Hot Pursuit

by Julie Ann Walker

  “And go where?” Neanderthal demanded. “To do what?”

  “None of your business,” Christian said.

  See? Calamity.

  She pinched him, but he ignored her warning. Instead, he leaned harder against her, wedging her more tightly against the pickup truck.

  “I was hopin’ you’d give me a reason to shoot you,” Neanderthal lifted his weapon. Rain dripped in a steady stream from the barrel, and the yawning black hole at the end of it was aimed between Christian’s eyes.

  Emily flinched.

  Christian didn’t.

  “I thought I needed to hear you say it,” Neanderthal continued. “I thought I needed to know you were responsible for what happened. But I don’t. All I really need to know is whether or not you’re a fucking asshole.” His accent made fucking sound more like fooking, and he smashed some of his words together so much, and left the hard consonant sounds off the ends of others, that Emily had a tough time understanding him. “And I have my answer.”

  “Hang on a second,” Ben said, but Neanderthal was already squinting one eye. Emily was sure she saw the muscles in his thick finger tighten on the trigger.

  She didn’t think.

  She simply acted.

  “Wait!” she yelled, squirming from behind Christian and dodging his hands when he tried to grab her. She stepped in front of him and raised her chin, projecting confidence and daring Neanderthal even though her insides were swirling around like the dark-gray storm clouds overhead. “If you want to kill him, you’ll have to go through me.”

  Wow! Her voice didn’t even shake. When she had time to look back on this moment—if she lived to look back on this moment—she was going to be quite proud of herself.

  “Sodding hell, Emily!” Christian hissed at the same time a bolt of lightning sizzled overhead. It was accompanied by a deafening crash of thunder that made Ben flinch.

  That’s all the distraction Angel needed. The Israeli looked like a James Bond/Bruce Lee badass mofo when he bounded forward two steps and knocked Ben’s weapon from his hands. A split second later, he executed a textbook roundhouse kick that swept Ben’s legs out from under him.

  Before Ben even hit the wet surface of the lot with a loud grunt, Neanderthal was bellowing his outrage.

  Emily hardly heard it. She was too focused on Ben’s gun. It had landed in an oily-looking puddle not two feet from her. Heart pounding, she went for it. All instincts and no rational thought.

  Unfortunately, that landed her in a heap of trouble.

  Reaching for the handgun, her fingertips had barely brushed the metal when a terrible pain ignited in her scalp. She screamed in surprise when Neanderthal yanked her up by her sodden hair. A second later, the cold kiss of his gun barrel landed on her temple, and the hand in her hair snaked around her throat. Neanderthal’s fingers dug into her skin until she could feel the warning pinch of his stubby nails.

  “You stupid cunt,” he hissed. Then, “No! Not one more step, you sorry sonofabitch!”

  When Emily dared glance from the corner of her eye, she saw Christian crouched in a fighter’s stance. He wore a grimace of epic proportions, and even though his eyes were icy green, they seemed to burn with fire when he caught and held her stare through the deluge. That fire banked a second later as he straightened and turned his attention to Neanderthal.

  “Let the woman go.” Even though his expression had gone from sudden death to cold calculation, his voice still sounded harsh and rough, like flames crackling over dried flesh.

  Neanderthal ignored him. “Damnit, Ben! Get back to your bloody feet, and get your weapon!”

  I’m sorry, Emily said with her eyes when Christian flicked her another glance through the driving rain. She had ruined their chance to turn the tables on the caveman brothers.

  We’ll discuss it later, the muscle twitching in his solid jaw told her.

  I hope we have a later.

  Don’t worry about that. His jaw hardened to granite. We will.

  She blew out a steadying breath, desperately praying he was right. Trusting him to be right.

  Ben pushed to his feet with a groan. After a quick shake of his head, he glanced at the puddle near Emily’s feet. Every eye in the group followed Ben’s down to the stranded weapon, and the electricity in the air didn’t have anything to do with the storm.

  Emily wasn’t a great shot—which maybe she should have considered before going for Ben’s handgun—but she had worked with the Black Knights long enough to recognize the make and model of the piece.

  A Glock 17. Meaning it had seventeen rounds in its clip. Plenty to do the job of killing every one of them.

  Ben hesitated, which infuriated Neanderthal all the more. “For fuck’s sake, Ben! Do it! Hurry!”

  Emily winced. The sound of Neanderthal’s voice so near her eardrum threatened to blow the sucker. It let out a warning buzz.

  Ben’s legs were shaky. His eyes darted around the mass of hulking, angry men—well, everyone looked angry except for Angel. He looked the same as he had this morning at the breakfast table.

  She tried to catch his gaze to convey how sorry she was that she’d fucked up his super awesome disarming of Ben, but he refused to look at her. Instead, he kept his pitch-black eyes focused on Ben, who was in the process of limping toward his lost weapon through the driving rain and deepening puddles.

  “You had better think twice about hurting her,” Christian said, water sluicing from his face and making his harsh features appear even harsher.

  “That’s a tall order,” Ace piped up for the first time, the deluge having darkened his blond locks to brown. “He looks like he’d have a hard time thinking once, much less twice.”

  What the hell? Now Ace had joined Christian in his death wish? Calamity times two!

  Christian wore a wolf’s smile. It was all teeth and promised the spilling of blood. “Who are you working for?” he asked Neanderthal. “Spider?”

  “Shut up!” Neanderthal bellowed, shoving the barrel of his weapon more tightly against Emily’s head.

  Closing her eyes, she tried not to grimace, not to broadcast her pain. The BKI boys needed to concentrate on the situation, not her. She’d already made one mistake. She refused to make another.

  With her eyes shut, her other senses heightened. She could smell Neanderthal’s cheap cologne trying to mask the scent of old sweat. Feel his harried breath. Sense the rapid tattoo of his heart against her back. He was scared, not as sure of himself as he pretended to be.

  A subtle clack told her Ben had palmed the Glock. She blinked open her eyes in time to watch pandemonium unfold.

  The back door of the hangar burst open, and a man in black pants and a white shirt shouted, “Hello! You must be Boss’s friends, and I—”

  Ben, with an itchy trigger finger and an even itchier case of self-control, swung on the newcomer and fired.

  The boom of the Glock was obscene, despite having to compete with the roar of the rain. Even worse was the look of shock on the newcomer’s face when the round ripped through his chest.

  “You bastard!” Christian bellowed, taking a step toward Neanderthal at the same time Angel took a step toward Ben.

  “Uh-uh!” Neanderthal yelled, shoving the barrel of his weapon so hard against Emily’s temple that her head tipped sideways, water running horizontally across her face. She couldn’t help herself. She cried out in pain. “Unless you fancy this woman’s blood on your hands, you’ll stop right there!”

  “What do you want?” Christian shouted, veins standing out on either side of his neck. The look in his eyes as he blinked the raindrops from his lashes was like nothing Emily had ever seen.

  There he was. The man she had always known was buried beneath that refined exterior. The warrior. The soldier. The down and dirty. The nitty-gritty.

  He was beautiful in his fi
erceness. Terrifying in his rage.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Ben screamed. “I killed him! I bloody well killed him!”

  “Shut up!” Neanderthal yelled.

  Ben didn’t shut up. “We hafta get outta here!” His voice broke like a pubescent boy’s.

  Neanderthal didn’t seem to hear him. Just continued to stare daggers at Christian. Christian stared cleavers right back.

  Keeping his weapon trained on the group, his arm shaking violently, Ben ran over to Neanderthal. “Please.” His eyes rolled with hysteria, water droplets beading up in his bushy eyebrows. “Please, Brother. I killed that man. Please. You gotta get me outta here.”

  Emily felt Neanderthal shudder with fury. He wanted to kill Christian. She could feel his need for it. It battled with his need to save Ben.

  “Please!” Ben used his free hand to grab the sleeve of Neanderthal’s jacket and give it a hard shake. “Please, get me outta here! You wanna lose another brother, for Christ’s sake?”

  That seemed to snap Neanderthal out of it.

  Emily felt the pressure on her throat ease a split second before Neanderthal planted a hand in the middle of her back and gave her a hard shove toward Christian.

  Stumbling into the arms waiting for her, she didn’t pretend not to need Christian’s strong, warm embrace.

  “This isn’t over!” Neanderthal yelled as he backed toward the SUV. “We know who you are now!”

  Christian didn’t respond. None of them did.

  Three seconds later, Ben and Neanderthal were inside the SUV and fishtailing their way out of the parking lot.

  Emily blew out a ragged breath. But any reprieve was short-lived because the sound of boots splashing through the rain puddles reminded her of the man in the black slacks and white shirt. The dead man. She’d seen the blood bloom on his chest like a sickly red rose, watched his eyes roll back in his head, and had known in that instant that he was a goner.

  Damnit. Damnit!

  She pushed from Christian’s arms, but couldn’t stand to lose contact with him completely. She felt dazed, confused, like someone had glued wool around the inside curve of her skull. She was an office manager, for crying out loud. Not an operator. She’d never had so much as a stapler pressed against her temple, much less a semi-auto. And she’d never witnessed a man being murdered. Considering all that, she wasn’t too proud to admit she needed Christian’s support.

  Threading her fingers through his much larger ones, she turned and raced with him toward the trio already huddled around the fallen figure.

  She didn’t get farther than five steps before Christian tugged her to a sudden stop.

  “What?” She glanced up at him through the downpour. “We need to go—”

  “Why, Emily?” The muscle beneath his eye was going mad. His jaw was working to beat the band.

  “Huh?” She blinked away the rain, only to have more cling to her lashes. “What do you mean? Why what?”

  “Why did you do it?” His voice was quiet. His eyes were not. “Why did you step in front of me?”

  “Because I thought he was about to fucking kill you, you big dummy! I thought—”

  She didn’t manage more than that. Her face was suddenly caught between Christian’s big, warm hands. His touch was gentle despite the strength of his fingers and the rough calluses on his palms. Then, in an instant, her lips were sealed tight against his.

  She blinked, shocked as shit, going cross-eyed trying to look at him, trying to determine what the hell was going on. Christian was kissing her?

  Then his hot tongue pushed against the seam of her lips. Sweet baby Jesus, Christian was kissing her!

  Chapter 6

  What was he doing?

  What the bloody hell was he doing?

  Emily didn’t realize it, but all her acts of caring, her selfless moments of kindness—from waking him from his nightmare to pulling him into the cab of the pickup truck—had torn open his chest, ripped out his heart, and served it up on a platter.

  Then, when she had stepped in front of him, ready to take a bullet that was bloody well meant for him, he had stopped pretending that what he felt for her was lust mixed with a heavy dose of vexation. Stopped pretending that he wasn’t completely arse over teakettle about everything she did, everything she said. Each smile. Each laugh. Each witty quip.

  In that moment, he had known. Heart. On. A. Platter.

  All she had to do was take it.

  Unfortunately, he was the one taking.

  Taking a kiss she hadn’t granted. Taking a taste she didn’t return. Taking advantage of a beastly situation.

  Had he lost his mind? Had he forgotten the unwritten rule? The one that was bold, underlined, and all in caps?

  Not to mention he’d lost control of himself, of the moment. He blamed it on the memory of Emily in that bastard’s grip. The sight of her there—a pistol to her head, her eyes wide with fear but her jaw gritted tight because she refused to give in to it—was forever tattooed onto the backs of his eyelids. He knew he’d see it when he closed his eyes at night.

  It took effort, but he ripped his mouth away from Emily’s and dropped his hands. Curling his fingers into fists, he locked his jaw until his molars begged for mercy.

  “Whaaa?” She blinked up at him through the rain.

  “Sorry,” he ground out. The word was guttural. Hard. “I shouldn’t have…” He shook his head, water flying from the ends of his hair. “Just…sorry, okay?”

  Her mouth opened in a bewildered little O. That mouth that tasted like mint toothpaste with a lingering hint of buttered toast. His favorite flavor used to be Welsh cakes, but now it was Emily. Emily and her mint toothpaste with lingering hints of buttered toast.

  “That won’t happen again,” he assured her before grabbing her hand and towing her toward the others.

  He had thought for sure the man in the black pants and the white shirt was dead. Ben’s shot looked as if it had drilled the bloke directly in the heart. Which meant Christian felt like a total prat for stopping to ask Emily why she had stepped in front of him—for stopping to kiss her—when they arrived in time to hear the decidedly alive man whisper his name. “Philippe Dubois.”

  “You’re Boss’s friend,” Ace said, applying pressure to Philippe’s wound. “You’re the former Armée de L’Air commandant.”

  “Oui. C’est moi,” Philippe managed, water dripping from his chin and earlobes. He wasn’t wheezing. That was good. Meant the bullet hadn’t collapsed his lung.

  “Don’t try to talk, Philippe,” Ace told him. “Rusty, call airport security.”

  Christian was already pulling his mobile from his soaking hip pocket. The rain had let up. No longer a deluge, it was now more of a steady drip. “We don’t need security. We need an ambulance. This man needs to go to hospital.”

  He dialed 999 without hesitation and waited for his call to connect. Dropping his free hand back to his side, he was startled when Emily grabbed it, threading her fingers through his. They felt dainty, delicate. And freezing wet. He desperately wanted to kiss them warmer, kiss them dry.

  Glancing at her, he blinked the water from his lashes but couldn’t stop the questions in his eyes. So you forgive me? For taking without asking? For kissing you when you’ve given me no indication you were interested?

  Before she could answer, an operator’s voice sounded in his ear, all efficient and bored. After explaining the nature of Philippe’s wound and what had happened in the vaguest of terms, he gave the operator their location. When she asked for his name, he growled, “That’s not what’s bloody important. What’s bloody important is a man’s been shot and needs help. Hurry!” He abruptly hung up. “Help is on the way,” he announced.

  Philippe’s white shirt was soaked with blood despite the pressure Ace applied.

  “Damnit,” Christian growled,
looking around for something to stanch the bleeding. Nothing else for it, he decided, dropping Emily’s hand—he really, truly hated doing that—and shrugging out of his coat. Next came his sweater. He tossed both pieces of clothing to her.

  His white cotton undershirt was wet and sticking to his skin, but it would have to do. Pulling it over his head, he twisted it, wringing out as much water as he could, before handing it to Ace. “Here. Use this.”

  Ace took the wadded shirt, tucked it beneath Philippe’s button-down, and pressed it to the wound. The Frenchman grimaced, but nodded that he was okay when Ace asked after him.

  Christian’s lungs were on fire, his heart black at the senselessness of it all.

  Ben and his douche canoe brother had obviously come looking for Christian. To off him? It had certainly looked that way. But instead, they had nearly offed an innocent bystander.

  He wanted to hop in that silly farm truck, take off after them, and then…what? Strangle them with his bare hands? Because he sure as fecking dog shit didn’t have any weapons. They’d left those behind, not wanting to get caught with them while fleeing the country.

  “We need to go.” Angel stood from his crouch beside Philippe.

  “Go?” Ace glared up at him, flinching at the raindrops landing on his cheeks and brow. “Are you crazy? We have to stay here until help arrives.”

  “No.” To someone less observant, Angel’s expression would look cold, calculating. But Christian saw the subtle twitch of Angel’s jaw, the brief flicker of regret in his black-on-black eyes. “We cannot be here when help arrives. Too many questions. Too many people.”

  “We’re already bumfucked,” Ace insisted. “Surely everything was caught on the security cameras.”

  Everyone looked around, squinting up through the rain at the corners of the hangar and the lampposts across the small access road. Well, everyone except for Emily. When Christian glanced over at her, he saw her eyes raking over his naked torso. He felt their path like a set of soft, searching hands.

  Or maybe she was simply shocked by the sight of his tattoos in the light of day. Most times he went out of his way to hide them, wearing long sleeves even in the summer.