Taking Fire

by Cheyenne McCray

  However, Christie would take the stand as an eyewitness. She had seen and overheard a considerable amount of damning evidence from her ex-husband. It spelled out not only his crooked business dealings but attested to the fact he had ordered the murders of individuals and in fact had killed by his own hand.

  In addition, Reyes had contracted the attempted murders of Belle, Dylan, and the rest of the Circle of Seven, two of whom had been killed.

  Trace had barely said goodbye to the group before he snatched his Stetson off the hat rack and headed out of the front door with Dallas trotting beside him. Brooks took his own western hat and followed.

  “I’ve got a full tank.” Trace strode toward his Explorer.

  “I have enough to get to Benson.” Brooks veered left to his truck. “I’ll make a quick pit stop and meet you at the airport.”

  In moments, Dallas and Trace had climbed into his Ford Explorer. He jammed his keys in the ignition and started it. The SUV’s tires spun in the gravel, then he shot down the dirt road and headed from the ranch to the highway

  * * * *

  Christie shifted, trying to get comfortable the best she could with her head against the stiff headrest. Whenever she flew, she preferred an aisle seat, but none had been available and the airline had stuck her in the middle.

  No one had taken the seat to her left yet. On her right side, next to the window, sat a gum-popping young blonde woman obsessed with her cell phone and playing with the countless rings on her fingers, mostly diamonds and emeralds. An American Princess, was what Christie had thought the moment she’d laid eyes on the girl. She might have been a high school upperclassman or maybe a college student. She seemed to be a little spacey, something of an airhead.

  Princess had closed the window shade. Christie would have liked to have the shade up but didn’t say anything. Maybe the girl would open it once they were in the air.

  Christie turned her attention from Princess back to a home and garden magazine, remembering the days when she’d had a beautiful home in addition to a lovely garden—but they had come at a price. A price she would never pay again.

  “I think this is my seat.”

  A thickly accented Hispanic male voice jerked Christie’s attention away from her magazine.

  She cut her gaze up to meet the eyes of a trim man who looked so much like Salvatore it made her stomach twist with fear and loathing. Her reaction was no doubt irrational, but he could have been her ex-husband’s twin—minus the thick scar along one cheek and the hint of green in his brown eyes.

  He smiled at her before taking a duffel bag and sliding it into the compartment above their row.

  His arm and thigh brushed hers as he took his seat and she shrank away from him, trying to make herself as small as possible. His strong cologne, much like Salvatore’s favorite, caused her nose to itch and her belly to roll.

  “I am Ángel.” He pronounced his name in Spanish, his accent thick like sticky warm caramel.

  Christie decided she hated caramel.

  She’d never been an impolite person and she felt obligated to respond. She almost gave her real first name but caught herself. “Ann.”

  “A pleasure, Ann,” Ángel said.

  Princess leaned close to Christie’s ear and said, “Ángel. What a sexy name. And he is hot as hell.” Her breath smelled like peppermint.

  Christie drew back. “What?”

  With a grin, Princess dug in her purse and snagged both pen and small notebook. She scrawled something across a page and tore a strip off, folded it, and handed it to Christie, who took it without thinking.

  Princess gestured to the man. “Give it to Ángel.”

  What is this, high school? Christie thought.

  Feeling like an idiot, she held up the folded paper and turned to the man next to her. “This is for you.”

  Ángel raised his eyebrows. “Your number, senorita?” The sensuality he put into the words made her shudder.

  Something slid within her, as if she had started to separate from herself. Memories of another strong Hispanic voice echoed in her head.

  Salvatore.

  His promises. His lies. His abuse.

  A far-off voice whispered in her head. You are stronger than this, Christie.

  Christie shifted in her seat and ground her teeth. “No.” She inclined her head toward the girl next to her. “It’s from Princess over here.” She tossed the paper onto his lap.

  Ángel appeared faintly surprised and Princess gave him a little wave.

  Christie folded her arms, closed her eyes, and pretended to sleep.

  Even though she tried to pull herself in as tightly as possible, legs and arms crossed, Ángel and Princess still managed to brush against her arms or bump her knees. Princess said something to Ángel, who chuckled and ended the conversation with “I must get rest now,” shutting her down.

  Tired from late-night talking with Natasha, Christie found herself slipping in and out of conscious thought. In one moment, she would start to drift off and in the next she jerked awake as her head lolled to the side. She had no desire to fall asleep on the man’s shoulder so shifted a little more away from him.

  Sleep called to her and she continued to drift toward it.

  She ran. Her lungs burned and her legs ached. She stumbled and almost fell. Her heart jackhammered. Adrenaline pumped through her, but her weak body grew more and more tired.

  A forest with thick brush lay ahead. If she reached it in time, she could hide from him.

  Her breath caught when she glanced over her shoulder and tears of anger and fear blurred her vision.

  The bastard had gained on her. Her mind screamed to run faster, but her body couldn’t obey.

  She had to double her speed and she might escape. A grain of hope tried to take root within her once she reached the forest.

  Her muscles gave out. She tripped and fell hard, her palms driving into damp earth and leaves, and pine needles that poked her flesh.

  Horror and fear filled her like burning lava. She cut her gaze up to see a man with a shadowed face.

  Salvatore? Dear God, not Salvatore.

  He reached for her and wrapped his fingers around her wrist…

  Christie jerked awake with a start, sucking in a lungful of breath to let out a scream.

  “Are you okay?” A young woman’s voice.

  “What?” A nightmare…she’d just had a nightmare. Christie forced the images from her mind as she turned her attention to Princess “I’m…fine, thank you.”

  “Are you sure?” Princess frowned. “I thought you were going to scream when I touched you.”

  Christie pushed a lock of hair from her eyes. “Just a bad dream.”

  Princess glanced at the window, the cover still down. Sun streamed through the windows in front and behind their aisle. She lowered her voice. “I hate to fly.” She leaned in close to Christie. “I take something for anxiety before the flight takes off. I’m feeling pretty good right now.” She gave a little laugh. “You might say I’m flying a whole ’nother way.”

  That made sense, considering how spacy the girl had acted from the beginning.

  “My name is Madison.” Princess—Madison—grabbed a bright blue Coach handbag from beneath the seat in front of her. “I have some to share if you need any.” She lowered her voice. “It’s awesome.”

  “I’m fine. Really.” Since Madison had given her name, Christie thought she should offer hers. “I’m Chr—” This time, she’d almost screwed up. “I’m Ann.”

  Madison dug in her purse. “If you don’t want the good stuff, Ann, I also have gum.”

  The young woman seemed to be nice and not quite as self-centered as Christie had pegged her. “No, thanks, but I do appreciate the offer.”

  Madison sighed. “I really wish we would land already.”

  So do I, Christie thought. She wanted nothing more than to get back home and see the people she loved.

  * * * *

  Even though he had plenty o
f time to get to Tucson International Airport, Trace flipped on his grill lights and drove faster than he should have. On the way, he called FBI Agent Laura Stillwater, Christie’s contact, and the lead agent on her protective detail.

  “Agent Stillwater.”

  Trace had a hard time keeping from losing his temper. “This is Agent Trace Davidson from DHS.”

  They had both been on the scene and helped take down Salvatore Reyes when he’d abducted Christie.

  “Of course, Agent Davidson.” Stillwater’s spoke in a smooth voice that had an ingrained hardness to it like polished wood. “What can I do for you?”

  Trace gripped the steering wheel, pulling onto a two-lane highway. “Why, if you’ll excuse me, the hell would you let Christie Simpson come back to Bisbee?”

  “Christie is in Indiana,” Stillwater said.

  “No,” Trace said. “She’s on her way to Bisbee.”

  “Goddamn.” Stillwater paused. “Christie has refused our assistance.” She went on, “I have done everything in my power to get her to agree to our protection.”

  Trace tried to restrain his anger. “An informant called me with a tip regarding Salvatore Reyes. He’s put out a hit on Christie from his prison cell.”

  “Shit.”

  “And somehow his men have managed to get a hold of her itinerary. They know she’s flying into Tucson and will be there”—Trace glanced at the time on his dashboard clock—“in about two and a half hours.”

  Stillwater let out another curse word but remained all business. “Do you know her flight number?”

  “I don’t have that information.” Trace guided the Ford Explorer down the highway, vehicles pulling out of his way as he came up behind them. “I’m headed to the airport now. I’d appreciate it if you’d find out the details and get back with me.”

  Stillwater paused. “As soon as we’re off the phone, I will get my people on it.”

  “I should arrive in less than ninety minutes, along with Brooks Allen, another DHS agent.” Trace flexed his fingers. “Let me know how you’re going to handle this.”

  “I’ll be in touch shortly,” Stillwater said before she disconnected the call.

  Trace had been in a hell of a lot of life-and-death situations in his career. Every situation mattered. Every situation was important.

  But this one was different

  But, even though he’d only been around Christie a couple of times, her safety more than mattered to him. It felt personal.

  When he’d seen how beaten down she’d been from Salvatore’s abuse, when he’d learned her own husband had raped her, he’d wanted to kill the bastard. Then he’d wanted to wrap her in his arms and promise her no one would ever hurt her again.

  The best he’d been able to do in his position hadn’t been a lot. He had put a warm blanket around her shoulders, told her she was safe now, helped her as she’d gone into shock and had gotten her into the ambulance that had taken her to the hospital. She hadn’t known it, but he’d checked in on her during her hospital stay.

  The only time he’d seen her after, at the wedding, had been too brief. He’d caught the wedding bouquet by accident and the glimmer of a smile on her lips had made it worth the teasing and razzing he’d gotten from the guys he worked with.

  Trace knew more about her than he probably should. He knew she worked in a craft and gift shop for a cousin named Natasha and he knew Christie lived with her cousin. He also knew she hadn’t been dating.

  God, I’m like some crazy stalker.

  He pushed his fingers through his hair. He was going out of his mind with worry. How had she gotten under his skin like this?

  “It’s not a good idea to let anything get personal in my line of work.” He glanced at Dallas. “But damned if I can help it when it comes to Christie.”

  The German shepherd’s eyes looked filled with understanding.

  While Trace drove, he called his Resident Agent in Charge at the DHS’s ICE office he worked from. RAC Sofia Aguilar answered after a couple of rings. He explained the situation to her.

  “You’re stepping on the FBI’s toes,” Sofia said. “They’re not going to appreciate it.”

  “I need time to help get Christie Simpson to trial.” Trace raced down the fast lane, vehicles moving aside for him. “I want to make sure she makes it. Alive.”

  Hell, he just wanted her to make it out of this safe and sound, regardless of the damned trial.

  “That’s the FBI’s job.” A hard woman, Sofia spoke in a blunt manner.

  “This case is different, Sofia.” He pushed his Explorer, wanting to get to the airport as fast as he could. “You know it is.”

  She remained quiet a moment, clearly thinking about all that had brought them to this point. The Circle of Seven case had involved one of their own.

  “Take what time you need,” she finally said. “I just don’t want to have to deal with any pissed off FBI agents.”

  “I’ll handle it.” Trace thanked his RAC and disconnected the call.

  Agent Stillwater called twenty minutes after he’d gotten off the phone with her. She’d arranged for the local police department to meet him, along with herself and other FBI agents.

  He ended the call with Stillwater and couldn’t help but feel an even greater urgency to get to the airport and Christie’s plane. They had plenty of time before her flight landed, but things might not go as smoothly as planned. His muscles were wound tight when he finally reached the airport.

  At the prearranged location, Trace parked his SUV. With Dallas at his side, he jogged to where a Tucson Police Department lieutenant and four FBI agents, including Stillwater, were standing. Two police department vehicles and three FBI vehicles were part of a motorcade being staged to get Christie the hell out of there.

  Brooks arrived just as Trace approached Stillwater. “Agent Allen and I will be joining you.”

  Stillwater took him aside, her dark features hard. “The FBI has point on this one, Davidson.”

  Trace held back anger that threatened to explode from him. “All I care about is Christie’s safety.”

  “We can do that without you.” Stillwater’s dark eyes stared at him intently. She’d pulled her hair back pulled tightly, emphasizing her high cheekbones and her dark, exotic features. She had a fierce look about her.

  Trace ground out the words as he responded. “The FBI wouldn’t even be here if it hadn’t been for a DHS informant, my informant.”

  “Regardless,” Stillwater said, “we’ll take it from here.”

  “We are going whether you like it or not.” He nodded toward the terminal. “We don’t have time to waste.”

  Color darkened Stillwater’s cheeks. The agent’s severe appearance and manner did not detract from her stunning appearance. She studied him for a long moment. She opened her mouth and spoke with icy authority. “I’m allowing you here as a courtesy only.”

  “Thank you,” Trace said, feeling no pleasure in the concession.

  He wanted to protect Christie and get her out of this mess alive.

  Chapter Three

  After Trace and Stillwater shared a few words regarding the plan, the motorcade headed to the terminal.

  Once they were inside the building, police officers escorted Trace, Brooks and the FBI agents the rest of the way. Their credentials verified by TSA at the checkpoint, they headed toward the gate. Officials allowed Dallas through as a K-9, even though he had technically retired.

  Trace had a Beretta M9 9mm beneath the overshirt he’d put on from his Explorer. Brooks also had his service weapon similarly concealed. The FBI agents wore suits and were armed.

  According to the monitors, Christie’s on-time flight would arrive at the gate in approximately thirty minutes. Brooks and Trace split up to make observations on their way.

  While walking to his destination, Trace took in passengers he passed as well as personnel in the area, searching for anything out of the ordinary. Shaking hands, sweating and other signs of nervou
sness could be just a passenger who hated to fly but could also be an indication of something more sinister.

  Trace also looked for the opposite. Someone too cool, too casual acting. An individual who did his best to remain unobserved while keeping an eye open for his target.

  No one stood out to Trace, but he remained completely aware of his surroundings and of the passengers waiting for their flights.

  Ultimately, Trace and the other agents were not overly concerned about anyone waiting for her inside the terminal. He or she would have zero opportunity to hurt Christie because the FBI refused to even consider allowing her to go inside. Trace, along with the rest of the team, would take her on what they considered a safe detour.

  When they all reached the gate, they were immediately taken down the jetway and to the boarding platform.

  To their left, an accordion-like extension would line up with the plane’s door. The crew had been given instructions to get Christie to the front of the plane. They were to ask her to move to the seat closest to the exit, even if someone had to trade with her. The agents had arranged to take Christie from the plane and out of the jetway before the flight attendants allowed anyone else through the hatch.

  A door on their right opened to a set of stairs leading down to the tarmac and to a waiting local police department cruiser. After they got her safely in the vehicle, they would head back to where the FBI had staged the motorcade.

  Trace, Stillwater, and two of the FBI agents waited for Christie’s plane to pull up to the gate. The police officer escort, Brooks, and the other two FBI agents headed down the metal stairs to the tarmac.

  While Trace and his small group waited for the flight to arrive, Stillwater looked at him. “Christie is going to be ten shades of pissed.”

  Trace raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

  Stillwater shook her head. “After living under Reyes’ thumb all these years, Christie has found her independence. She doesn’t want anyone watching her or telling her what to do. She’s refused to allow the FBI anywhere near her. The woman just doesn’t understand how much danger she’s in.”