Trace thought about that for a moment. “Well, I think she’s just going to have to get used to having someone guarding her.”
Stillwater put her hands on her hips, which pushed aside her blazer and revealed her holstered service weapon. “I’ll let you convince her. Nothing I’ve done or said has worked.”
Trace adjusted his Stetson. Come hell or high water, he’d convince Christie she needed protection. The FBI agents would not be the only ones handling her security. Trace planned on being right there, too. He didn’t give up or give in easily and he refused to back down over this.
Stillwater put her finger to her ear, clearly listening to someone. When she lowered her hand, she eyed Trace. “Christie’s flight just landed. Another five to ten minutes and we’ll have her off that plane.”
Trace positioned himself closest to the location Christie would be disembarking from the plane. An odd sensation tightened his insides at the sound of the Boeing’s powerful engines pulling up to the terminal. In just moments she’d be off the flight.
Dallas watched with his keen gaze never wavering.
Trace wondered at the way his heart pounded a little faster. No doubt it had to do with the fact that Salvatore had threatened Christie’s life. But Trace had to be honest with himself. It also had a lot to do with seeing the woman who’d been in his dreams countless times.
Moments after a landing crew had prepared the jetway and a flight crew member opened the hatch, Trace watched a confused-looking redhead walk out of the plane.
Christie.
She’d changed, her petite form slimmer as if she didn’t eat quite enough. She’d cut her deep, naturally red hair into a smooth and short hairstyle that framed her delicate features. The white blouse she wore had three-quarter-length sleeves and dark-blue jeans hugged her legs.
Christie was just as beautiful as he remembered. He hadn’t forgotten the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose that made her all the more adorable.
Even though she seemed confused by being pulled off the plane earlier than anyone else, she appeared more confident in her posture and her bearing.
She carried a purse and a laptop bag. When her gaze met Trace’s, her big blue eyes widened. “Agent Davidson?” She spoke in a soft voice that had a firmness about it he hadn’t heard in the past. “What are you doing here?”
“Hi, Christie.” He wanted to hold onto that moment, before she learned about the danger hanging over her. And before Stillwater told her agents would escort her to keep her safe from harm.
He didn’t have a chance to say anything else. Agent Stillwater stepped around him. “We need to go, Christie.”
In a blink of an eye, Christie’s gaze went from wide-eyed surprise to narrowed with anger. “What are you doing here, Agent Stillwater? I told you I don’t need the FBI watching over me.”
“Your ex-husband put a hit out on you.” Trace jerked Christie’s attention back to him. He had to put it in the bluntest possible way to get her to cooperate. “They found out you were on this flight and they plan to kill you.”
“He what?” Christie’s face went pale. “Someone is out to kill me?”
“Possibly more than one person,” Stillwater said.
“How is it possible he put a hit out on me when he’s in prison?” Christie still wore an expression of disbelief. “How did they find out about my plans to come to Arizona? How could they even know my flight number? I didn’t tell anyone.”
“We don’t know, but we’re already working on it.” Stillwater moved to one side of Christie and Trace took the other. “We need your phone to see if that is the method he used.”
“My phone?” She hesitated a moment, seeming to let the FBI agent’s words sink in. She dug in her purse and produced a slim cell, which Stillwater took. “How could they find—?” Christie started.
“First we’ve got to get you to safety,” Trace cut in. “Then we’ll answer your questions.”
“What about my suitcase?” Christie appeared to be trying to grasp reality while facing something so frightening as having a hit out on her. “I checked in one bag.”
“We’ll have your luggage and other belongings delivered to you once we are certain you are safe,” Stillwater said.
Christie nodded, starting to appear numb with the shock of everything the agents had just told her.
Trace and Stillwater guided Christie to the door to their right.
“We have vehicles waiting,” Stillwater said.
Christie seemed too stunned to say another word, permitting the agents to take her laptop bag and purse so she no longer held anything. The agents opened the door, Arizona winter sunshine spilling into the dim jetway, accompanied by a light chill that caused goosebumps to rise on Trace’s arms.
One of the agents headed down the narrow stairs first, followed by Stillwater. Christie stepped down behind her, while Trace, Dallas, and another agent took up the rear. Brooks stood at the foot of the staircase with the police officers.
As Trace descended the stairs behind Christie, a feeling of something desperately wrong crawled over his skin. His sixth sense kicked in and he looked around. He saw nothing but he sensed real danger.
“Move it,” Trace shouted. “Get her to the car. Now.”
The urgency in his voice had the head FBI agent and Stillwater moving faster.
Just as they were halfway down, the crack of a rifle shot pierced the air.
Christie cried out and crumpled and pitched forward on the staircase.
Trace caught Christie to him before she hit the stairs. A dark red splotch blossomed on the left side of her white blouse and blood flowed down her arm.
His heart went into overdrive.
Dallas growled behind Trace.
“Sniper!” Stillwater shouted.
“She’s hit,” Trace said to the FBI agent as he swept Christie into his arms and hurried the rest of the way down the stairs.
“I’ve been shot.” Christie’s eyes widened with disbelief and shock. “Someone shot me.” Her face tightened in a grimace of pain. “It hurts. God, it hurts so much. Am I going to die?”
“You’re going to be all right.” For the second time since he’d met her, Trace found himself reassuring her. This time he didn’t know if it was true.
Trace’s throat threatened to close from fear for Christie. Agents surrounded her and Trace once he reached the tarmac. He carried her, rushing her to a waiting vehicle.
Another crack of a rifle shot. Another. And another. Bullets pinged on metal and agents went down.
Brooks grunted and stumbled. “Son of a bitch.”
Trace glanced at his friend to see blood rapidly staining the shoulder of his overshirt.
Ignoring his injury, Brooks didn’t stray from Christie and Trace.
Another rifle shot. An FBI agent dropped and lay unmoving. Blood pooled around him on the tarmac.
“Agent down!” Stillwater shouted.
Sirens shrieked. Trace slid Christie inside the back of one of the three police vehicles. Dallas jumped into the front of the car as Trace scooted onto the seat, Christie’s legs over his lap. Blood flowed everywhere. So much goddamn blood.
Someone handed Trace bandages and cloths and Christie groaned as he found the wound in her upper arm. Warm blood oozed from the hole.
He pressed cloths against the wound and immediately they were soaked. “I think the bullet might have caught an artery in her upper arm. Clipped it rather than severing it, if we’re lucky.” He glanced over his shoulder at Stillwater. “She’s losing a lot of blood. We need to get her to a hospital fast.”
The squeal of brakes and flashing lights told him airport emergency vehicles had arrived. In the next moment the opposite door of the squad car opened and a paramedic with Stark written on his uniform squatted down to check out Christie.
“We need to get her into the ambulance,” Stark said. “Now.”
Trace glanced from the paramedic to the back window. “As far as we know,
the shooter’s still out there.”
“We’ll back the ambulance up to the car then take her to TMC.” Stark worked on Christie, doing what he could to stop the bleeding. “We’ll be able to give her a transfusion on the way.”
“Why not Banner?” Trace asked. It would be a quicker trip than the route to Tucson Medical Center.
“Accident on the I-10,” the paramedic said. “Multiple car collision with fatalities and a hell of a lot headed into intensive care.”
Christie looked pale and confused. “Somebody shot me,” she repeated.
Trace squeezed her hand. “The paramedics are going to fix you right up.”
“What’s your blood type?” another paramedic asked.
The paramedic tested her blood type even as she managed to say, “A positive…I think.”
“We haven’t located the sniper,” Stillwater said from behind Trace. “But he has stopped shooting.”
With the danger still out there, the paramedics couldn’t load her onto a gurney. They quickly transferred her by hand from the squad car to a gurney inside the ambulance backed up to the car door.
The paramedics set to work on her the moment they had her safely within the confines of the ambulance.
“I’m Special Agent Davidson with the DHS.” Trace prepared to jump in. “I’m coming with her, and so is my K-9.”
“Can’t let you or the dog go,” Stark said as he started to close the door.
“She needs protection, mine and the K-9’s.” Trace ground his teeth. “Don’t argue with me. Not only is her life in danger, but yours could be, too.”
“Get in.” Stark stepped aside and Trace climbed into the ambulance, with Dallas leaping in behind him.
A paramedic put an oxygen mask over Christie’s mouth and nose before hooking up an IV and starting the transfusion. Another worked to stop the bleeding. Officers slammed the back doors shut and sirens cut through the air for the ambulance and escort detail to speed toward the hospital.
Officers and agents would be leading and following and the rest of the motorcade would join them at the designated area.
Christie’s face gleamed so pale amidst all the dark red hair around her face. She looked dazed as her blue eyes met his. He silently cursed himself as he studied her hair. The distinctive red had made her easy to pick out.
We should have covered her up with a hat, a blanket, something.
He just hadn’t expected the shooter to have eyes on the stairs outside the terminal. Trace had figured once they left the airport she would be at most risk of harm. The danger inside the airport could have been a needle or a personal attack—any other form of close proximity scenarios.
How the hell did they get a sniper rifle into the airport?
He grasped Christie’s hand. “I meant it when I said you’ll be fine.”
Dallas nosed her other hand.
She looked weakly at Trace. She said something behind the oxygen mask, but he couldn’t understand her.
The paramedics asked her questions to keep her alert and to find out what they could about her medical history and if she had medicinal allergies.
Christie went into shock for the second time since he’d known her. Her face turned sheet-white and her entire body shook.
Trace fisted his hands. He’d give anything to get his hands on that son of a bitch, Reyes, and beat the shit out of him before putting him out of everyone’s misery. Trace had never experienced the degree of murderous rage he did right at this moment. It was as if everything that had happened to the women in his life who he’d loved had rolled together and exploded in his mind.
Reyes’s men had likely come prepared to take Christie out whether she came out of the front of the terminal or out via standard procedure for a protected witness. Someone knew the system—so not just any hired hand. The Jimenez Cartel had to be involved and they’d enlisted experienced, possibly professional, killers.
The ambulance finally reached Tucson Medical Center and the paramedics rushed Christie inside on a gurney. The nursing staff wouldn’t allow Trace, much less Dallas, to do more than wait outside the doors they’d taken her through. This time, he had no choice but to obey.
One of the nurses told him to wash up and he inspected the damage. Christie’s blood had dried on his hands, arms and clothes.
The sight of so much of Christie’s blood sent a sick feeling through him. He went to the bathroom the nurses directed him to and hurried to scrub all the rust-colored blotches off his skin. It coated his T-shirt and had spotted his overshirt.
Mike Huff, a burly FBI agent, loaned Trace clean clothing he’d kept in his vehicle.
Trace returned to the waiting room. He stared at the entrance to surgery, where they’d taken Christie. Two police officers guarded the doors, one standing on either side.
Tension thrummed through Trace’s body and he couldn’t help but pace the hallway. Dallas lay on the floor a few feet away from him.
Stillwater joined Trace not long after he’d started to wear a groove in the industrial waiting room carpet from pacing back and forth.
Time passed so damned slowly, Trace imagined he was crawling out of his skin. It felt too tight, stretching to the breaking point. Between what had happened to Aunt Barb, and now Christie, he shouldn’t be trusted not to break the neck of any man who would hurt a woman.
He barely spoke to anyone for the first fifteen minutes, including Stillwater. His jaw ached and his muscles screamed with tension.
Finally, a man in blue scrubs came out to speak to them and introduced himself as Dr. Tenor. Trace and Stillwater introduced themselves in return.
“Christie is in stable condition.” The doctor’s news sent a hot rush of relief through Trace and he almost dropped into the closest chair. “The bullet nicked an artery but went clean through. She’s a lucky girl. If the bullet had severed the artery, if she’d lost more blood or the bullet had been a few inches to the right, she wouldn’t have made it.”
Cold washed through Trace. He’d known that, but hearing it out loud made it a thousand times more real.
“How long will she need to remain in the hospital?” Stillwater asked.
“We’ll keep her under observation and give it a day or two,” the doctor replied.
Trace pushed his fingers through his hair. “Thank you, Dr. Tenor.”
When the doctor left, Trace sat heavily on a chair. Dallas moved near Trace’s legs.
Stillwater sat next to him. “You’re damned close to this one. Maybe too close?”
Trace stared at the wall across from them. “Let’s just keep her safe.”
“But this one’s getting to you more than just protecting a witness.” Stillwater was too damned perceptive. But then he hadn’t exactly been hiding his frustration or concern like he should have.
“She’s a close friend to Agent Curtis and his wife,” Trace said. “I did some protection detail and Christie’s ex tried to kidnap her. I happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
Stillwater said nothing for a long moment. “All right. You just keep your head on straight. If I think you’re getting too close to her, I’m going to pull your ass out of here.”
Trace said nothing. He’d like to see Stillwater try to keep him from Christie, because that sure as hell wasn’t happening.
He knew he had to maintain focus and concentrate on keeping her safe. It could be the last thing he did, but he’d make damn sure she got to the trial alive. Then she’d be headed back to her home in Indiana.
The thought of her marching back to another state so damned far away made him grind his teeth.
Fuck. What was the matter with him? Everything that had gone down with Salvatore Reyes had traumatized her and she’d only said a few words to Trace at the wedding. She barely knew him.
More than anything, he’d like to change that. Maybe after the trial ended and they had ensured her safety, just maybe—
Ah, hell. He dragged his hand down his face. Nothing would
happen between them and he might as well get used to that fact.
No matter how hard it might be.
Chapter Four
“Christie is not dead?” Salvatore Reyes clenched the receiver and stared at Paco Esperanza through the visitation window, processing what the man had just told him.
Paco shook his head. “But your ex-wife is in the hospital.”
Fire burned inside Salvatore as he glared at one of his most trusted men. Salvatore spoke in a controlled voice to make sure the prison guards didn’t overhear him. “Tell me exactly why my wife isn’t dead.”
Christie might have legally divorced him, but he considered her to be his wife, just like she would always be. He owned her. And no piece of paper could say otherwise.
Paco scowled. “Someone tipped off the Feds. They were waiting and engaged witness protection protocol. Davies got off a shot, but we verified she’s in the hospital now, recovering from the wound.”
“Fuck.” Salvatore gripped the receiver tighter. “What about Davies?” If Ryan Davies couldn’t pull off the hit, no one could. One of the best snipers in the business, Davies had done extensive work for Salvatore.
“You know him.” Paco snorted. “The man is a ghost. In and out. Vanished before the FBI or any other law enforcement could find him. They even shut down the fucking airport.”
The news about Davies did not cheer Salvatore. However, he did find relief in the fact that Davies hadn’t been killed or captured. The best money could buy, Davies was too important to lose—Salvatore needed him.
Fortunately, Salvatore had accumulated enough wealth, money the Feds knew nothing about. He had a second unknown accountant—a distant cousin—who disbursed funds from an offshore account to pay Salvatore’s men for what needed to be done.
Salvatore trusted his accountant, who resided in Mexico, implicitly. When Salvatore walked out of prison a free man, he would richly reward his cousin. Salvatore had more than enough money to move to Mexico and live the good life. He would take his place in the Jimenez Cartel and continue what he excelled at, just in another country. He had a knack for laundering money. If it hadn’t been for the fucking Circle of Seven, his wife’s friends, his freedom wouldn’t be in question.
Taking Fire Page 5
