by Silver James
Her nose twitched. Food. Lauren worked up a mouthful of saliva and swallowed, hoping to preclude the next complaint her stomach made. It didn’t matter. The door slammed open again, this time spitting out a giggling woman and a drunk biker. No one would have heard her grumbles over the brittle laughter. Using the couple as cover, she slipped past them and stepped to the side. She peered around the room, getting her bearings. There was a shadowed booth in the back corner that looked unoccupied. Good. She could sit there. Eat. Drink a soda. Or two. And eat bar food. Out of sight, out of mind. And it was close to a dark hallway that, with luck, would lead to the bathrooms and a rear exit if she needed to escape. She had a plan. All was well.
****
Tait sat in the far corner of the last booth watching the room. The place was the only thing open in town. Even the lights in the motel office across the way were turned off, despite the flickering neon sign that read “VAC N Y.” In addition to being unobtrusive, the booth also had a view, albeit through a grime-encrusted window, of the motel. A stir in the shadows across the parking lot caught his attention, and he’d watched the obviously feminine figure scurry toward the roadhouse. He couldn’t be positive, but he’d lay even odds that his prey was about to walk into range. About damn time. He’d been on her tail for two weeks now.
All the patrons but him ignored the activity at the door. When the woman slipped inside and plastered her very fine ass against the wall, Tait felt things stirring inside him—things best left dead. His wolf crouched, watching and waiting, curious as to what their quarry would do next.
The last thing either he or the wolf expected was for the woman to walk straight toward them. What the hell? He glanced around. The bathrooms were located in the hallway several tables to his right. She was probably headed there.
The woman cleared the dance floor, though not without some trouble. Maan and wolf both were gritting their teeth by the time she extricated herself from the drunken guy wearing a Mack Truck ball cap. The front doors banged open and four men stood silhouetted by high-beam lights coming from some big-ass SUV in the parking lot. The woman ducked behind the much larger drunk, dropped to the floor, and scuttled under the nearest table.
Tait’s attention returned to the four men. Hired muscle, if he had to guess. Mercenaries. They wore black combat pants and boots, long-sleeved T-shirts with a logo on the chest, and they were stupid enough to flaunt open-carry laws with the semi-automatic pistols holstered on their belts. These were hard men, from the looks of them, but he wasn’t impressed.
Shaking so hard she could barely breathe, Lauren watched the men’s feet through the tangle of legs between her and the door. If she could stay on the floor, she might be able to make it to the hallway and escape. But where would she go then? She had no transportation. The bus wasn’t due until noon. Was it hard to hot-wire a car? She had no idea. She was a historian—an archivist for goodness sake. She wasn’t trained for escape and evasion. What did the military call it? She tried to focus her brain to keep from totally freaking out. SERE. That was it. Survival. Evasion. Resistance. Escape. She’d managed to survive but she was doing a darn poor job of evading. She chanced another quick glance, realized the men hadn’t moved, so she darted to the next table and then another one, putting her that much closer to the hallway.
Was Tait a real SOB for enjoying the view? Probably. Did he care? Not even a little bit. Watching her scramble across the floor on all fours put some very interesting ideas into his head—ideas that didn’t necessarily require a bed or breakfast. He could picture doing very wicked things to her in that position. Too bad he wasn’t the only one hunting her. He’d have to deal with the four mercs before he could scoop up his prize.
Tait’s mouse scurried into the hallway and was swallowed by the shadows lurking there. He hoped she had enough sense to stay inside the building. These four weren’t quite to the level of Darwin award candidates, so they likely had the back door covered. Then the lead merc snapped his fingers, and the guy on his left marched to the jukebox and kicked it into silence. Tait reassessed his appraisal of the competition. They might look big and bad and have holstered weapons, but this was a roadhouse sitting on a rural crossroads. The merc’s action was met by stone-cold silence—followed a heartbeat later by the racking of a Mossberg twelve-gauge shotgun and about 30 pistols being drawn, aimed, and cocked. God, but he loved the locals in places like this.
That was his cue to exit stage right, grab the girl, and get the hell gone. Sticking to his own set of shadows, Tait slipped out of the booth—he’d already paid and tipped his waitress, who, he noticed, held a fucking Colt .45 revolver with a barrel that looked as long as her arm—and ducked into the hall. He let the wolf out just enough to hunt. He tested the air, separating out burned grease, stale beer, old piss and other bar-centric odors. He stopped dead. What the hell? Blueberry muffins? His stomach rumbled. His little mouse smelled like blueberry muffins. He bit back a laugh and tracked the elusive scent to the back door. He listened. Yeah, two mercs waiting outside for anyone who made a break.
He backed up. Not the bathrooms. Not the office. Not the kitchen. Time was running out. He ducked into the office. There. Yeah…blueberries. He padded to a door partially hidden by an overflowing file cabinet. Tait grinned as his wolf gloated. In one smooth motion, he opened the closet door, snagged the startled woman, and dragged her out. She flailed at him, mostly ineffectually. Memo to self, teach her some self-defense. She also hissed at him, demanding he put her down. Without breaking stride, he hitched her up under one arm and headed for the door to the hallway. His ears picked up boots clomping toward the exit.
Pressing the woman up against the wall behind the door, he shut her up in a way his wolf totally agreed with. He kissed her. The door creaked, and Tait’s Beretta was in his hand. He kept his mouth on the woman’s and waited.
Lauren stiffened. And stopped struggling, her instincts screaming at her to hide. Breathing wasn’t an option, though just a moment before she’d been fighting for air as the big man’s mouth covered hers. Breathing was loud and noisy and would give her away. Right? Of course, not breathing did not explain her insane desire to wrap around this stranger. She would not contemplate her physical reaction to the man, or the kiss. Currently, she was too focused on survival.
“Empty,” a voice snapped.
“Keep looking. Karl’ll be pissed if she gives us the slip again.”
She dragged a shallow breath in through her nose. Those scary men in black gear had been looking for her. But who was the guy who currently held her against the wall, her feet dangling a long way from the floor?
Tilting his head, Tait listened. Two sets of footsteps faded. The two who’d been covering the rear must have come inside to search while the rest of their hunting party was stalled out in the bar. “Stay still,” Tait whispered against her lips.
“Let me go,” she whispered back.
“In a minute.” Or an hour. He’d backed her into a virtual corner but didn’t feel guilty. For reasons he couldn’t decipher, this woman drove his wolf to distraction and the damn thing might as well be chasing his tail in dizzying circles. Focus. He desperately needed some. Despite the delicious fragrance of blueberry muffins and the sweet taste of her mouth.
“Put me down,” she spat.
He eased the door closed with the toe of his boot before complying. He stepped back to get a better look at her, ignoring her ineffectual shove against his chest.
“Stay away from me.”
Bravado. She had it, despite the terror quaking her insides. He liked that. He didn’t like the stink of ammonia hovering just beneath her natural fragrance. That’s how he knew she was scared. He also picked up a whiff of cinnamon that made him want to grin. She wanted him. Always a good thing since his dick was so hard it wanted to pop the buttons off his fly. Focus. They weren’t out of the fire yet. Once he got her away and undercover, he fully planned to explore the desire flaring between them.
“You are L
auren Reilly, yeah?” He watched her eyes dilate even as she shook her head in the negative. “I’m not going to hurt you. People call me Shooter.” He wasn’t ready to reveal his real identity. Not yet.
Lauren stared, almost afraid to blink. His nickname was Shooter. And that was supposed to make her feel better? He was just as scary as those other men, but he hadn’t hurt her. Yet. “Why are you hunting me?”
“Someone is worried about your safety. Someone I owe a favor.” Hell, he owed Mac McIntire his life. “You need a place to hide and someone to look after you until the people chasing you are dealt with.”
She locked her knees to remain standing. He knew? How could he? She needed to get away. “You can’t. You don’t understand who’s—” She swallowed hard. “If you did, you wouldn’t keep me safe.”
“I will if you give me a chance.” He was well aware of who was on her tail and why. This whole deal would be so much simpler if his damn wolf relaxed and let the man work his magic. “Black Root.”
His words fell like a boulder in a quiet pool, the resulting ripples of fear washing all the starch out of her backbone. She slid down, huddling in the corner. He crouched in front of her. Touched her cheek with his warm palm.
“See? I do know. I will keep you safe.” And he would. He’d also keep her close, like in-his-bed close because that kiss? It went straight to his dick and no one was going to be happy until he was buried deep inside her. The wolf brushed against his insides, wanting to come out and play, liking the idea of this woman in their bed. Tait liked women. A lot of women—lot being the operative word. At the moment, though, his other half was adamant. It was this woman or none. Damn wolf. This was all his fault.
Chapter 3
Tait grabbed Lauren’s hand and tugged her to the door. He put his index finger to his lips to shush her then slowly leaned his head into the hallway to check for the mercs. The back door stood propped wide open by a concrete block. Trap? He’d have to take the chance because there was no way he could walk her through the front. He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “There may be guards out there. Stick close. I’ll get you out of here.”
She squinted and those luscious lips of hers parted. He was about to get an earful. He cut her off at the pass by saying a name. “Major Jackson.”
Lauren snapped her mouth shut. She had not expected him to know that name. Then again… Her eyebrows unclenched from the narrow-eyed glare she’d leveled on him as she tugged against his hold. “What did he say to you?”
Shooter’s amused expression said it all. He knew what she was doing and thought she was ridiculous for trying.
“I admit, I didn’t actually talk to her. My contact is the command sergeant major she’s married to.”
She choked back a relieved puff of breath. Maybe…just maybe, Hannah McIntire had gotten her message after all, and maybe, with a change of her current run of bad luck, this guy was on the up-and-up.
Not giving her time to think, Tait hustled Lauren down the hallway toward the gaping exit. Inhaling, he didn’t pick up any scents that shouldn’t be there. Still, he paused, eyes raking the parking lot. Nothing stirred. No occupied vehicles. He corralled her beneath his left arm and stepped into the insipid glow cast by a lone security light. His Beretta nestled along his thigh, gripped firmly in his right hand.
“Act like my date. We’re going to walk along the side of the building to my truck in the front lot. If I let go, grab my belt, hang on, but stay behind me.” He gazed down at her until she nodded. In the distance, his sensitive ears perceived the faint wail of sirens. “Shit,” he muttered. “We gotta move.”
Picking up the pace, he trotted her down the side of the roadhouse. At the corner, he stopped and checked the area. A black Hummer was parked directly in front of the entrance, nose in. Good. Even if they were spotted, the Black Root mercs would have to turn the bulky vehicle around to catch them. He moved them down a notch on the stupid rent-a-gun meter.
He walked beside Lauren now, all we-aren’t-the-droids-you’re-looking-for nonchalant and confident. She did not want to admit how good it felt to be tucked up to his side. She’d been so scared for what seemed like forever, even though it had only been a few weeks. Relief and a sense of safety threatened to take her legs out from under her. That’s all it was. It had nothing to do with the hard muscles pressing against her, or the oddly appealing fragrance of citrus and wood smoke filling her nose.
“My truck is straight ahead.”
A large gray pickup, with four doors, and a decal running along the side of the bed that said “4 X 4” gleamed under the desultory mercury lights illuminating the parking lot with a salmon-colored haze. She matched Shooter step for step, grateful he’d shortened his stride so they were strolling instead of jogging. Stopping at the passenger door, he keyed in a code to unlock it. “Paranoid much,” she mumbled under her breath. This was a newer truck. It would have one of those fobs that unlocked it and started it and did all the fancy electronic things. That’s when she realized he held a gun one hand. Lauren gulped as she moved back so he could open the door.
Two men burst through the front entrance of the roadhouse. Tait grabbed Lauren around the waist and tossed her into the passenger seat with a growled, “Seat belt.” He slammed the door shut and sprinted to the driver’s side. Four more men stumbled out from the bar. Sirens were closer now. He had no time to waste. He swung into the driver’s seat, threw the transmission into reverse and gunned the accelerator. He executed a faultless J-turn, spinning the reversing truck 180 degrees before slamming it into drive and speeding away.
Lauren squawked, scrambling to buckle up. She clung to the armrest on the door and center console with white knuckles. At this rate, she wouldn’t have to worry about the men in black catching up to her and doing dire things. She’d die in a car wreck caused by this guy’s reckless driving. Except he looked totally in control, not totally freaked out like she was. He drove behind the low building housing the motel, lights off. With no security lights back here, how could he see? The lack of any source of illumination obviously didn’t bother Shooter. He drove with one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the transmission shifter.
He eased the truck around a set of overflowing Dumpsters and nosed it into an overgrown dirt road. Good thing he’d scouted the area beforehand. This old road led to the back entrance of an abandoned lumberyard. In a few minutes, they’d be back out on the highway making the run for Montana. He cut his eyes toward his passenger. She still had a death grip on the console and armrest and he caught the glint of the whites of her eyes. At least she wasn’t screaming.
His wolf snarled. The damn animal didn’t like that Lauren was scared, didn’t want her to scream unless it was in pleasure. Tait shut that thought down with iron-clad will. Lauren Reilly was a job—a favor to a man from the past. He was only keeping her until Mac and Hannah made other arrangements. The wolf paced now, tense and angry, not liking the idea of being apart.
“Don’t have time for this,” he muttered.
“Pardon?” Lauren’s voice squeaked a little and she darted a glance his direction.
Shit. Had he spoken out loud? He had to get his head in the game before it got blown off. “Nothing. Just muttering. We need to make up some time.” He tilted his head toward the backseat. “When we hit the highway, toss your backpack over the seat. There’s a blanket back there if you get cold. The seat reclines so you can get some sleep.”
“What about yo-oooh!” Her voice rose almost an octave as the truck bounced over a deep rut.
“I’ll sleep later. I’ll drive through the night to put distance between us and the SOBs hunting you.”
A few minutes later, they did indeed reach the highway as Shooter said they would. She pushed her pack through the gap between the front captain’s seats and patted around until she found the blanket—a thick fleece that contained that intriguing scent of citrus, smoke, and a musk that only came from a man’s skin. She tried not to bury her nose in the soft
folds of material, really she did. She focused on Shooter instead—not that looking at him was any less tempting.
She’d originally pegged his age as early thirties but studying him now, she decided he was older. Or more rugged. Mostly likely both. A fine feathering of lines at the corners of his eyes alluded to a life spent outdoors squinting in the sun rather than laughter. Lauren had the distinct impression that Shooter didn’t laugh much. And she really wanted to know how he’d come by his nickname—almost as much as she wanted to know his real name. He probably had a good reason for not telling her, like if she was captured by the bad guys, they couldn’t torture it out of her. She shuddered around a spike of fear. Would they torture her? Or just kill her?
Tait’s nostrils flared as a whiff of ammonia drifted over from his passenger. Was she still afraid of him? Good. If she was afraid, she’d stay away, and he needed her far away from him—emotionally at least. Lauren was too tempting. He had his reasons for being a lone wolf, just like he had his reasons for only working on a case-by-case basis for Hank and his Brotherhood Protectors.
“You should sleep.” His voice came out more gruffly than he’d intended.
“I’m fine.”
Only he knew she wasn’t. Her exhaustion beat at him, along with the vestiges of fear still clinging to her. “Suit yourself.” He stretched out one leg, leaning back against the leather seat. They had about thirty miles to go before they hit interstate. He debated sticking to the back roads. Each route came with their own set of pros and cons. At the moment, speed was the essential element.
