by Cindi Myers
“These look like deeds to property,” she said as she flipped through her stack of documents.
“Mine, too,” he said. He stopped at one yellowed square of paper. “And Richard Prentice’s birth certificate. And a passport.” That would prove interesting reading later.
“Did you hear something?” She looked toward the door, all color draining from her face. A sound like a slamming door, then the pounding of running feet echoed along the hallway.
“We have to get out of here.” Marco stuffed his pockets with the passport and other papers. Lauren did the same with her handful of documents.
“Which way do we go?” she asked.
“This way.” He took her hand and pulled her toward the room’s only window. But when he yanked on the sash, it wouldn’t budge. He felt along the frame for a locking mechanism.
“Maybe it’s nailed shut,” she said.
The footsteps in the hallway drew closer, and now they could hear shouting. “Search the house! Don’t let them get away!”
“Stand back,” Marco said, and picked up the heavy, rolling chair from behind the desk. He heaved it through the window, the frame shattering and glass exploding with the impact. An alarm began to wail, the deafening Klaxon shrieking right above their heads. A guard burst into the room and gunfire splintered the wood beside Marco’s head.
“Come on!” he yelled, and shoved Lauren in front of him out the window, then dived after her in a shower of glass and splinters and flying bullets.
Chapter Eleven
Instincts honed from years of training kicked in as Marco turned to face the two guards who appeared at the window. He had to buy time for Lauren to get out of range of their guns, but he had no weapon of his own.
Correct that—he had no firearm. But he had a quick mind and an agile body, two powerful weapons he could use to his advantage against foes who were certain of the superiority provided by all their hardware.
He dived to one side, out of sight of the guards. “Run!” he urged Lauren. “As fast and as far as you can.”
“But I can’t leave you,” she protested, her face contorted with anxiety.
“I’ll catch up with you, I promise. Go!”
She hesitated only a moment more before turning and racing away, her feet pounding over the rough ground. The guards began firing after her, bullets striking the ground with small thuds, little volcano eruptions of dirt marking the spot where each one hit.
One of the guards leaned out of the window, bracing his weapon against the frame for a steadier shot. Marco scooped a rock from the ground at his feet and fired it, a ninety-mile-per-hour fastball to the side of the man’s head. It struck with all the force of a missile, dropping the guard to his knees, blood trickling down the side of his head.
The second guard turned and located Marco, aiming point-blank. No way would he miss at this close range. Marco dived sideways and rolled, the bullet whistling past him. He sprang to his feet and ran, dodging and weaving, presenting as difficult a target as possible. He raced toward the sun, forcing the shooter to aim into the glare, and he wove behind piles of boulders and the gnarled trunks of piñons whenever possible. The guard’s fire became less and less accurate, until Marco was out of range. He began looking for Lauren.
“Marco! Over here!”
He stopped, and turned to look behind him. She was crouched in the narrow space between a group of scrubby post oak trees and a rounded gray boulder, its surface painted with green, yellow and red lichen. The deep shadows of her hiding place almost completely hid her from view, though as Marco approached, she emerged farther, sunlight gilding her pale blond hair.
“Are you all right?” he asked as he drew nearer.
“Terrified, but I’ll be okay. What about you?” She swept her gaze over him, brow knitted.
“I’m good.” Better than good. If not for the danger to her, he might have exulted in this feeling of power and strength. The past weeks of the necessary tedium of an investigation had left him feeling dull and slow. Their encounter with the guards had sharpened his senses and summoned all the warrior skills around which he’d shaped his life.
He took her arm and helped her the rest of the way out of her hiding place. “We have to keep moving,” he said. “They’ll be looking for us.”
“Moving where?” she asked, even as she hurried to keep up with the brisk pace he set.
“We need to get to the road. From there we can get to town, or flag down someone with a phone who can help us.”
“Which way is the road?”
The landscape around them provided no landmarks, only miles of sun-parched grasses and stunted trees, rocky boulders and the distant green line that marked the canyon, and beyond that the snowcapped peaks of the mountains. “The road is that direction.” Marco pointed toward the southwest. “If we keep the sun at our backs, we’ll be fine.”
“I guess this is the kind of thing they teach in Special Forces,” she said as they corrected their course to head east.
“Boy Scouts.”
She laughed. “You never struck me as the Boy Scout type.”
“A church came into the projects when I was nine and started up a troop. I spent two weeks at camp that summer, learning all about trail finding and stuff. But the next year I guess the church decided it wasn’t worth it or they couldn’t get volunteers or something. They didn’t come back.”
“But you liked it? The trail finding and stuff?”
“Yeah.” He’d felt at home in the wilderness, in a way he never had on the streets of East LA. He didn’t have to play the tough-guy role or play up to people he didn’t like, or be afraid when he was on his own in the wild. He could rely on himself and his own skills out there, in a way he’d seldom been able to rely on other people.
He took Lauren’s hand. “It’s going to be all right,” he said. “I know what I’m doing out here.”
“I know you do.” She squeezed his fingers. “That’s why I’m not nearly as afraid as I would be if I was by myself.”
“You’d do okay,” he said. “You’re a survivor.”
She laughed again, a more derisive sound this time. “I don’t know how you can say that. You haven’t exactly seen me at my best.”
“You survived six weeks as Prentice’s prisoner. You didn’t let that defeat you. And you haven’t let bipolar disorder defeat you.”
“Okay, so I guess I am mentally pretty strong. But that doesn’t mean I have the know-how or physical strength to survive out here.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry. I’ll be strong for both of us.”
She smiled and leaned into him, in a kind of half hug that made him feel ten feet tall and invincible, but also more vulnerable than he had since he was a small boy. But being vulnerable didn’t frighten him when he was with her. Not anymore. He guessed that meant he’d learned to trust her—to trust what he could be with her.
He looked around at the open, roadless prairie. The Jeeps Prentice’s guards used could easily travel across country, and in this terrain two people on foot would be visible from a long way off. “We need to find cover,” he said. “A draw or creek bed or somewhere we can travel without being so visible.” He pointed toward a line of trees about a quarter mile to the north. “Let’s try there.”
Her sandals, though flat, weren’t made for travel in this rough country, not like his hiking boots. But she kept going, grim faced and limping at times. He pretended not to notice. No need to make her feel she was less in his eyes, especially since the opposite was true. He admired her determination more with each step.
Years of runoff from spring snowmelt had cut a narrow ravine through the landscape, choked with scrub oak and tough grasses. The red-brown dirt crumbled as they half slid, half climbed into the depression. Marco put his arm around Lauren’s waist to steady her and she leaned into him, breathing heavily. “Do you really think they won’t see us here?” she asked.
“We’ll be less visible here than in the open.”
He took her hand and led her through the maze of brush, over rocks and around clumps of cactus. They hadn’t traveled more than a few hundred yards when a low, mechanical whine cut the desert silence.
Lauren froze, head up, alert. “Someone’s coming,” she whispered.
He nodded. The noise grew more distinct—the rumble of an engine in low gear and the popping of tires on gravel. “Just one vehicle, I think,” he said. “Headed this way.”
“Can they see us?” She looked around at the stunted trees and grasses closing in on all sides.
“They might have seen us headed this way,” he said. They probably had; why else would the Jeep head so deliberately in that direction? “But they won’t have known where we disappeared to.” At least, they wouldn’t unless they knew the country very well. He doubted the kind of muscle Prentice favored had spent much of their free time exploring the backcountry wilderness, and their regular duties kept them close to Prentice’s mansion. He took Lauren’s hand again. “Let’s find a place where we can keep an eye on them.”
He led the way along the bottom of the ravine until he spotted a side channel cutting the bank, a dense knot of wild plum trees anchoring the spot. They climbed the bank and settled among the close trunks of the plums. He would have liked a pair of binoculars, but even without them he could see the Jeep, a cloud of dust marking its approach.
As it drew nearer, he identified two guards. The man in the passenger seat held a semiautomatic rifle, the stock balanced on his thigh, the barrel pointed upward. He wondered if the man’s orders were to bring them in alive—or to shoot them and leave their bodies for the coyotes and other wild animals to scatter.
Lauren pressed up against his back, looking over his shoulder, her mouth next to his ear. “Do you think they see us?” she whispered.
Her warm breath tickled his ear, and when he breathed in he smelled the floral-spice aroma of her perfume, underlaid with the scent of feminine sweat and the sage leaves crushed beneath their feet. Every nerve in his body responded to the feel of her against him—the curve of her breasts pressed against his back, her hip bone against the back of his thigh, her warmth seeping into him. He reached back to caress her side. “They can’t see us,” he said softly. “They won’t see us.” But if they did, if they got out of the Jeep and came toward them, he would fight with everything he had to protect her.
The Jeep reached the edge of the ravine and stopped, a few hundred yards south of their hiding spot, at about the place where they’d descended into the depression. The guard in the driver’s seat scanned the area with a pair of binoculars, skimming over the grouping of plum trees with no hesitation. He thought Lauren had stopped breathing, her heart hammering against him.
The driver lowered the binoculars and put the Jeep into gear once more and drove on, past their hiding spot, until only a diminishing trail of white dust marked its path.
Lauren sagged against him, her face pressed against his back. “I was so scared,” she whispered. He felt her fear as much as heard it in her voice. She trembled against him, and he wondered how close she was to breaking down. She’d been through so much. How long before it all became too much for her to take?
He turned and gathered her close, pulling her tight against him. She wrapped her arms around him and returned the embrace, and when she raised her head to look at him, he didn’t hesitate, but kissed her.
* * *
LAUREN DIDN’T KNOW how much she’d wanted that kiss until Marco’s lips covered hers. She wanted it the way famished people want food or thirsty travelers need water. That kiss reminded her of things that were more important than Prentice and his guards, reasons she would keep going, better things to come on the other side of the terror and worry and fear.
His lips caressed hers, soft but firm, as his hands smoothed along the sides of her body, holding her steady, reassuring her that he appreciated everything he touched. He adjusted the angle of his head and ran his tongue across the seam of her lips, and she opened to him, eager to taste, to give of herself more fully. She arched to him, the hard planes of his chest sending a thrill through her, reminding her of his strength, of the power of his masculinity. She clutched at his back, wanting to be nearer still, to lose herself in the moment.
He pulled away gently, keeping his arms around her, his gaze fixed on her. She blinked up at him, a little dazed, and struggled to regain her composure. Doubt swept in to replace the confidence with which she’d welcomed his embrace. “Were you just trying to take my mind off my fear?” she asked.
“I wanted to kiss you.” He brushed her hair back from her forehead, a tender gesture that sent a new surge of desire through her. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a while.”
She wanted to answer him with another kiss, but told herself she shouldn’t get carried away in the moment. She needed to play it cool until she was more sure of him, sure of them. “And you thought now was an appropriate time?”
Amusement danced in his eyes and tugged the corners of his mouth upward, almost into a smile. “Sometimes it’s good to listen to your instincts.”
“I like your instincts.” She smoothed her hands up his chest to his shoulders, savoring the attraction, drawing out the moment.
But instead of another kiss, he stepped back and released his hold on her. “If we were somewhere else, somewhere more comfortable, safer, I’d like to continue this conversation, but we need to move on before those two come back.”
The fear surged forward again, but not as overwhelming this time, diminished by the strength of these feelings between them—feelings she was in no hurry to try to define. “What do we do now?” she asked. “I mean, about getting away.”
“We keep going.” He nodded ahead of them, indicating the trail through the narrow ravine.
“Aren’t we traveling away from the road?”
“For now. If the ravine doesn’t curve east soon, we’ll look for another route. It’s more important to stay out of sight of the searchers.”
She fell into step behind him, content to let him choose the path through the choking brush that scratched her bare legs and caught at her sandals. “Richard is probably furious,” she said after a while.
“Good. Emotional people are more apt to make mistakes in judgment.”
Was he saying that their own judgment might be clouded by the emotions they felt for each other? With his back to her, she couldn’t gauge his meaning by the expression on his face. Not that Mr. Inscrutable ever gave her many clues as to what was going on in his head or his heart. “Did they teach you that in Special Forces?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“So soldiers aren’t supposed to have emotions.”
“You learn to sublimate them. To set them aside until a more appropriate time to process them.”
“What if an appropriate time never comes?”
“Then, you end up with things you haven’t dealt with.”
“Do you have things you haven’t dealt with?”
“Yes.”
She hadn’t expected this frankness from a man who was so skilled at remaining cool and somehow outside every fray. The knowledge that he trusted her with even this small confession of weakness moved her. “Maybe you’ll tell me sometime,” she said.
He stepped over a log, the remains of an ancient lightning-scarred tree, and turned to help her over, as well. But he didn’t release her hand right away. Instead, he squeezed her fingers. “Maybe I will.”
She smiled to herself as he turned to lead the way once more and she felt stronger and more confident as they traveled in silence for another half mile or so, when the ravine turned east, and so did they. She let her thoughts drift, content to follow Marco and not think too much about where they were headed or why. As long as he was in charge, everything was all right. Prentice had money and manpower, but Marco had brains and skills.
And she had Marco. For now, that seemed more than enough.
He put out a hand to stop her. She stumbled a little and
he caught her. “What is it?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”
“There’s water up ahead. It’s just a puddle, but it will help us keep going.”
At the mention of water, she let out a low moan. She’d been trying not to think about how thirsty she was. She looked around him at the muddy puddle about two feet across, the water the color of milk chocolate. She tried to swallow. “We’re going to drink that?”
“We’ll strain it first.” He reached up and tugged at his sleeve until it tore. Pulling harder, he ripped the fabric at the seams, then knelt beside the puddle. “It would be better if we had some kind of container, but we may have to soak the cloth in the water, then squeeze it into our mouths. It might taste a little muddy, but it should be all right.”
She nodded, telling herself she shouldn’t be squeamish. This wasn’t about taste or hygiene—they were trying to stay alive.
She started to step back to give him more room to work when movement out of the corner of her eye made her freeze. The ground just to her right undulated, then what had at first appeared to be a smear of mud and dried leaves shifted and became the coil of a snake. She gasped and made a choking noise, incoherent with fear.
“What is it?” Marco, still kneeling beside the puddle, looked over his shoulder at her. He glanced at her face, then followed her horrified gaze toward the ground.
The snake raised its head, weaving slightly, tongue flickering, menace in every movement. Its tail vibrated, a castanet clatter of warning. “Is that—?” Lauren couldn’t finish the sentence.
“A rattlesnake,” Marco said.
Chapter Twelve
Marco stared at the snake, the mottled brown-and-tan coils seeming to emerge from the earth like a mythological beast, born of mud and rotting matter and menace. He tried to swallow, dry mouthed, and struggled to breathe evenly through his nose, to slow his racing heart. He was smart enough to be afraid of many things—enemies with guns, for instance. But some fears went beyond rationality to something more innate and primitive. Chief among these was the fear of snakes. No matter that Michael Dance had assured them that the native prairie rattlers found in the park were much less lethal than their cousins to the south and west—a rattlesnake was a rattlesnake, venomous and terrifying.
