?” Marc said again. “They look like they’re fighting each other.”

A moment later, the men jerked and twisted as bullets riddled them and their blood splattered the walls. Their bodies dropped to the floor, just as two more men entered. One of them had an AR-15 leveled toward Quinn and Marc. The other had dropped his weapon upon sighting them. Marc recognized that large hawkish nose and black eyes.

“Fuck. It’s Vicente Ramirez.” He pushed Quinn behind him.

“Diabla Rojo?” the man called in his gravelly voice. “Come. Here.”

Marc pushed Quinn, and they fell out the back door. He kept his rifle trained on the house while Quinn shot at the car and the two men left there. The amount of gunfire from the front of the house sounded like World War Three had started.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Marc said.

Quinn pulled on Marc’s sleeve, urging him to run toward the jungle. “I called him.”

“You did what?”

Ramirez appeared at the back door. The men behind the car shouted and started to fire at him. Ramirez brought up his handgun and fired back almost casually. “You’ll regret this, Diabla Rojo,” he yelled. “I will find you.” Someone fired at Ramirez from inside the house and Ramirez turned and shot back.

Marc raced with Quinn for the jungle. “You called the leader of Los Urabeños? Are you fucking insane?”

“It seemed like a good idea when I was back at the hotel. I told Ramirez that Pérez’s defenses would be down and it’d be a perfect time to strike.” She fired back at the house. “I thought they could be my backup.”

“You asked the leader of the biggest drug cartel to be your backup?” He had no words. “Holy fuck, I’m falling for a crazy woman.”

They hit the jungle, and she pulled up. Smoke from the burning coca fields hung in the air, scratching his throat.

“You’re falling for me?” she asked.

He raised an eyebrow. She was bruised, covered in blood—both her own and others—and held an assault rifle. “What more could I want than a nice girl like you?”

She laughed and took off down the path. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Wait.” He chased the battered redhead in front of him. “Aren’t you supposed to say something back?” She was supposed to say something back. Wasn’t she?

Someone stepped from behind a tree just as he passed it. He twisted away but it was too late. Pain exploded in the side of his head and he fell. Blackness encompassed him before he hit the ground.

* * *

A grunt sounded behind Quinn and she whirled to see Marc fall to the ground. Pérez stood above him, blood dripping from his forehead and an assault rifle gripped like a battering ram in his hands.

“Marc!” She swung her rifle to point at Pérez and fired. Nothing happened. A glance showed it had jammed. She automatically tapped the mag and racked the slide, trying to clear it. Pérez laughed and pointed a pistol at Marc, who lay unconscious at his feet.

She threw the rifle aside and launched herself at Pérez, tackling him to the ground before he could fire. Her momentum caused her to roll over him. He went with her, trying to land on top. She brought her knees up as she landed on her back with Pérez dropping onto her. She kicked out, hitting him square in the chest with her boots. He grunted and slid off to the side. She rolled into a crouch. Pérez did the same.

He held a bowie knife. Her Glock lay on the dirt path just beyond Pérez. She must have lost it in the tackle. Wetness trickled down her back. Darkness ate at her vision. She was losing too much blood. Her breathing sounded harsh in her ears. She was on her last legs, but she would not let this asshole hurt Marc.

He would not win.

She had to draw Pérez away from Marc and that meant away from her weapon too. “Come on, asshole.” She backed away. “You gonna try to finish what you started?”

Pérez stalked her, and satisfaction went through her. She might be hurt and bleeding, but surely she could take on one man.

She kept backing away.

“Are you frightened?” Pérez kept pace with her.

“Of you?” She snorted. And then she stumbled on a tree root.

He leapt toward her, and she twisted away, but not before he carved a line of fire down her arm. She gasped and stumbled back. Pérez laughed, and anger speared viciously through her. She ignored the pain in her arm, back, and stomach, and struck hard and fast.

Left, right. Left hook.

With each hit, satisfaction swept through her as Pérez’s head jerked from the force of her blows. He blindly stabbed with the knife. She swept the blade aside and did a palm strike to his nose, and then grabbed the back of his neck and pulled down while striking hard upwards with her knee.

His arms flailed and the knife landed, grazing her ribs, but she didn’t slow her attack. She gripped Pérez’s hair and smashed her knee into his face again. Blood spurted from his nose. He stabbed at her, but she didn’t release her grip. A frenzy overtook her as she slammed her knee into his face over and over. All the frustration and fear of the past few hours ripped through her.

He was the cause of it. Slam.

He’d beaten her. Slam.

Damien was dead. Slam.

Marc was hurt. Slam.

Pérez was a dead weight in her hands. She dropped him facedown in the dirt. She panted, her throat dry with her harsh breathing. Pérez lay lifeless, and she didn’t care.

She had to get back to Marc.

She stumbled back to the path, pushing branches out of her way, amazed at how far they’d come in their struggle. She hit the path. Where was he? “Marc?”

“Is he your lover?” She whirled as Ramirez stepped onto the path, his dark gaze glittering with malice. “I will kill him, and you for giving me false information.”

She took a step back. A whisper of sound made her glance behind her. Two thugs had appeared on the path.

She was fucked. Her body wanted to buckle and drop to the ground. She was so tired, but she had to keep fighting. She had to find Marc.

She straightened her sagging shoulders. “I killed Pérez,” she said. “Now you can have his coca fields.”

“You mean the ones you set on fire?” He shook his head. “I’m not a man to be trifled with. You—”

Crack!

Ramirez’s brains blew out the side of his head. He toppled to the ground. Quinn ducked, not wanting to be in the way of the shooter. Two more simultaneous shots, and the two thugs fell before they could even take a bead on her.

Simultaneous?

Alarm shot through her and then receded when Marc stepped out onto the path, holding her Glock in his hand. Beyond him stood a tall blonde woman and an even taller blond man, both wearing cargos, t-shirts, and bulletproof vests, and both loaded with weapons. Marc’s team.

Marc nodded at them. “This is backup.”

She rolled her eyes. “Picky, picky.” Her voice came out hoarse.

“Picky?” He stepped closer, frowning, and lifted the arm Pérez had cut. “Red, your backup was going to kill us.”

“One problem at a time,” she quoted back to him. “He worked initially. Totally distracted Pérez.”

Marc just nodded while he lifted the side of her t-shirt. Blood made it stick to her body. “You’re a bit of a mess, Red.”

She opened her mouth to respond, and the world slipped to the side. She swayed to stay upright.

Strong arms came around her, lifting her. “I’ve got you,” Marc said.

“Spooky,” the blonde woman said. “We’ve got to go. The bird is waiting.”

“Roger.” He started down the path with Quinn still in his arms.

“I can walk,” she protested.

He tightened his arms around her. “I know,” he said softly, “but there’s no need. It’s my turn to carry you.”

Exhaustion and pain overwhelmed her. She laid her head on Marc’s shoulder and let him carry her from the smoke-shrouded jungle.