by Cindy Dees
He flinched as last night came back to him in all its inglorious detail. Lord knew he’d hurt her last night. Not physically. She’d been at pains to assure him of that. But emotionally? It would be a long time before he forgot the devastated look in her golden eyes as she’d slipped out of his room and out of his life. He was a born-again bastard, all right. He didn’t deserve a girl like her.
Almost as quickly as the thought occurred to him, its absurdity struck him. He didn’t deserve any woman. He’d utterly failed his wife. Let her be tortured and killed on his watch. Even now, he shied away from remembering the horrendous things the killer had done to her before she died. He could only pray that soft, fragile Emily had passed out fast.
The road topped the ridge and dipped into Proctor’s valley. The Bronco fishtailed as it hit a bad patch of loose gravel at high speed, but he wrestled it back under control and kept his foot on the gas pedal. Surely Sam had the sense to approach from this direction and not drive right up the guy’s driveway.
As the road narrowed and twisted closer to the Proctor property, he was forced to slow down. He didn’t spot the Ladybug, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t out here. He approached as close to the area currently being searched as he dared and hid the Bronco quickly. He opened the spare tire storage compartment and took out the sawed-off shotgun hidden there. He filled his pockets with spare shells and headed out.
Where are you, Sam?
He took his bearings from the tallest mountaintops around him. She and the men hunting her should be off to his right. He didn’t relish having to slip past the tight line of men to reach her, but it wasn’t like he had any choice.
The farther into the woods he moved without hearing or seeing any of Proctor’s men, the more nervous he got. Had the bastards already found Sam and left the area with her? Dread made him so jumpy he could hardly force himself not to take off running toward her.
He glimpsed a bare flicker of movement ahead. And then another. And another. The search team was lined up practically shoulder to shoulder and moving directly toward him. No way was he getting past these guys to reach Sam. And no way could he outshoot them all. There’d been eight men on the satellite imagery.
Time for Plan B. He looked around frantically for some soft soil. There. He ran over to it and stomped his right foot down on the patch of dirt, his toe pointed back toward where he’d just come from. He dashed a few yards farther toward the Bronco and broke a few stems of dead grass. Another dash and he picked a thread off his shirt and draped it over a tree branch at shoulder height.
The trick was not to make the trail too obvious. The men behind him would have to have a decent tracker with them to follow his trail. Satisfied he’d laid down a big fat arrow for the bad guys to follow, he shifted course and sprinted at a ninety-degree angle to the trail he’d laid down, making sure to leave no tracks at all. Now he just had to get around the end of their search line.
He’d run for nearly five minutes when he judged he’d passed well beyond the last man in line. He angled back toward the Proctor compound and Sam. She was so dead when he caught up with her. A cry went up. His trail had been spotted.
He headed back toward her last known position, peering up into the trees overhead for some glimpse of her. It was hard watching his footing, keeping an eye out for more of Proctor’s thugs and trying to spot his tree-climbing partner, all while leaving no tracks and making no sound. Oh, yeah. She was a dead woman when they got back to the house.
He’d paused, frustrated at his failure to make contact with her and unsure of where to head next when, without warning, something hit him sharply on the top of his head. He ducked, and only long years of field experience kept him from crying out in surprise and pain.
Something hit him again, this time bouncing off his shoulder and falling to the ground. He looked down. A small pine cone. He looked up just in time to see another missile flying down toward him. He dodged it, but not before he saw Sam grinning in the tree above him. Dead. Woman.
She scrambled down out of the tree quickly and jumped to the ground beside him. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?” she breathed casually, as if they’d bumped into each other on some random street corner.
“You,” he bit out. “C’mon.” Looking around, he headed away from the Proctor compound at an oblique angle he prayed would keep them clear of the search party.
They’d almost made it to where he judged the road he’d been on to come out, almost gotten away unscathed, when a shot rang out behind them. He dropped to the ground instinctively and took quick inventory. High-powered rifle. Fired at several hundred yards, even accounting for the muting effect of the heavy trees and brush around them. All his limbs worked. He wasn’t hit.
“Stay low,” he ordered under his breath. “Move out.”
Sam grunted behind him, which he took for assent. They’d been spotted, hence speed was a hell of a lot more important than stealth at this point. Crouching, he headed for the road crashing through the underbrush heedlessly. They burst into the clear all of a sudden. The road. He turned right to make a run for the Bronco, but Sam grabbed his left arm, stopping him.
“What?” he snapped quietly.
“Ladybug’s this way. And close.” She gestured to the left with her chin.
“So’s Proctor.”
“I hate to argue, Gray, but I have a little problem.”
Frowning, he looked at her fully for the first time. She was standing funny. Slightly bent to the left. “What’s up?”
“I’m hit. I got shot.”
The words were like a bucket of ice water dumped on his head, stealing his breath away. He looked down at where her left hand was pressed against her side. Blood soaked her shirt and her fingers were bloody. A little voice in the back of his head started screaming. Nononononononononono—
Stop. He ordered the voice away, and it worked. At least for the moment. He had to keep functioning. Keep moving. Take care of Sam. The voice started to swear, started to remind him of another woman covered in blood—
Shut. Up!
“How far is your car?” he asked quickly.
“Maybe a hundred yards.”
“Need me to carry you?”
“Not yet,” she answered. He couldn’t tell if she was joking or not and his panic ratcheted up another notch.
“Give me your backpack. And you set the pace.” He refrained from telling her that Proctor’s men had to be close by now, given how close that shot had been and how long they’d been standing here.
She took off at a limping run and he kept pace beside her, frantic with worry and need to do something to help her. Thankfully, Sam veered off the road in under a minute, and he spotted a flash of red where she pointed.
“I’ll drive,” he bit out. She fumbled for the car keys in her pocket and held them out. But when he reached for them, she refused to let go. Instead, she frowned at the Ladybug behind him.
“What now?” he asked.
“Something’s wrong,” she mumbled.
She didn’t sound good. And she looked like hell. She was noticeably more pale than usual and the bend to the left was more pronounced. He listened for pursuit and was worried that he heard nothing. Proctor’s men surely had to be all but on top of them by now.
“Give me the keys, Sam.”
“Something’s wrong,” she repeated. The words were slurred enough to worry him even more.
“What, exactly?” he asked with thin patience.
“Someone’s been here.” A pause. “I see tracks. By the doors.”
“That’s probably how Proctor’s men figured out you were watching them. They spotted the Ladybug.”
“But I hid it.” She squinted as if she was having trouble seeing him. Just how badly was she hit? How much blood was she losing? She mumbled, “Even I couldn’t see it.”
“Obviously, someone was out on a patrol in the woods and spotted your car that way.”
She shook her head as if it was getting fu
zzy and she couldn’t clear it.
“We don’t have time to stand here arguing,” he declared. “Get in the car.” He opened the passenger door and all but shoved her inside. He raced around to the other side and jumped into the cramped vehicle. He reached for the ignition, and a bloody hand gripped his wrist with shocking strength. He jolted, startled.
“I see fingerprints,” she gasped. “Steering column.”
“So? You’ve put your hands on it and left some marks.”
“Not. Mine.”
They didn’t have time for this. But she gripped his wrist stubbornly and seemed determined to make him have a look at the damned fingerprints. He was too tall to bend over and see anything, so he opened the door, jumped out, dropped to his knees and looked under—
Holy mother of God.
“Sam, I need you to get out of the car. Head for the road. As fast as you can go.”
“Why?”
“There’s a bomb under here.” No wonder Proctor’s men weren’t approaching them. They knew he and Sam were going to be blown to Kingdom come the second they started the vehicle. Intruder problem solved.
And the two of them would have been killed, too, had she not had such incredible eyesight. Which gave him an idea. It would be dangerous, but worth the risk. He took a look inside Sam’s rucksack and was amused to see she had stuffed in at least as much handy gear as he would have. He fished out the length of nylon rope he spotted. It wasn’t perfect, but it would work. He tied the end of the rope to the car key then looped the rope around the steering column and through the steering wheel. Then, extremely carefully, he slipped the key into the ignition. He played out the rope, backing the full twenty-five feet of its length away from the Ladybug. He crouched behind a tree and very carefully pulled at the rope. It went taut. One more tug—
Boom!
Concussion and heat slammed into him. He took off running in roughly the direction Sam had retreated. He found her a few feet from the road, sitting down and leaning against a tree. Her eyes were closed.
“Are you still with me?” he asked her quietly.
She nodded slightly without opening her eyes.
“Can you stand up if I help you?”
Another nod, but smaller. He reached down for her and she let out a soft cry of pain as he lifted her under her armpits and put her on her feet. “I’m going to pick you up now, baby.”
He swept his arm behind her legs and lifted her in his arms. She was heavy, but he didn’t care. She was hurt, and he’d do whatever it took to get her to safety. No doubt Proctor’s men would move in to check out the Ladybug and make sure he and Sam had died in the explosion. But the car should burn hot enough for the next ten or fifteen minutes that the men wouldn’t be able to get near enough to realize the two of them hadn’t been inside the car.
He crossed the road quickly and moved off through the woods parallel to the narrow track. Sam passed out almost immediately and scared the hell out of him. When he judged he was far enough from the Ladybug that Proctor’s men wouldn’t see them, he stepped out onto the road and broke into a clumsy jog.
He laid her out flat in the back of Bronco and used his pocket knife to cut away her shirt from the wound. There was a small entrance wound in the fleshy part of her side and no exit wound. The bullet was still in there, then. The good news was the bleeding wasn’t extensive. He ripped open his first-aid kit and slathered her side with antibiotic cream. Slapping several large gauze pads over the wound, he quickly taped them in place.
“Hang on, baby,” he murmured as he tucked her legs inside the vehicle and closed the door. “I won’t let you die.”
He bent down to peek under the steering column and was relieved to see it free of any extraneous wires. He jumped in and drove like a bat out of hell.
The nearest major hospital was in Charleston, a full hour away. Pocahontas County Memorial Hospital in Buckeye was closer, but still a ways away. He pointed the Bronco toward Shady Grove instead. Where there were marines, there were field medics. And where there were field medics, there was fast, competent care for a gunshot wound.
He screeched up to the guard shack, relieved to recognize the guard on duty. “My partner’s shot,” Gray bit out. “Where’s your best medic?”
The guard pointed at a building Gray hadn’t been inside before. It was smaller than the main office and off to one side. “I’ll let them know you’re coming.”
Gray accelerated toward the facility and was relieved to see a kid come outside carrying a bulky field medic’s kit. Gray parked in front of the marine and raced around to the back of the Bronco. He wasted no time with niceties. “She’s in here. Unconscious. Entry wound. No exit wound. Not much bleeding.”
The medic efficiently removed the dressing and, after a brief examination of Sam’s side, looked up at Gray. “I can pull the bullet here, or I can stabilize her and you can take her to a real hospital.”
“Is this life threatening?” he bit out, tense.
“Nah. Bullet’s lodged in the muscle of her hip. She was lucky.”
If he took her to an emergency room, the identity of the person who’d been shot watching Proctor’s compound would become public knowledge. Gray made a quick decision. “Do it here.”
The medic nodded. “I don’t have great drugs to knock her out with. If she comes to, you’re gonna have to hold her down.”
“She’s tough,” Gray replied. He climbed inside the Bronco with Sam. The medic worked with quick efficiency, occasionally asking Gray to pass him something.
“You done a few of these before?” Gray asked to distract himself from how the guy’s fingers were buried in Sam’s side.
“Yeah. Couple dozen. Four tours in Afghanistan. Saw my share of gunshots. Pass me a gauze pad, will you?”
“Sure.”
Sam moaned faintly and shifted weight, and the medic snapped at Gray to hold her still. He planted both hands on her shoulders and she went still once more.
“I saw more damage from IEDs than bullet holes,” the medic commented. He made a face and then announced, “Got it.”
A lump of metal thumped to the floor beside Sam. And all of a sudden there was a lot more blood. Gray asked anxiously, “Is something wrong?”
“Nah. Just letting it bleed a little. Cleans out the wound.”
A little? It looked like her entire blood supply was draining out of her! But then the medic inserted what looked like a small deflated balloon on the end of a piece of surgical tubing. The guy used a bulb-like hand pump on the end of the tube to inflate the balloon inside the wound.
“What’s that?” Gray asked, relieved as the blood flow diminished greatly.
“Nifty little gadget we invented in Iraq. Puts pressure on bleeders inside a wound. Stops the bleeding a lot faster than surface pressure. Saves a ton of lives. I hear the first time the technique was used, the medic stuck a condom in a wound and blew it up like a balloon with his mouth.”
Gotta love that Yankee ingenuity.
The medic continued, “We’re gonna let the balloon sit for fifteen minutes or so, then we’re gonna check for bleeding again. If it’s stopped, we’ll stitch the wound and load up your girl on antibiotics and painkillers. How’d she get shot?” the guy asked conversationally.
“We were somewhere we weren’t supposed to be. A guy with a rifle took exception to our presence.”
The medic nodded without comment. He’d probably dealt with enough Special Forces men over the years to be used to vague answers.
The next fourteen minutes ticked by so slowly Gray wondered if time had stopped. Sam had to be okay. She just had to. If the bleeding didn’t stop...if she had complications because he didn’t take her directly to a hospital...if she died...
No! He couldn’t even think about that. But his mind insisted on circling back to it. He was a complete mess before the medic finally pulled the bulb off the end of the surgical tube and deflated the balloon in Sam’s side. He eased the device free of the incision.
“Fantastic,” Gray commented sincerely. Funny how he’d been able to watch the entire surgery, but when the medic commenced stitching up her flesh, he had to look away hastily lest he pass out.
He passed the medic bandages and tape and breathed a sigh of relief when it was all over.
“Keep her quiet for a few days. If she shows any sign of fever, redness or swelling around the wound, any drainage or foul smell, get her to a hospital ASAP. The bullet was small caliber and didn’t go deep, so the wound should heal fairly fast. She should be ambulatory in a couple of days and back to normal in a few weeks.”
Gray nodded, listening carefully. The worst of it was probably going to be keeping Miss Maddie away from the house until Sam was back on her feet. As quickly as it had begun, the crisis was over. After thanking the medic profusely, Gray drove carefully out of the Shady Grove facility and headed for home. It was a risk to go back to the first place Proctor would look for them. But if the guy wanted a direct confrontation with a federal agent and the force Gray could rapidly bring to bear on him, Wendall could go ahead and bring it. At this point, Gray was all over any excuse to have Uncle Sam blow the guy to Kingdom come.
Sam woke up somewhere along the way and mumbled from the back, “Where am I?”
“In the back of the Bronco,” he answered over his shoulder. “Don’t move. The bleeding’s stopped and I want to keep it that way.”
“What happened?”
“You got shot. I took you somewhere to get the bullet removed and get stitches. You’re going to be fine, but I need you to be still and not tear anything open.”
“I remember...a tree? Did I climb a tree? And throw pine cones at you?”
“Yes to both.”
“My car!” she exclaimed.
He saw her lurch upright in his rearview mirror and he said sharply, “I just told you not to move. Lie back down.”
Whether she actually followed his order or was merely laid out flat by pain, he didn’t know. But he was relieved to see her disappear from sight once more. The rest of the drive home was silent. He backed into the driveway and used the house itself to hide Sam from Miss Maddie’s prying eyes as he helped her out of the back of the SUV.
