Breach of Trust

by Jodie Bailey

  The idea of confronting the hacker who’d shadowed almost two years of his life was more than he could turn his back on. Whoever was shooting at them now could lead them straight to Phoenix and close this whole operation.

  Tate peeked around the couch. The silence crawled along his arms. “I understand how the cat died now.”

  “What?”

  “Curiosity.” Tate turned and rested on one knee, fired two shots over the couch through the already shattered front window, then dropped low. He had to assert himself, to let the guy know they would fight to the death if they had to.

  Silence.

  They needed a line of sight. And he knew exactly how to get it. He glanced at Meghan. “Remember the op with the interpreter who wanted to be a stand-up comedian?”

  She grinned, the sight totally out of place given their current situation. “I’ll take the upstairs.”

  The most dangerous maneuver, requiring her to cross the open space between their meager shelter and the stairs. If she was hit doing the job he ought to be doing, he’d never be able to forgive himself.

  He grabbed her arm. “I’ll go.”

  “Because you know the layout of my house so well.” She jerked her arm away and crouched low, gone before he could argue.

  He followed the sounds of her creaking up the stairs. Lord, keep her safe.

  Another bullet shattered a pane in one of the front windows and cracked into the stone above the fireplace.

  Please.

  Tate was the proverbial sitting duck behind the couch. The wood and fabric wouldn’t stop a bullet, and if the shooter got brave and charged the front door, there would be a shoot-out.

  He massaged the grip of his gun. He had to take control of the situation and let the shooter know who was really in charge here.

  Keeping low, he crept to the far corner of the room, wide-open to view should the shooter burst through the front door, but out of the immediate line of sight. Edging along the wall, he peeked between the curtain and the window, careful not to move the fabric and give himself away. He scanned the small sliver of trees he could see, looking for anything that would indicate the sniper’s position. A muzzle flash. The glint of sunlight on metal. A branch moving against the wind.

  He saw nothing.

  Upstairs, the floor creaked, Meghan moving from the front to the rear of the house to evaluate their escape route.

  Nothing moved outside, but Meghan had been right about her car. The left rear tire was completely deflated. Same for the pickup. Not incapacitated, but it would be a tough escape on flats.

  Another crack resounded, and the other rear tire blew, melting into a shapeless mass.

  Well, their options were easier now.

  Where was their shooter? They were trapped until they spotted him, and even then, if the guy had a high-powered rifle, he could keep them pinned here forever with only Meghan’s revolver and Tate’s semiautomatic to protect them. Powerful enough at close range, but no match for a rifle from a distance.

  Tate fought the weight of failure hardening in his gut. Answers would have to wait. They had to back away or they wouldn’t live to ask the questions. Everything in him wanted to take this fight head-to-head, but wisdom dictated he live to fight another day.

  Glass upstairs shattered as another gunshot cracked, closer this time. The muzzle flash came from the left, toward the curve in the driveway, high in a tree.

  He’d found the shooter.

  A second shot and a thud from above sent him scrambling for the stairs.

  Had Meghan been hit?

  TEN

  Meghan dropped hard as a bullet whacked the side of the house way too close to her position, the laptop she’d retrieved from the closet clattering to the floor. She stretched to grab the machine and crept toward the bedroom door.

  From the sound of it, the shooter was definitely somewhere to the left of the house.

  She hoped there wasn’t more than one.

  They had a chance to get out without being seen, but they had to leave now. If he moved before they reached cover, there was no way to pinpoint what his line of sight would be from a new position.

  She edged down the stairs and found Tate at the bottom, on his way up. Keeping low, she slipped in next to him, back pressed against the wall out of the line of sight of the window by the door. “He’s to the left.”

  “I saw him.” Tate reached for her, running his hands along her arms. “You hit?”

  Even in the midst of everything, his touch rattled her. She jerked away. “What? No.” They didn’t have time for this. “We need to go.”

  Tate tapped the barrel of his pistol. “Shooter’s in a tree to the left of the driveway, about three hundred yards out. He’s blind to the left center of the backyard from there.”

  “How many?”

  “Saw one, but there’s no guarantee there aren’t more. We can’t give him a chance to get between us and the barn.”

  Meghan didn’t want to sneak out. She needed the identity of the mystery man who’d overshadowed half of her life. She angled toward the kitchen. “We can go out the back and flank him. If—” She half rose, ready to roll, but Tate pulled her lower.

  “I’d love to, but no. From his position, he’s got a full view around himself. There’s no way to stay hidden. He’s got the height advantage, too.” Tate shook his head. “We’re not going to be stupid.”

  Meghan grasped her pistol harder, the grip digging into her fingers. She didn’t want to listen to Tate, but she did want them both to survive.

  Man, how she hated to step away from a battle. “I’ve got a go bag in the laundry room near the back door.” She didn’t wait for Tate to take the lead. It was bad enough she had to run. She wasn’t going to be the tail end of the train.

  Another crack, and a section of Sheetrock opposite the fireplace crumbled.

  He was firing blind potshots. That was one relief, however small.

  Around the corner in the kitchen, she stood and stared at the floor, a sudden wave of despair shoving her heart into her throat. She’d probably never see this place again now that it was compromised. The floors she’d worked so hard on, the dreams she’d planned so meticulously...

  Tate grabbed her hand. “I know.” His voice was deeper than she’d ever heard it, his touch driving home the grief she couldn’t stop.

  His tenderness nearly undid her. Knowing his story, there was no doubt he understood. He was probably reliving the day he’d had to flee the place he’d called home.

  Meghan’s long-dreamed-for life ended when she walked out the door, whether the shooter got sights on her or not. Whoever he was, he’d already taken everything. She felt like shaking her fist at the sky. Thanks for the help.

  “I...” Tate exhaled loudly, his fingers tightening on hers. “We’ve got to go. You’ll have to grieve later.” Regret tinged his urgency.

  She jerked away. No. There wouldn’t be any grief. There was only moving forward. She’d learned to keep putting one foot in front of the other long ago. “Let’s go.” She stepped around him, reaching into the laundry room to grab a black backpack as she passed. She shoved it at him and pulled a broom from beside the door.

  Tate caught her plan and shoved the backpack into her chest, snatching the broom as she struggled to keep the bag from slipping to the floor.

  He eased her to the side, out of range of the door. “No way am I letting you in the line of fire first.”

  It had gone this way more than once. Yes, they’d been partners, but he had a sense of chivalry that drove him to protect her.

  And she hated the way something inside her responded.

  Tate eased to the window over the sink and crouched beneath cabinet level, letting the broom hover before he used the bristles to sweep the curtain aside
, as though someone peeked through the sheer material.

  From her position by the door, Meghan waited, tense, watching for the gunshot that would indicate the back of the house was covered.

  Nothing.

  Tate waited another second, then moved the curtain again.

  Silence.

  Meghan rocked back on her heels, unsure if she was relieved or doubly concerned. A shot would have been a definitive answer. Silence could mean anything.

  Tate dropped the broom with a clatter and met her by the door, taking a knee beside her. “Ready?”

  Raising on her toes to peek out the window, she nodded, her shoulder brushing Tate’s chest. “Keep left across the yard. We’ll cut through the trees and skirt the—”

  Tate was looking at her oddly, watching her mouth as she talked. Something zipped between them, the same something she’d felt more than once on their last few missions. The same something that had driven her to run the last time.

  Nothing had changed since they’d been apart. She’d mourned him for years because she loved him.

  And the love hadn’t died. If anything, it had flamed to life, wrapping her in a paralysis that grounded her to the floor, drove her headlong into a moment totally out of step with the danger outside the door.

  Into a danger more frightening than a shot to the heart from a hidden sniper.

  She inhaled slowly, balancing her thoughts. Now could not be a worse time, and she finally understood why Ethan had warned her away from Tate Walker. Emotion took the focus off the threat and placed it squarely where it shouldn’t be.

  Meghan reached a trembling hand out and pulled the door open, squeezing past Tate. “Let’s go.”

  She hit the porch steps determined to leave her grief dead on the kitchen tile, every muscle tensed against the thud of a bullet into her torso.

  Tate was close behind, his breaths louder than her own.

  There were about a hundred yards between them and the cover of the trees. Without glancing over her shoulder, trusting Tate to guard the rear, she examined the area, practiced eyes watching for movement, then dived for the trees.

  She hit cover and kept running, not stopping until she was on the other side of the thin grove of oaks dividing the pasture from the house. Even then, she kept moving, shoving through creeping underbrush at a pace restrained only enough to keep her from sprawling, the victim of an errant tree root.

  “They’ll figure out we’re gone soon.” Tate pulled in beside her, breathing heavily in the thick air. “We’ll follow the edge of the wood line to the barn.”

  “Gotcha.” Meghan leaned against a thick tree trunk to heave in air as though she’d never get enough, then pushed off and kept moving. “Trail’s to the right when you get the truck out.” She hefted her go bag higher on her shoulder. “They’ll hear the truck rattle the minute you start it.”

  “Then I’ll drive fast.” He sounded as winded as she felt. Probably doubly so, considering what he’d lost to a would-be assassin’s knife.

  At the edge of the woods, Meghan dropped to one knee to survey the area. Nothing moved except branches waving in the slight breeze. The smell of fresh-cut grass drifted from the house, the lazy summer scent a counterpoint to their danger.

  “It’s doubtful they know the truck is here.” Tate’s voice was low beside her where he’d taken a position similar to hers, watching to make sure no one followed. His shoulder brushed hers.

  As crazy as it felt in this uncertain chaos, she wanted to lean against him and let him hold her, to accept the support he’d always offered, to acknowledge the way he let her take the lead now so he could follow, standing between her and danger.

  Always standing between her and danger.

  The implication she couldn’t take care of herself ought to fire her anger, but instead it made her want to surrender even more.

  But she wouldn’t. Ever. And now would be the craziest time to fall into the trap of needing someone else, when both of them could be in a sniper’s crosshairs. “If you’ve got the rear, we’ll go.”

  They slipped into the barn, the air hot and still under the roof where the breeze couldn’t reach. It was heavier than a horse blanket, and the heat of the day meant it smelled twice as bad as it had earlier.

  Tate coughed. “You sure the horses aren’t still in here?”

  “Yeah.” Meghan breathed through her mouth, but it didn’t help. “Tell me you have the keys.”

  “Still in my pocket.”

  A shout bounced across the pasture from the house, and another echoed.

  Their friend’s backup had arrived, and they’d discovered the house was empty.

  In the dim light, Meghan caught Tate’s eye across the roof of the truck, then she pitched her go bag into the bed and leaped for the back barn door that led to an overgrown trail and the main road.

  The truck rocked as Tate jumped in, slammed the door hard, then leaned across the small space to throw her door open.

  Meghan unlatched the barn door and strained against heavy wood and rusted metal rollers no one had moved in years. She threw her back against the small opening and pushed off the door frame with her feet, leveraging every ounce of her weight. The rollers caught and the door moved, slowly at first before gaining speed, flooding the barn with sunlight and fresh air.

  Tate fired the engine, and Meghan jumped in as he rolled past, pulling her seat belt across with a click. “Drive the way you used to. I promise not to complain.”

  The truck bounced as it hit a rut at the edge of the trail; a pinging whack rang through the vehicle.

  Tate’s mouth drew into a grim line. “They hit us. Stay low.”

  Meghan ignored him, whirling in the seat to see two men enter the clearing, one bearing a sniper rifle he aimed at the truck.

  Meghan slid the rear window open and raised her gun, but the bounce of the vehicle kept her from getting a clear shot.

  “Get down!” Tate yelled as another bullet thudded against the truck bed.

  Instead of obeying the order, she pressed herself tight against the seat and tried to level a clear shot.

  They were feet from the trees when the window behind Tate shattered.

  * * *

  Fire burned Tate’s shoulder as glass rained into the vehicle and a bullet thudded into the top of the dash. He fought to keep the truck from bouncing in a rut, when what he really wanted was to reach for Meghan. “Are you hit?”

  Meghan dived sideways, planting her back flat against the passenger door as she watched the rear. “No. You?”

  Tate didn’t answer, simply urged the truck on as he shifted through the gears. Lord, let this truck run better than it ever has before.

  The vehicle, probably twenty years old, wasn’t a high-performance anything. It was part of his cover as a disgruntled former soldier in need of a paycheck. He’d never expected to use it as a getaway car along a rutted horse path through the woods. What he wouldn’t give for his Jeep... Or his motorcycle. Or anything other than this.

  He gripped the wheel tighter, ignoring the pain in his shoulder as another bullet shattered the mirror on the driver’s door.

  The truck leaped forward as though it felt the pain, gaining cover in the trees.

  “How far to the road?” The question came out through gritted teeth. He doubted the truck could make it much longer without bouncing the transmission onto the overgrown dirt path.

  “Not much.” Meghan relaxed a little and shoved her hair out of her face. Her forehead wrinkled. “You’re hit.” She reached toward his shoulder, her fingers bouncing in time with the truck as it careened into ruts.

  She didn’t have to tell him. The curve of his shoulder throbbed with every bump in the road. He didn’t dare inspect the wound but kept praying the truck survived. They didn’t have time to doct
or a flesh wound.

  Tate’s jaw ached from clenching it. “Will we beat them to the road?”

  “It’ll be close. There’s a side road if you turn toward the house. It eventually brings you to the highway.” She reached for him again. “I need to check out—”

  “Let’s get you to safety first.” Human nature was to turn away from the threat. If Tate could make it to the side road, the shooters would streak by it, never thinking Tate would be so bold.

  If they made it that far.

  Ahead, the trees opened, a glimpse of wavering black pavement appearing between them.

  Tate had never been so happy to see asphalt in his life. He skidded the truck to a halt, downshifting through the throbbing in his shoulder. Hanging a right, he speed-shifted as fast as the old truck would let him, barely slowing at the turn that appeared on the left. The truck rattled and protested as Tate pushed it to its ancient limits, but it complied.

  Maybe he’d rethink his opinion of the metal beast.

  Tate watched the road while Meghan turned to cover behind them.

  About five minutes later, she settled into the seat, facing forward. “I think we made it.”

  Tate took his first deep breath in what felt like hours, though the whole ordeal had lasted less than fifteen minutes. His heart pounded, the immediacy of the moment waning and letting the what-ifs settle in. He shoved them away. Dealing in what might have happened kept him from focusing on what needed to happen. They’d made their getaway, and now they had to find a place to regroup. “Thank You, Lord.”

  Meghan turned toward him and started to say something. Instead, she holstered her sidearm, then reached over and lifted the sleeve of his T-shirt, leaning closer. Her touch was gentle, belying the usual boisterous way she attacked life. She inspected the injury, raising a whole other kind of sensation where the caress trailed, one that overrode pain, pumping through his heart and out into his entire being.

  “They grazed the side of your shoulder. Probably burns like nobody’s business, but it’s superficial. Where’s the first aid kit?”