by KT Bryan
And what would Dillon do once she told him he’d fathered a child? That right this very minute Sanchez could very well be holding her?
Not that what she wanted, or didn’t want, mattered anyway, because Dillon might never forgive her for staying away. Or for keeping Ellie a secret. Well, he could damn Craig to hell for that one. Sara had thought, for an entire year, that Dillon had been told.
Heartsick, she finished her shower and was just buttoning her pants when she heard the outer door close. After yanking an olive green T-shirt down over her head, she opened the bathroom door and stepped out.
Her heart nearly stopped as two things hit her at once.
First, a huge, black gun was pointed directly at her.
Second, the man standing less than ten feet away from her was not Dillon. Tall, Hispanic, and fearsome, he had the greedy eyes of a militant drug runner--the same look as the rest of Sanchez’s men.
No.
Sweat beaded on her forehead as every instinct screamed at her to run.
“Welcome to Mexico, Señora Caldwell.”
His thick Spanish accent coiled around her like a snake. The room shifted in and out of focus.
A way out. There had to be a way out. She glanced around, but the man was blocking the doorway. The window was too far away. If she could back into the bathroom and shut the door--but no, he’d break it down or shoot through it.
She was trapped.
She’d have to face him, try to stall somehow until Dillon returned.
But when she looked into the stranger’s eyes, fear faded and rage took over. She’d had enough. “Go ahead. Shoot me. Sanchez will kill you though, because you won’t get his flash drive from a dead woman.”
The gun remained pointed at the center of her chest. “I will get the drive, Señora. And I’m not going to kill you...yet.” He let the implication set in, and leering, took a predatory step toward her. “That man you are with?” He jerked his chin toward the closed door. “He is nothing. I am much better,” he whispered, and took another step closer. “Come, let me show you what a real man feels like.”
The walls shimmered.
She cringed toward the wall when she saw the ugly intent in the Mexican’s eyes. Then she looked for something to grab.
<><><>
Dillon aimed his 9mm at the back of the gunman’s head, wanting nothing more than to pull the trigger. “Drop your weapon.”
The Mexican turned around slowly, and the two men locked stares, measuring each other. The Mexican sneered. “Estas muerto.” You’re dead. He fired.
Dillon dropped to the floor, rolled. Fired once. His shot knocked the Mexican across the bed backward.
The instant the man’s arm flipped outward, Sara, in one astonishing move, snatched his gun, then backed toward the door. It was like watching a really short, really fast version of Cameron Diaz taking down the Alamo.
Dillon stood, leaned over, grabbed the front of the gunman’s shirt and jerked him upright. “Where’s Sanchez?”
The Mexican pressed his palm against the wound on his thigh and sneered. “Fuck you.”
Fury snarled. For several long seconds, Dillon regarded the man with icy speculation. Sara’s life was at stake and nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to stop him from getting to Sanchez.
Dillon twisted the Mexican’s wrist behind his back, then pushed his thumb into the bullet hole in the man’s thigh. Gouged down until the other man screamed. “Try again.”
“Fuck you, man. I ain’t saying nothing!”
Dillon leaned closer, pressed his gun against the man’s other thigh, and spoke softly, “I’m going to shoot you in your one good leg, Amigo. You won’t be able to run fast enough, or far enough, to escape Sanchez.” Dillon tapped the side of the Mexican’s head. “But if I find him first, you won’t have anything to worry about, will you? Now, where is he?”
“You gonna kill me, pig? Go ahead.”
He struck the Mexican across the face with the butt of his gun. The man’s head snapped back. Blood dripped from his nose, his mouth, and he bellowed with pain and hatred.
Dillon leaned in closer. “Last chance.” He pressed the barrel of the gun back against the man’s thigh.
The Mexican’s mouth contorted as he spit blood onto the floor. “He’s near Puerto Vallarta. In the jungle. He’s out of Colombia, that’s all I know.”
Dillon yanked the phone cord out of the wall. Checked the Mexican for a cellphone, and came up empty. “Sara, get in the truck. Now.”
<><><>
Moving fast, heart thudding, Sara gave him the Mexican’s gun, grabbed her boots and ran as fast as she could out to the SUV.
Legs quaking, she climbed in and locked the door. Then she heard another gunshot and recoiled in horror. Should she run? Hide? Scream for help? Who’d been shot?
Just then Dillon strode out of the room. Relief hit hard. He opened his door, got in, slammed it closed, and drove out of the parking lot.
As though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.
Maybe for him, it hadn’t.
Come to think of it, this probably wasn’t too far off the norm for him at all. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew he had to sometimes kill people in the line of duty, knew he was no stranger to violence, but he rarely, if ever, discussed the darker side of his job. She’d never actually seen this side of him before, never seen him cross the line into merciless, ruthless violence.
Kill or be killed.
As a reporter she’d seen her share of violence. But always from the outside looking in. Seeing her husband deal with such ugliness first hand took her back a step.
You’d have done the same thing. If you’d had a gun on board that boat, you would have killed Sanchez without a second thought.
And look who she was now. A distant, silent stranger.
Had the same thing happened to Dillon? Had his career, his life in the world Sanchez occupied changed him so much? Had he really become that cold?
She wished she knew. Wished even more she had the courage to hear the answers.
He must have felt her staring at him, because the minute they were on a straightaway, he turned to her and asked, “What?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. I guess I’m a little shocked. I’ve never seen you like that.”
“Would you have preferred that I go up to him all nice-like and say, ‘Excuse me, Señor, do you mind not pointing that pistola at my wife? And while you're at it, por favor, could you give me a little information regarding the esteemed Señor Sanchez with whom you are, I presume, acquainted?’”
She ignored his sarcasm, chalked it up to adrenaline. “I heard another shot. Did you kill him?”
He gave her a grim look. “No, but I made damn sure he couldn’t follow us.”
“Oh.” She’d been staring at his face, but when she looked at the rest of him, she flinched. He had blood splattered all over his clothes. “Are you shot? Did he shoot you?” Dillon didn’t appear shot, but the man she was married to seemed capable of taking a bullet then pressing on out of sheer fury. “Well? Are you okay or not?”
<><><>
“I’m fine. Mad as hell, but fine.” Dillon wiped his hands against his pants and allowed himself to loosen tense muscles. When he’d come back to the room and seen that guy with a gun on Sara, he’d felt murderous. He should've killed the bastard with his bare hands on sheer principle. If he hadn’t come back to the room when he had--
“Dillon?”
Glancing over, he noticed how pale Sara’s face was, how tightly her hands were clenched in her lap and frowned. “Yeah?”
“I hate this.”
“Me, too.” He reached over with one hand and slid the back of his finger down her cheek. “That little scenario scared the hell out of me.”
“You?”
“Hell yes.” I’m scared to death that next time I won’t be able to save you. “I’m just a regular guy, Sara.”
“Right. Just a regular Joe, like a
banker or a teacher or an accountant.”
Her words reminded him that his job was anything but normal, that it had more than bothered her twelve months ago, so he changed the subject. “Good job back there. Getting his gun, I mean. Gutsy thing to do. But next time, do me a favor and run like hell instead.”
“Next time? You’re so sure there’s going to be a next time before we find Sanchez?”
He wasn’t going to sugarcoat it. Until Sanchez was caught, things were only going to get worse. “I think we could be in Timbuktu and Sanchez would probably know it.”
Sara slumped down in her seat and stared despondently out the window. Knowing she was still scared, he drove a couple more miles and as soon as he felt they were somewhat safe, pulled into a crowded parking lot. He might be used to dealing with armed men on a fairly regular basis, but Sara wasn’t.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he turned to her. Knowing he probably shouldn’t, but unable to resist, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. God, she was going to slam-dunk him for sure, but right know he just didn’t care. He wanted the comfort. From her and for her.
Caught off guard, she went rigid for all of two seconds before she relaxed against him and let her body respond. He kept the kiss gentle and sweet, wanting to calm and soothe, to reassure her that she was going to be all right, that as long as he breathed, he’d protect her.
But when she melted against him, from shoulder to thigh, desire seared through every vein, hot and hungry. The pit of his stomach tightened as he pulled her even closer and deepened the kiss with an intimacy he wondered if she’d welcome.
He didn’t have to wonder long. She pulled back, not exactly shoving him away, but was cool enough that the rejection shot a jolt through his chest.
He should have known better, because dammit, she’d made it more than clear last night just where they stood. When, and if, this bleak scenario ever ended, where would they be? Would she disappear off the face of the earth again? Could he forgive her? Could she forgive him?
More importantly, did he want her to? Considering the danger involved in his job, knowing there’d always be another Sanchez, was he willing to take the risk?
Dammit, mixing love and war was like going into hand-to-hand combat with your arms tied behind your back. And the other guy wins because instead of sucking face with a beautiful woman, he’s got an Uzi with a full clip aimed straight at your head.
He started the car and pulled out onto the street.
Sara buckled her seatbelt, smoothed her hands down her pant legs, then turned to him, her breathing not quite centered. “Can we--do you think--are we going to discuss that kiss?”
“No.” With a capital N. Jesus, he got the picture. Hands off.
“Why not?”
How was it that a woman could go from scared shitless to pleasantly pleased--or not--then to indignant in the space of a microsecond? “Because it isn’t going to happen again.”
“Ever?”
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ever.”
She nodded and crossed her arms over her chest. “Good.”
Yeah. Jim fucking dandy. “Damn straight.”
She whirled in the seat and glared. “So, that’s it then?”
“Hey, you’re the one who pushed me away. So yeah, that’s it. Smart move.”
“You dislike me that much?”
And there it was. The Big Question. The one question he didn’t want to answer.
Shit.
He really did not want to talk about this.
He figured he could tell her the truth, he could put a spin on the truth, or he could just outright lie.
He went with the spin. “Same question right back at you. And why are you asking me? You’re the one who just shoved me away. You’re the one who stayed gone for twelve months. You’re the one who let me believe you were dead.”
“No. I didn’t. I wanted to--”
“Wanted what, Sara? To let me suffer? Well, good job. Damn fine, in fact.”
“That’s not it! If you weren’t so obsessed with Sanchez--”
“Oh, but I am. And for damn good reason.”
When she slumped back in her seat looking beaten, Dillon felt his heart grind.
God, he hated this.
“Craig said--”
“Screw Craig. You knew my job then, you know it now.”
“Bullshit. You were a decorated SEAL when I married you. Now I don’t know what you are.”
“I’m still the same man.”
“No. No, you’re not.”
She was right. He wasn’t. Not after what happened to his family. And Dreena.
Christ, just end this already. Let her hate you. Screw the spin and tell her a lie that might save her life. Be noble.
I can’t. I love her. How can I lose her to another lie?
Would you rather lose her to one of Sanchez’s bullets?
“Look, you hated my job then, and you hate it now. Sanchez doesn’t matter because even if he was dead, there’d still be another bad guy who could blow you off the dock some night when neither of us saw it coming. We can’t go back. You’ll never forgive me for what I am. Or for anything else that’s happened to you in the last year. And I’ll never forgive you for letting me think you were dead when you weren’t. Hell, Sara, you can’t even stand it when I touch you. So forget it. It’s over. We’re over.”
Her head jerked up, and he watched in anguish as her eyes revealed first shock, then pain. “You’re right. So keep your hands off me.”
His jaw clenched. “Not a problem.”
“Tell me something. Why in God’s name are you helping me?”
“Helping you?” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Don’t kid yourself. I’m after Sanchez and you’re my ticket.”
She paled. “You bastard.”
“Yeah, well, no big surprise there.”
Tears welled up, and for just a moment she looked away. But when she turned back, turned the full force of her gaze on him, the look he got was just this side of hatred.
Good. Hatred he could deal with. Love, on the other hand, would sure as hell get her killed and that wasn’t something he could live through a second time.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sometimes words wounded with lethal intensity. Some words could never be forgotten, or forgiven.
She was his ticket to Sanchez? His ticket?
God, she wanted to hurt him.
After everything else she’d been through, the betrayal knifing through her now was suddenly one thing too much. Quietly furious, she said, “Stop the car.” She grabbed the door handle, ready to bolt. She didn’t know where she was going, didn’t care, as long as it was far away from Dillon. Somehow she’d get her child back on her own.
“Sara, don’t be stupid.”
“Let me out,” she said, her eyes shooting green venom. “My God, Dillon, I really think I absolutely hate you.”
“Right. We’ve covered that. Hate me all you want, but you’re staying with me until I can get you somewhere safe.”
Just as her hand touched the door handle, he snagged her arm, pulling her back. She shook her arm free. “The hell you are. You didn’t do so well at keeping our baby safe.”
The shock, the slap of pain, the absolute agony on Dillon’s face almost made her glad. She hadn’t wanted to tell him yet, hadn’t wanted to hurt him like this, but if he really hated her so much then screw him and his feelings.
He turned slowly, looked at her with dazed disbelief. “Baby?”
“Yes. Ellie. That package Sanchez mentioned? Well, she’s six months old. Why do you think I didn’t want you to answer your call that day, a year ago? I wanted to tell you about our--our baby--but you--your job--it’s always been about your job.” Her voice broke and she wrapped her arms across her stomach.
“I…God…Oh, Jesus,” he murmured, sounding as destroyed as she felt. He reached out a hand to touch her, let it fall to his lap. “Is
that why you stayed gone?”
“I was pregnant. You walked out. You didn’t even have time to listen, to let me tell you. So yes, I stayed gone. I got those pictures and I thought… Then Sanchez happened, and Craig said I’d be safer,” that we’d all be safer, “if I pretended to stay dead and I believed him.” Even though I thought he’d told you months ago that I was still alive. Even though I hated the cruelty of the lie. “So tell me, just what exactly did I have left to come home to? A distant stranger who didn’t want me?”
He winced, then a sudden thought flashed across his features. “You followed me. Jesus, Sara, you followed me and you and our baby both could have died.” The words fell from his mouth in a tragic, horrible whisper.
She looked out the side window. “You’re absolutely right.” She had followed him. And the guilt she’d lived with every single day for the last year once again struck her to the core. But the rage was there too. Strong and merciless. “Get me back to San Diego, back to Craig and drop me off. Right now I don’t care if I never see you again.”
“You’re in deep trouble and I’m your best bet at staying alive. I’ll get you somewhere safe, and then I’ll, well, I promise to get our child back.” He exhaled a shaky breath. “If, after that, you still want to leave, I guess I won’t stop you.”
Her body sagged in defeat. “Fine. Whatever. You use me. I use you. We both win.”
Only they both may have lost too much to ever win again.
<><><>
Dillon looked out the windshield at the storm clouds darkening sky, and wondered if the heavens were dooming his soul to hell.
“Where are we going?”
“Back to San Diego. To the airport. Then deeper into Mexico.”
Get Sara safe.
Save her. Save Matt. Save your baby.
Baby.
Jesus.
The only safe houses anywhere near where he was going were either in Guadalajara or Puerto Vallarta. As soon as possible, he was going to have to make a phone call and find out which of those two places he could stash her.
His black mood worsened when they reached the airport and the line at the ticket counter was a mile long. He cursed under his breath, then realized he could use the delay to his advantage and turned to Sara. “I need to make a phone call. You’re safe if you stay in line, there’s security all over the place, so don’t leave.” At her curt nod, he stepped away, found some privacy and flipped open his cellphone. A few minutes later he returned to Sara’s side in line.
