Out of Time

by Monica McCarty

  He wanted to stay angry. But he couldn’t ignore her intentions or that she’d tried to stop it, saving lives—his life—at the risk to her own.

  That had to count for something.

  If they were going to get out of this, Scott knew that he had to start using his head. Where was the that infamous cool under pressure that made him one of the best at what he did? The levelheaded thinking and judgment that made him always know what to do? He had to tamp down the anger—and the lust. But when it came to Natalie that was easier said than done. He’d never been cool or rational about her. Nothing about his feelings for her had ever made any sense.

  He dried his hair before putting on his clothes. He probably should apologize.

  After tying his shoes, he looked out the window again and then headed down the stairs. She’d been out there a long time. He glanced at his watch, surprised to see that it was almost 2100 hours.

  She must be starving—he was. Maybe he’d make her a sandwich as a peace offering. Although with his culinary skills, he’d probably be better off taking her some of her own leftovers.

  He flipped on the light in the kitchen and suddenly everything went dark.

  He swore. The power must have gone out. He guessed it shouldn’t be much of a surprise. As run-down as this place was, faulty wiring was pretty much a given. But it was still a pain in the ass, especially as he hadn’t noticed where the breaker box was.

  He hadn’t noticed candles or a flashlight, either. It was also a moonless night and dark as hell out here in nowhere land.

  As his burner phone wasn’t equipped with a flashlight, he retraced his steps to the living room—there was a little more light in there from the big windows (or maybe his eyes were getting adjusted)—and located the gear bag that he’d left in the hallway. He found the small flashlight but wished his NVGs weren’t at the bottom of a Russian river. Instinctively he also grabbed his Glock.

  It was a good instinct.

  He’d just finished tucking the gun into the back waistband of his shorts when he caught a flash in the hall mirror that sent him diving to the floor right as the living room window shattered behind him.

  * * *

  • • •

  That cold rationality that he’d been looking for? Scott found it, thanks to the person who’d just tried to put a bullet in the back of his head. Instantly Scott was in full-on battle mode as he low-crawled across the floor, ignoring the glass and the bullets as whoever was shooting at him sprayed the building with gunfire.

  Which was actually a positive. It meant the shooter was impatient and undisciplined. Scott would rather have one overanxious blast-’em-up shooter with an automatic weapon than a well-trained, patient sniper.

  The rapid gunfire also told him the general direction of where the gunman must be. Scott put him at somewhere in the fields to the right of the driveway.

  But that cold rationality that he depended on in battle went out the window as soon as he heard the scream. Not just any scream. Natalie’s scream of what sounded like his name. It turned his blood to ice and all his SEAL discipline went out the window. The only thing he could think about was reaching her.

  He wouldn’t let himself think that it was too late, or that these guys clearly meant business, or that he hadn’t heard her scream again.

  Heedless of the guy still Butch Cassidying the crap out of the living room, Scott got to his feet and raced in a low crouch through the kitchen and out the back door.

  He didn’t stop even as a second shooter, who must have been covering the back, started firing. Unfortunately this guy was more patient and precise. He sent one bullet whizzing close enough to Scott’s ear for him to feel the rush of air as it passed by.

  Scott was pretty much a fish in a barrel, but he didn’t care. Instead of a plan, he was relying on instinct that had been honed by years of experience.

  Ace. He sure as hell hoped he had something up his sleeve. It wasn’t his first time being pinned down, although the stakes had never made him feel so . . . vulnerable. Christ, his pulse was racing and his heart was hammering with something he hadn’t felt since he was a kid watching a scary movie or going through a haunted house.

  The guy who’d kept his cool in any number of hairy situations—including when his gun had jammed just as he’d entered a cave that happened to be occupied by about a dozen ISIS militants, when he’d gotten stuck in barbed wire dumped on the seabed while doing an underwater recon of a Somalian pirate ship holding an American hostage in Eyl, Puntland, with his tank out of oxygen, and even when he’d come face-to-face with a great white in the Pacific ocean during BUD/S (for the record, punching a shark in the nose was a hell of a lot easier said than done)—was pretty much scared out of his fucking mind. The guys would never believe it.

  Scott didn’t have time to stop, go through his mental checklist, assess, mitigate, and come up with a plan. Whoever was after them wasn’t stopping to ask questions. They were shooting to kill. If Scott didn’t get to her, Natalie was dead.

  If she wasn’t already.

  Fuck. He wouldn’t let himself think that. But the barn that was only fifty yards or so from the house felt miles away.

  It had to be the Russians. But how the hell had they found them? The only explanation was one he didn’t like. Had she been right to fear them finding her? Had Scott led them to her?

  He cursed again. Not just at himself, but at the appearance of three shadowy figures all in black tactical gear and all heavily armed rounding the darkened but still blaring-with-music barn and heading toward the open doors. Operatives, he realized. More professional than he’d hoped, given the guy blowing away everything in the front. Crap.

  Despite the precariousness of his situation—and the second bullet that would have given him a third eye if he hadn’t zigged his direction at that instant—Scott felt a swell of relief. Those guys heading into the barn meant that Natalie was probably still alive.

  Outmanned and seriously outgunned, Scott knew their chances of getting out of this weren’t looking very good. But he attempted to better their odds by one, getting off a decent-enough shot at the third Tango as he entered the barn. Figuring they were probably wearing body armor, Scott aimed for the head. He didn’t waste the bullet: the guy dropped.

  Scott prayed that Natalie was hiding and that his presence was enough to distract at least one if not both of the guys who’d gone into the barn for long enough to stop them from finding her.

  He reached the barn and pressed his back to the wall on the side of the building perpendicular to the entrance. His heart was pounding so loud that it took him a minute to realize that the cacophony of bullet spray in the front of the house had stopped.

  Which wasn’t good. The guy must be repositioning. Scott didn’t have much time to figure out how to get in that barn. But there wasn’t much of a play here. With one guy in front of him and another behind him probably closing in, and two in the barn waiting to take him out as soon as he appeared in that entryway, Scott needed some kind of distraction or surprise. Some old rusted farm equipment through the loft opening might work or—

  The sound of a police siren tore through the still-blasting music. It sounded close and was moving toward them.

  Hallefuckinglujah! Scott had never been so glad to hear anything in his life. Talk about timing! A second later the two guys came back out of the barn shooting, presumably at Scott. He peered around the corner and fired back. He thought he might have clipped one of the guys but they’d disappeared into the darkness of the overgrown fields.

  Under normal circumstances, Scott would have gone after them. But these weren’t normal circumstances. He didn’t think his heart beat or his lungs took in any air for the terrifying few seconds that it took him to get into that barn, having no idea what he’d find.

  He couldn’t recall ever praying on a mission before, but he thought he might have utter
ed a few words to God as he came into that dark building. He located the old-fashioned battery-operated boom box and switched off the CD player.

  The dead silence that followed was hope crushing.

  “Nat,” he said. He didn’t sound like himself; his voice was so ragged and tentative.

  There as an awful pause where he didn’t think she was going to respond, before he heard a sound of movement coming from one of the stalls in the back.

  “Scott?”

  The sound of her voice gave him such a rush of emotion, he almost couldn’t speak. She’s alive. Thank God, she’s alive. “It’s okay, baby. It’s me. You’re safe.”

  She appeared from behind one of the stalls and a second later, she was catapulting into his arms.

  Scott grabbed on tightly and buried his nose in her hair, inhaling the scent of citrus and hay. The feeling of her warm and safe in his arms was overwhelming. He’d lost her once, and the thought of losing her a second time had cut him to the bone. The swell of emotion filled his chest and squeezed his throat. He’d forgotten how slight she was. How soft. How vulnerable. She melted into him, her body giving over in complete surrender and relief. In trust that made something deep inside him warm.

  When he thought of what could have happened to her . . .

  He actually shuddered. He couldn’t go there. Not again.

  He might not have the answer, but he couldn’t deny this.

  “I was so scared,” she said, sobbing into his chest. Her fingers were digging into his arms and shoulders like a terrified kitten who wasn’t going to let go. Which was fine by him.

  “I know. I was, too,” he murmured soothingly, not sure whom he was trying to calm: her or himself. His heart was still pounding like a damned freight train. He was sweating, for Christ’s sake. The ice in his veins had clearly melted.

  She pulled back and looked up at him. The look in her eyes . . . the emotion . . . the fear. He couldn’t have stopped himself if he wanted to, and he sure as hell didn’t want to. He needed this just as much as she did. Needed the connection. Needed to know she was all right.

  He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her. Gently. Tenderly. Telling her what he couldn’t put into words—even to himself.

  * * *

  • • •

  Natalie felt as if her chest were going to burst. The sweet, tender poignancy of his kiss almost hurt. For the first time there was nothing between them. No lies, no pretense, only emotion. Raw emotion stripped of everything—even lust—by fear.

  Those men had been moments away from killing her, and they both knew it. Her hiding place in the back of one of the stalls under a pile of hay wouldn’t have lasted long. If Scott hadn’t come when he did and delayed them . . .

  She didn’t want to think about it. Not now. Not when he was holding her and kissing her like this. Telling her with each tender caress of his lips and tongue what she’d never dared hope. He still cared for her. He might not want to, but a man didn’t kiss a woman like this if he didn’t care about her. Gently. Reverently. As if she meant everything in the world to him.

  It was the way he’d kissed her the last time she’d seen him. When he told her he had something important he wanted to talk to her about when he got back from his mission. She hadn’t let herself wonder about it, alternately fearing that it would be or wouldn’t be what she thought it was. Now, given what she’d done, the idea of a proposal was laughable, but his kiss still made her heart squeeze with longing and possibility.

  Those men had done what she might never have been able to do: broken through the wall of distrust and lies that had separated them. The initial anger at his accusation that had sent her to the stables to work had turned to a feeling of defeat and hopelessness. She’d wondered whether she’d made a mistake in not escaping when she had the chance. But now she knew she’d been right to put her trust in him. He still cared for her. She could feel it in every brush, every stroke, every movement of his mouth over hers.

  She wished she could hold on to the moment forever. But all too soon, he pulled back.

  He stroked the side of her face with callused fingers, looking into her eyes with an expression that made her heart tighten all over again.

  “I need to check and make sure they are gone.”

  She nodded. He pulled back enough for her to notice the spots of blood on his T-shirt. “Wait, you’re hurt!”

  He looked down, barely glancing at the blood. “It’s nothing.” He lifted his arms and flicked out a couple of pieces of glass. “But I’m afraid you’re going to have to replace your living room window.”

  If the number of bullets she’d heard earlier was any indication, she suspected there was a lot more damage than one window. But he hadn’t been shot—again. That was what mattered.

  Natalie thought about following Scott outside, but she took a few steps and froze. The black-clad, masked, prone figure of a man was partially blocking the doorway. She looked away, feeling suddenly queasy. Scott must have shot one of the hit men.

  The Russian hit men.

  It wasn’t until that moment that she’d had a chance to think about it. What blood had returned to her body, promptly rushed back out. They’d found her. Dear God, they’d found her.

  Her hand immediately went to her stomach as she sank onto the chair that held the boom box. She felt it pressing into her backside but didn’t care. Her legs had suddenly turned to jelly.

  What was she going to do? Her baby? Her family? And now Scott?

  She didn’t have time to think about it as Scott walked back into the barn; he wasn’t alone. Natalie had heard the siren, but she was still taken aback to see the sheriff with him. Her gaze shot to Scott’s with fresh worry, but he shook his head. She understood. At this point, there wasn’t anything they could do to avoid Brock’s inevitable questions.

  “Are they gone?” she asked, standing up.

  Both men’s expressions were grim as they nodded.

  “I went after them on foot,” Brock said. “But I had to turn around when they reached their car. They parked just off the county road and came in from behind the tree line. I called in an APB on the car.”

  Natalie could hear the “but” in his voice. “But you think they are already long gone?”

  “These guys were professionals. They’ll have some kind of contingency plan,” Scott explained. “They probably have another vehicle ready to go somewhere close and will disappear at the nearest junction.”

  “I’ll alert CBSA just in case,” the sheriff said.

  Scott translated for her. “Canada Border Services Agency.”

  Natalie nodded, but it was clear from both men’s expressions that they weren’t holding out much hope of apprehending the remaining shooters. She turned to the sheriff. “Thank God you arrived when you did. Did one of the neighbors hear the gunfire and call?”

  “Not exactly,” the sheriff said. “I doubt any neighbors are close enough to hear. You are pretty remote out here.”

  Yes, she’d already realized that double-edged sword. “Then how did you get here so quickly?”

  Scott moved in front of her protectively, apparently anticipating the answer. “He was watching the house.”

  Brock nodded. “When I saw the perp firing at the front, I tried to come up behind him on foot. But as soon as the other three appeared from around the barn, I realized I wasn’t going to have time. I went back to my car and hit the siren.”

  “After calling in for backup?” Scott asked.

  The sheriff looked at him. “I was trying to avoid that.”

  Natalie looked back and forth between the two men, who were clearly in some kind of silent standoff. “Why?” she eventually asked.

  “I figured the lieutenant commander here would rather I didn’t.”

  Scott gave no reaction—his jaw was already clenched tight—but Natalie could
n’t hide her gasp of surprise. How had he known?

  Brock answered the unspoken question. “I knew something wasn’t right.” His gaze landed on Scott. “Despite the belligerent attitude, you didn’t act like a criminal. From the way you moved, I figured some kind of military or spook. But it wasn’t until I got home last night that I put it together.” He looked back to Scott. “The hair and the beard were a nice touch, but I never forget a face—especially a dead SEAL. My little brother lost his life in Afghanistan three years ago. DEVGRU,” he explained.

  Aka SEAL Team Six, Natalie knew.

  Scott finally broke face with a curse, giving up the pretense. “Dale Brouchard. We crossed paths a couple of times. He was a good operator.”

  Brock accepted the compliment with a nod. “I pay attention to every SEAL who makes the ultimate sacrifice—even in ‘training exercises.’”

  Scott dragged his fingers through his hair. “Which was damned lucky for us. I was severely outmanned.” He straightened, facing the other man with much less wariness. “I should have thanked you before.”

  Brock shrugged. “I’ve seen you guys operate. You would have thought of something. Who were they?”

  “I’m not sure,” Scott said, and then motioned to the body in the doorway. “I doubt he’ll be much help. I suspect most of his gear is unattributable, and he won’t have an ID. But I’ll take a picture and see if anything pops up.”

  The sheriff nodded and then turned to her. “I assume from the number of men who went into the barn that they were after you?”

  Natalie nodded. “I was outside when I heard the shots and saw them coming. One of them yelled ‘There she is’ before he took a shot at me as I ran back inside.”

  Scott swore, realizing how lucky she’d been. There were so many ways this could have gone down and most of them weren’t with them walking out of there.

  “Someone must really want you dead,” Brock said. “That’s a lot of firepower for one person. You’re lucky your boyfriend was here.”