by Cindy Gerard
The terrain was rough; the plants and vines grabbed at her feet. She tripped over a tree root and went down hard. She was just pushing to her knees when Doc grasped her backpack from behind and lifted her to her feet like she didn’t weigh any more than a gnat.
“That boat going to be there when we arrive?” she asked breathlessly as she raced alongside him.
“Ever known the Choirboy to let us down?”
Raphael “Choirboy” Mendoza, a native Colombian and charter member of Black Ops., Inc. like Doc, Gabe and Johnny, was their wheelman—in this case their outboard motor man.
“What? What are you doing?” she asked Doc frantically when he stopped beside her.
“Go,” he insisted as he pulled the pin on a frag grenade then winged it as hard as he could behind them.
The grenade had no sooner exploded with a deafening blast than Doc shrugged out of his pack, tore open a pocket and pulled out a Claymore. “Go,” he repeated.
“I’m not leaving you.” She took a knee again and covered him as he set the mine with a trip wire trigger while AK-47 fire lit up with a vengeance behind them.
“That’ll keep ’em guessing,” he said after setting a second mine. “Now scoot.”
They both took off at a run.
She’d lost sight of Gabe and Johnny and was frantic to catch up with them when the first Claymore exploded. At least one bad guy had bought the farm on that one. The others were either hurt or very wary about running blindly after them.
“They’re still on our ass.” Doc grabbed her arm as he ran alongside her. “Let’s double-time it.”
They’d just leaped over a huge, downed tree trunk and, thank God, caught up with Gabe when Crystal heard the roar of an outboard motor.
“Hallelujah!” Doc crowed and peeled ahead of Crystal to help Gabe maneuver Johnny down a steep, dirt embankment that dropped over twenty feet toward the river at a ninety-degree angle.
Crystal scrambled down behind them, digging in her heels as she half skidded, half ran down the vertical drop that ended in the mud of the riverbank, where a flat-bottom boat with a pair of 200 horse outboards plowed up onto the shore.
Their CO, Nate Black himself, was on his knees in the bow of the boat, manning an M-60 machine gun mounted on a tripod.
“Sight for sore eyes, gentlemen,” Gabe yelled above the chuck-chuck-chuck of the big gun as Nate peppered the bank with shells to the tune of 550 rounds per minute.
Gabe clambered into the boat and laid Johnny as carefully as he could on the floor. Doc was next aboard. He held out a hand for Crystal and she jumped in. Doc was already on his knees beside Johnny, digging into his medic’s kit when Rafe shifted the twin motors into Reverse, backed away from the shore, then fast-shifted into Forward again and shot down the river.
The M-60 had fallen silent and the threat from the AKs was in the far distance before Doc sat back on his heels. He’d done what he could for Johnny. He’d staunched the blood flow, wrapped his arm close to his ribs to immobilize it and hung an IV that dumped antibiotics and fluid into his body.
Crystal could tell by the look on Doc’s face that the risk to her husband’s life was far from over.
She sat on the floor of the boat, Johnny’s head cradled in her lap. He was too pale. His skin was too cool. And she was scared to death because he had not yet regained consciousness.
“How bad?” She had to yell to be heard above the roar of the twin outboards.
Doc shot Gabe a grim look over the top of her head before he met Crystal’s eyes. “Bad,” he said, knowing he had to level with her. “He needs blood.”
“Then he’s going to get it.” She quickly rolled up her sleeve as the wind whipped her hair around her face and the roar of the outboards tried to drown out her words.
Doc shook his head. “Crystal—”
“He’s going to get it!” she shouted, cutting Doc off midprotest. “I’m O negative. Universal donor.”
“Darlin’, a direct donor to recipient doesn’t always—”
“I’m not going to let him die!” Tears welled up as she frantically reached for Doc’s kit then shoved it into his hands. “You are not going to let him die,” she said, pleading, demanding, bargaining for the life of the man she loved.
After a long, hard look, Doc assembled what he needed to attempt the transfusion.
“No promises.” He inserted the needle into her vein and started the process.
“No promises,” she agreed on a whisper that was swept down river by the wind.
She refused, though, absolutely refused to let her hope be swept away, as well.
* * *
Reed awoke to silence. The kind of silence that magnified every little sound and told him he wasn’t alone. The minute scrape of a chair leg on a tile floor. The rustle of clothes. A soft breath close by. The scent of the woman he loved.
Very slowly, he opened his eyes. Closed them against the sharp glare of a white-on-white ceiling, walls and window shades. A monitor blipped softly away beside his bed.
No. Not his bed. A hospital bed, he decided, picking up the scent of antiseptic and flowers as he sifted through his memory banks. Oh, right. He remembered. Just to make certain, he tried to move his shoulder.
Very. Bad. Idea.
Lots of pain. Lots of muzzled, distant pain ached and burned and dug into his flesh like a rusty knife. Hurt like hell…but not as bad as when Gabe had hauled him through the jungle then dumped him into the bottom of the boat.
Safe.
Hot damn.
He’d dodged another bullet—figuratively speaking.
A small, warm hand covered his, squeezed. He let out a deep, contented breath.
He’d know her touch anywhere.
When he opened his eyes again, it was to see his wife’s beautiful face. Her soft green eyes were misted with tears.
“Hey, Tink,” he croaked and smiled for her because she looked so fragile he was afraid she might break.
“Hey,” she whispered back, her own smile tremulous. “You had me worried, cowboy,” she confessed.
“I need your mouth,” he said, suddenly consumed by a deep, demanding need to touch and taste and assure them both that he was alive.
He watched her eyes warm as she stood up on tiptoe then leaned in and kissed him.
Better. So much better.
He lifted a hand to brush a tear from her cheek. “You remember what you said to me the first time we met?”
“Get lost?” Her grin held as much relief as it did amusement.
“Okay, I think that was the second time. The first time, you said, ‘I’m getting a little tired of you dogging my tail, cowboy.’”
She smiled, lowered the side rail then climbed carefully into the bed beside him. “And you said something to the tune of, ‘You’re not one of those girl-on-girl types, are you?’”
He lifted his good arm and made room for her to snuggle up close—right where she belonged. “Well, you did find me awfully easy to resist. What else was I supposed to think?”
“The fact that I said I didn’t like you? That didn’t do it for you? Or that I told you, you were too vain, too pretty and too annoying?”
“And yet—” contented, he dropped a kiss on the top of her head “—I got you where I wanted you, didn’t I?”
She slid her leg across his thighs and careful of his IV, wrapped her arm around his waist. “Yeah. In bed.”
He breathed deep, loving the scent of her and the lush softness of her body pressed against his. “You saved my bacon, Tink.” He swallowed a knot of emotion that suddenly clogged his throat. “Thought I was done for back there.”
“Done?” Her voice was barely a whisper as she snuggled even closer. “Not a chance. I’m so not through with you yet.”
&
nbsp; “Even though I’m too vain, too pretty and too annoying?”
“Yeah. Even though,” she said and he could hear the hours of worry slowly leach out of her voice right along with the tension that eased from her body. “Besides, you’ve got my blood in your veins now. I have high hopes it’ll straighten you out.”
He tucked his chin and scowled down at her. “Your blood?”
She filled him in on the midriver transfusion that had ultimately saved his life.
He was stunned. And humbled. And…damn, he loved this woman.
“Well, I guess that explains why I woke up feeling this driving urge to dye my hair red, get my ears pierced and steal your latest Victoria’s Secret catalog.”
She laughed. “You always steal that catalog.”
“True, but I’ve never had a yen to order from it before.”
She levered herself up on an elbow and grinned down at him. “Shut up, Reed,” she whispered softly. “Just…shut up.”
And then she kissed him with all the love any man could hope for.
* * * * *
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
New York Times, Publishers Weekly and USA TODAY Bestseller CINDY GERARD cut her teeth on the works of Iris Johansan, Tammy Hoag and, of course, Sandra Brown, all of whom wrote romantic fiction before branching into the world of suspense. Cindy also wrote award-winning category romance novels for Bantam, Doubleday, Dell and later for Harlequin Books before coming to the realization that she had bigger, bolder, grittier stories to tell. Her fast-paced, action-packed Bodyguard and Black Ops., Inc. (BOI) series featuring covert paramilitary heroes, quickly became much loved among romantic suspense readers. Cindy’s short story, “Dying to Score,” showcases BOI fan favorites Johnny Duane Reed and Crystal “Tinkerbelle” Debrowski. Cindy is a six-time Romance Writers of America RITA finalist and is proud to display two RITAs in her office. She considers herself fortunate to count many military families as both readers and friends. Cindy makes her home in Iowa with her husband, Tom, their Brittany Spaniel, Margaret, and their cats, Buddy and Sly. You can find all of Cindy’s books at www.cindygerard.com.
Be prepared to be thrilled as you’ve never been before…
Discover more thriller stories that will tantalize and terrify. Offering up heart-pumping tales of suspense in all its guises are twenty-nine of the most critically acclaimed and award-winning names in the business.
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Lock the doors, draw the shades, pull up the covers and be prepared for these stories to keep you up all night.
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ISBN-13: 9781488095047
DYING TO SCORE
Copyright © 2012 by Cindy Gerard
First published as part of an anthology of works entitled Love Is Murder in 2012.
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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