by Vicki Tharp
Jenna looked from the paramedic to Quinn and back again. “Yes.”
“Go.” The paramedic waved her hand toward the rear door. “I don’t want to have to sedate her.”
Reluctantly, Quinn left, leaving Pepita to stay with Jenna. The rain had slackened, and the wind only gusted occasionally, though the clouds steamed by overhead. Two more ambulances arrived and drove past them headed for the mansion, along with what looked like a prison transport truck.
A fire truck sprayed retardant on the mangled helo. On the outside of the clearing, a group of men gathered, their FBI, DEA, and sheriff’s office lettering on the backs of their black jackets reflecting in the headlights.
“Sheriff,” Quinn said, holding out his hand.
St. John took it for a quick shake and dropped it, turning back to Finn, Soto, and a couple other guys Quinn didn’t recognize. One was all decked out in full tactical gear—AR strapped to his chest, a sidearm strapped to his thigh, a Kevlar vest on his body, and a grim expression on his face.
“Status update?” Quinn asked.
“FUBAR,” Soto said. Fucked up beyond all recognition.
Quinn crossed his arms over his chest, his wet shirt sticking to him like a cold, second skin. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Finishing up the room-to-room search now,” Finn said. “El Verdugo’s been captured. Most others surrendered. Some didn’t. Found the remaining women. A few of them had been drugged, but they appear to be physically unharmed otherwise.”
“There were two that I know of that were auctioned, left with their buyers.”
Soto tossed her head in the general direction of the road leading down the mountain. For once she had real clothes on. Black cargo pants, boots, Kevlar vest, and a gun at her hip. “Took the buyers into custody as soon as they hit the main road, and the women have been transported to the hospital for evaluation.”
A weight tipped off his shoulders, and the tightness in his chest he’d attributed to the smoke inhalation, eased. Before he could ask about Mac and Boomer, a vehicle bearing the logo of the ATF pulled up. A man got out and strode their way.
“Great,” Soto said, “more letters for this freaking federal alphabet soup.”
He addressed the group, hands on his hips. “Rod Spinks, ATF. We had an agent in there. Haven’t heard from him.”
Finn bowed up. “You. Had an agent. In there?”
“Did I stutter?”
Everyone got quiet. Soto laughed. “Oh man, this is priceless.” To Spinks, she said, “I hope you have enough life insurance.”
Spinks spared her a narrow look. “Deep undercover.”
“This is a task force operation,” Finn said. “Why wasn’t I notified?”
Spinks shifted his gaze to Finn, his short gray hair shining white under the spotlights. “That’s why they call it ‘deep’.”
“Who was it?” Soto asked while Finn chewed on his fury.
“He went by the name of Gil Goodman. Or Moose.”
Quinn huffed out an incredulous laugh. “No shit.”
Finn regained his composure and said, “So far we don’t have a report of—”
“He was shot,” Quinn said. “High on the left shoulder while covering for us as we fled down the back staircase from the third floor. There were more shots fired after we left. I don’t know if he made it out. I haven’t seen him since.”
“Hang on,” St. John said, then spoke into a mic. St. John plugged one ear to block extraneous noise and listened to his earpiece. Then to Quinn and Spinks, he said, “Mac and Boomer are coming down in the first ambulance now. That Goodman guy is in the ambulance behind them.”
One of the ambulances roared down the road from the house, sirens blaring, lights flashing, the other one on its bumper. The rear tires slipped on the muddy road, but that hardly slowed them down.
“And? How are they?” Damn, it would be easier pulling state secrets from the CIA.
St. John turned to Quinn and rubbed a hand across his jaw, his expression as difficult to comprehend as rotary wing aerodynamics. “Goodman, they didn’t say. Boomer is unharmed. Insisted on riding to the hospital with Mac…” The sheriff focused on the taillights of the ambulances as they disappeared. “They’re doing what they can for her. But it’s a long way down that mountain.”
“What about Life Flight?”
“Grounded,” Finn said. “You’re the only one crazy enough to fly in this mess.”
“I need a car,” Quinn said. “Now.”
Finn cut him a look sharp enough to sever spines. “We’re in the middle of a colossal mop-up. What do you want me to do, call you a limo?”
“I need—”
“I’ll take him,” Soto volunteered. “I can record his statement on the way down.”
Finn chewed on that a moment, and his upper lip twitched into a snarl. “Fine.”
Soto held out her hand, waggled her fingers in a give-it-here motion.
Finn gave up his keys the same way a parent does with a newly licensed sixteen-year-old—with great consternation and enormous reluctance.
* * * *
Jenna bumped Quinn’s shoulder with her own. That little bit of movement set her head throbbing again, though the ER doctor had assured her that besides the mild concussion, bumps and bruises, and cuts on her fingers, she was fine. “You should go. You’re running out of time to get to California. Soto has your statement. She’ll call if they have any follow-up questions.”
“I want to see Moose, or Goodman, or whatever his name is, before I leave. And I’m not leaving until Mac is out of surgery. Until I know she’s going to be okay.”
Jenna held the cup gingerly in her bandaged fingers and sipped at the bitter hospital coffee. She and Quinn sat in the corner of the crowded waiting room at the trauma hospital in Idaho Falls. The nurses had traded each of them their wet clothes for a set of scrubs.
Everyone was there. Waiting. Pepita played cards with Jenna’s grandparents, under Sidney and Boomer’s watchful eye, Pepita’s sprained ankle in a walking brace. Santos and Alby flipped through page-torn magazines. The waiting room was too claustrophobic to contain her dad. He paced the halls up and back. Up and back. Only stopping to stare down the corridor that led to the operating rooms.
Everyone gave him his space.
The only comfort he would feel would be when he saw Mac’s face again.
Jenna glanced at the clock. Two in the morning. Unless Quinn hauled ass the whole way, the chances he would make it back to California on time were abysmal.
And by the way he slumped in the chair, as if every last ounce of energy had left his body, he couldn’t make that brutal drive.
“We could check flights,” she said, “find the first plane out in the morning.”
Quinn shook his head. “Santos checked for me. No connections that get me there in time.”
“You could call your CO and expl—”
“She made it clear she wouldn’t accept any excuses.”
“Then what happens?”
“It’ll be a UA.”
“And that’s…?” She didn’t know what to say.
“Bad. Real bad. Career-ending bad, potentially.”
And here he said she was stubborn. “Then you need to go. Now.”
“I can’t. If it wasn’t for her and Boomer, we might not have made it out of there alive. I owe her that much.”
Boomer walked over, his clothes damp. “Getting your ass back to base is what you owe Mac. If she knew you were risking a UA because of her, she’d kick your ass, and you know it.”
Quinn couldn’t argue with the truth, but it didn’t change his mind.
The door to the waiting room swung open. Everyone turned to look, hoping it was news from one of the nurses or the surgeon, but it wasn’t.
Quinn stood. “Mo
m…Dad.”
His mother hurried over and pulled him into a tight hug, her mascara smudged around her eyes. She stepped back and cupped his cheeks. “My baby. Are you okay?” Her eyes roamed over him, cataloging any visible injuries. But by the haunted look in Quinn’s eyes, Jenna knew his gravest injuries festered on the inside.
He shrank back from his mother like he didn’t know what to do with her concern. “I’m fine.”
His dad stepped up, and Quinn held out a hand. His old man took it and pulled him into an awkward one-armed hug. Quinn’s arms hung at his sides until his father let him go.
His father gave him a nod. “Son.”
“What are you two doing here?” Quinn’s expression remained blank. Thoroughly unimpressed with his father’s brief show of quasi-emotion.
Shit. Jenna should have thought twice before calling his parents. She’d thought they’d have wanted to know. Thought he’d be happy to see them, to have their support. But by the way Quinn’s eyes darted around the room like a prisoner planning a jailbreak, that wasn’t true.
“I called them,” Jenna confessed. She pasted an apologetic smile on her face.
Quinn’s eyes went cold, but she refused to look away.
“Why?” he said. “I’m fine.”
He wasn’t fine. None of them were fine. She called him on it. “Really?”
He held her gaze for another angry beat, then turned back to his parents. “I’m sorry Jenna called you out here for no reason. Everything’s good. Go home. Get some sleep.”
Quinn’s father’s eyes narrowed, but before he could say anything, the door opened again, and a woman in a flight suit walked in. She was tall and lean and said, “I’m looking for Lieutenant Quinn Powell.”
Quinn looked relieved for the interruption. He stepped over to her. “I’m Lieutenant Powell.”
She stuck out her hand, and he shook it. “I’m Lieutenant Sterling. I hear you need a lift to California.”
Jenna walked over to him and threaded her arm through his. “What?” Quinn and Jenna said at the same time.
“I’m with the task force,” Lieutenant Sterling said. “Agent Finn asked me to take you back to base.”
“Agent Finn?” Quinn said with a tight laugh. “Where are the cameras?”
“What?” Sterling asked, confused.
“Is this the task force version of Punk’d?”
Sterling smiled. “Finn doesn’t have a sense of humor. It’s legit, I assure you. I guess it’s his way of saying thank you for helping save all those women.” She reached into one of her pockets and handed over Kurt’s dog tags. Soot covered, with the rubber around the edges melted in places. “St. John wanted me to give you those.”
“Uh, thanks.” Quinn brushed a thumb over the name before hanging them around his neck and tucking them inside his scrub shirt.
From beneath her lashes, Sterling graced him with a fangirl smile that Jenna had witnessed on girls suddenly thrust in front of a rock star, or her champion bull-riding father. “That was some epic flying. Everyone is talking about it. You gotta give me the deets on the way down.”
A light lit in Quinn’s eyes that hadn’t been there all night, as if he suddenly stood in the spotlight and decided he liked the way he looked in it. “Sure. When do we leave?”
“As soon as you’re ready.”
“I’m kind of waiting on my friend to get out of surgery.”
Sterling studied her watch, then looked up at the ceiling, doing some mental mathematical gymnastics. “If we leave by first light, with fuel stops, we can make it.”
First light. About four hours. Surely Mac would be out of surgery by then. Quinn stuck his hand out again and thanked her.
She hitched a thumb over her shoulder and said, “I’ll go to the cafeteria and grab some coffee. Yell when you’re ready.”
“Sure,” Quinn said.
After Sterling left, Jenna kissed him on the cheek, his stubble rough beneath her lips. Hints of smoke and gunpowder clung to him despite the drenching they’d both received. “I can’t believe Finn came through like that.”
Before Quinn could answer, his father said, “Is what Boomer says true, son?”
Quinn turned and rubbed his forehead with his fingers as if easing a tension headache. “What’s that?”
Boomer was talking to Quinn’s mother, one arm around Pepita, the other around Sidney.
“That you saved all those women. That you flew. That you saved them.”
Quinn put his hands on his hips. “It wasn’t just me.”
“I’m proud—”His father looked at his mother, then back at Quinn—“your mother and I are proud of you.”
Quinn swallowed hard but didn’t say anything. He looked at his father as one might gaze on an apparition—with wariness and skepticism.
A nurse walked in the door. “I’m looking for Quinn and Jenna. Mr. Goodman is asking for you.”
* * * *
Quinn and Jenna walked into the private room. Only the light over the bed was on. Spinks, the ATF guy Quinn had met outside the estate, set down the paper he was reading. There were small clods of dirt on the floor from his boots.
Moose lay in the bed, the head of it raised, his eyes closed, his color good, all things considered, besides the old bruises along his jaw and around his eyes.
“We can come back,” Jenna said to the agent, upon seeing Moose’s closed eyes.
“I’m awake.” The way Moose slurred his words, it sounded more like “Mm-wake.” He pressed a button on his bed controller until he was more upright and opened his eyes.
“Moose,” Jenna said.
“Call me Gil or Brant. Moose is dead.”
Brant had an IV in his left hand, a heart monitor on mute, a bandage on his left shoulder and one around his abdomen.
Quinn let out a heavy breath as relief washed over him. He stepped over to the bed. “How you feeling?”
Brant held out his hand, and Quinn clasped it in a firm grip before letting go. He owed this man his life. “Like I’ve been shot. Twice.” One corner of Brant’s mouth tipped up.
Spinks stood. “That was a stupid thing—”
“Enough already.” Brant turned his head toward the ATF agent. “Give us a minute.”
Agent Spinks frowned, glanced at Quinn and then Jenna. “Don’t stay long. He needs the rest.”
“I already have a mother, Spinks.”
Spinks spared Brant an irritated grumble, then left.
“My handler,” Brant said. “He’s a little overprotective sometimes.”
Jenna pulled a chair up to the side of the bed. “You were convincing. We had no idea you were undercover.”
“It was either this gig or Hollywood. And with a mug like mine, I’d rather be catching villains than playing them.”
Quinn chuckled, then sobered. “Thank you. For what you did for us.”
“It’s my job. You know, protect and s—”
“Bull. It was much more than that.” Jenna rested her chin on the bed rail, looking completely wrung out.
Brant reached up and thumbed the moisture off Jenna’s cheek. “Hey, hey,” he said, “none of that. Besides, I owed you one.”
“How’s that?” Quinn asked.
“Your friend,” Brant said.
Jenna squeaked and covered her mouth with her hand. Quinn held his breath.
“You really do know who killed him,” Jenna said, the words squeaking out.
Brant nodded. Quinn said, “Who?”
“A couple of El Verdugo’s men. Word got around. Your friend and that woman, Crystal, were asking a lot of questions. Crystal got high with one of El Verdugo’s men and slept with him. He let it slip about the auction. She told your friend.” Brant met Quinn’s eyes and said, “If I had known ahead of time what they were planning, I would have tri
ed to stop it.”
By the haunted starkness in Brant’s eyes, Quinn believed every word. “I appreciate that.” But he still needed to know who. Wanted to make sure they paid for what they’d done. “What happened to them, do you know?”
Brant looked away. “You don’t have to worry about them. Ever again.”
Spinks walked in, cutting off any more questions. “He’s had enough. Everyone out.”
Quinn clasped Brant’s hand again. Jenna stood and pecked him on the cheek. “I’ll check on you later,” she said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The second hand tick, tick, ticked in that jerky way institutional clocks have. Quinn had been watching it when the little hand hit the three, the four, the five, and now it crept closer to the six—and the time when he would have to board that helo or risk a UA.
But the grim reality was, there were worse things in life than being UA.
He knew that—because he’d survived the worst.
And the best thing about tonight was that the worst thing hadn’t happened.
Jenna was alive.
I love you. Those words she’d spoken when she’d thought she might not get the chance to repeat them bounced around in his brain. And though they’d been said under duress, he didn’t question their validity.
He also didn’t question that he loved her too.
What he questioned was his ability to find a way for them to be together and for them both to be happy. He didn’t want her sacrificing her dream for his. And he couldn’t sacrifice his dreams for hers.
He’d rather leave, loving her, than stay and risk resenting her.
Hank walked into the waiting room, a doctor behind him with a surgical mask hanging around his neck. The doctor tugged off his surgical cap. Quinn patted Jenna’s thigh to wake her, and she raised her head off his shoulder.
“Mac’s…” Hank’s face went red as he choked on his words.
Jenna rushed up to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and her father hugged her so tight Quinn thought he might break her in two. Hank kissed her on the top of the head and turned his attention back to the rest of the room. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard. “Mac’s in recovery. She…and the baby…are going to be fine.”
