Slow Burn

by Cheyenne McCray

  “Hi, Christie.” He wanted to hold onto that moment, before she found out she was in danger, and he and the FBI agents would have to escort her and keep her safe from harm.

  Before he could say anything else, Agent Stillwater stepped around him. “We need to go, Christie.”

  In a blink of an eye, Christie’s gaze went from wide-eyed surprise to narrowed with anger. “What are you doing here, Agent Stillwater? I told you I don’t need the FBI watching over me.”

  “Your ex-husband put a hit out on you.” Trace jerked Christie’s attention back to him. He had to put it as bluntly as possible to get her to cooperate. “They found out you were on this flight and they plan to kill you.”

  “He what?” Christie’s face had gone pale. “Someone is out to kill me?”

  “Possibly more than one,” Stillwater said.

  “How could he put a hit out on me when he’s in prison?” Christie still had a look of disbelief on her face. “How did they find out that I was coming home, and how do they know what my flight number was? I didn’t tell anyone.”

  “We don’t know.” Stillwater moved to one side of Christie, and Trace took the other. “However, we will find out.”

  “First we’ve got to get you to safety.” Trace and Stillwater guided Christie to the door to their right. “We have vehicles waiting.”

  “What about my suitcase?” She looked like she was trying to grasp onto reality while facing something so frightening as having a hit out on her. “I checked in one bag.”

  “We’ll have your luggage and your other belongings delivered to you once we get you safe.”

  Christie appeared to be too stunned to say another word as her laptop bag and purse were taken from her so that she was no longer holding anything. The agents opened the door, Arizona winter sunshine spilling into the dim jetway. One of the agents went down the stairs first, followed by Stillwater. Christie was behind her, while Trace and another agent took up the rear. Brooks stood at the foot of the staircase with the police officers.

  As Trace descended the stairs behind Christie, a feeling that something was desperately wrong crawled over his skin. His sixth sense kicked in and he looked around as they headed down.

  “Move it.” Trace barked the words. “Get her to the car. Now.”

  The urgency in his voice had the head FBI agent and Stillwater moving faster.

  Just as Christie was halfway down, a shot rang out.

  Christie crumpled in front of Trace.

  He caught her as she pitched forward, before she hit the stairs. Blood began to darken the left side of her white blouse and flowed down her arm.

  Trace’s heart went into overdrive.

  Her eyes were wide with disbelief and shock, and she grabbed onto Trace’s arm with her right hand. “I’ve been shot.”

  “You’re going to be all right.” For the second time since he’d met her, he was reassuring her. This time he didn’t know if it was true.

  “She’s alive,” Trace said to Stillwater as he swept Christie into his arms and hurried the rest of the way down the stairs.

  Trace’s throat threatened to close from fear for Christie. The agents surrounded her and Trace as he reached the tarmac. He carried her, rushing her to a waiting vehicle.

  Shots continued to ring out, the sniper still in action.

  “Sonofabitch,” Brooks let out as he stumbled.

  Trace glanced at his friend as blood began to stain the shoulder of his overshirt. Brooks didn’t stray from Christie and Trace, but an FBI agent fell with the next shot.

  Sirens were already shrieking as Trace slid her inside the back of one of the three police vehicles. Trace scooted onto the seat, her legs over his lap. There was blood everywhere. So much goddamn blood.

  Someone was handing him bandages and cloths and Christie groaned as he found the wound. It was in her upper arm and hot blood was flowing from it.

  He pressed cloths against the wound and immediately the cloths were soaked. “I think the bullet might have caught an artery in her upper arm. Clipped it if we’re lucky rather than severing it.” He looked over his shoulder at Stillwater. “She’s losing a lot of blood. We need to get her to the hospital fast.”

  The squeal of brakes and flashing lights told him that airport emergency vehicles had arrived. In the next moment the opposite door of the squad car opened and a paramedic squatted down to check out Christie.

  “We’ve got to get her safely in the ambulance.” Trace glanced from the paramedic and looked out the back window. “As far as we know, the shooter’s still out there.”

  “We’ll back the ambulance up to the car then take her to TMC.” The paramedic worked on Christie, doing what he could to stop the bleeding. “We’ll be able to give her blood on the way.”

  Christie looked pale and confused. “Somebody shot me,” she repeated.

  Trace squeezed her hand. “The paramedics are going to fix you right up.”

  “What’s your blood type?” one paramedic asked.

  The paramedic was already doing a quick test of her blood type even as she managed to say, “A positive.”

  “We haven’t located the shooter yet,” Stillwater said from behind Trace. “But he’s stopped.”

  With the danger still out there, the paramedics couldn’t load her onto a gurney. They quickly transferred her by hand from the squad car to a gurney inside the ambulance that had been backed up to the car door.

  Inside the ambulance, the paramedics set to work on her immediately. Trace climbed in too, after identifying himself. A paramedic put an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose before hooking up an IV and starting the transfusion. Another worked to stop the bleeding. Officers slammed the back doors shut and sirens cut through the night as the ambulance and escort detail sped toward the hospital.

  Officers and agents would be leading and following, and the rest of the motorcade would join them at the designated area.

  Stillwater didn’t argue at this point that she or her team should be the one taking point with the situation so dire.

  Christie’s face was so pale amidst all the dark red hair around her face. She looked dazed as her blue eyes met his. He silently cursed himself as he looked at her hair. The red was so distinctive that she’d been easy to pick out. They should have covered her up with a hat, a blanket, something.

  He grasped her hand and squeezed it. “I meant it when I said you’ll be fine.”

  The paramedics asked her questions to keep her alert and to find out what they could about her medical history and if she had medicinal allergies.

  Christie went into shock for the second time since he’d known her. He’d love to get his hands on that sonofabitch, Reyes, and beat the shit out of him before putting him out of everyone’s misery. He’d never felt such a murderous rage as he did right at this moment.

  Apparently, Reyes’s men had come prepared to take Christie out whether she came out the front of the terminal or out via standard procedure for a protected witness. Someone knew the system, and it wasn’t just any hired hand. The Jimenez Cartel had to be involved, and they’d hired experienced, possibly professional killers.

  When the ambulance finally reached Tucson Medical Center, Christie was rushed inside on a gurney. The nursing staff wouldn’t allow Trace to do more than wait outside the doors they’d taken her through.

  One of the nurses told him to wash up and he looked down to see that Christie’s blood was all over his hands and arms, as well as coating his shirt.

  The sight of so much blood sent a sick feeling through his gut. He went to the bathroom that he was directed to, and hurried to scrub the blood off his skin. There was nothing he could do about his clothing.

  He returned to stare at the double doors to surgery, where they’d taken Christie. So much tension thrummed through his body that he couldn’t help but pace the hallway.

  Stillwater joined him not long after. Two police officers guarded the doors, one standing on either side.

 
Time passed so damned slow, Trace was about to crawl out of his skin.

  Finally a man in blue scrubs came out to speak to them and introduced himself as Dr. Tenor. Trace and Stillwater introduced themselves in return.

  “Christie is in stable condition.” The doctor’s news sent a hot rush of relief through Trace and he almost dropped into the closest chair. “The bullet nicked an artery and went clean through. She’s a lucky girl. If the bullet had severed the artery, if she’d lost more blood, or the bullet had been a few inches to the right, she wouldn’t have made it.”

  “How long will she need to be in the hospital?” Stillwater asked.

  “We’ll keep her under observation and give it a day or two,” the doctor replied.

  Trace pushed his fingers through his hair. “Thank you, Dr. Tenor.”

  When the doctor left, Trace sat heavily on a chair and blew out his breath.

  Stillwater sat next to him. “You’re damned close to this one. Maybe too close?”

  Trace looked at the wall across from them. “Let’s just keep her safe.”

  “But this one’s getting to you more than just protecting a witness.” Stillwater was too damned perceptive.

  He shook his head. “She’s a close friend to Agent Curtis and his wife. I did some protection detail and Christie was in the middle of it because of her ex. I happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

  Stillwater said nothing for a long moment. “All right. You just keep your head on straight. If I think you’re getting too damned close to her, I’m going to pull your ass out of here.”

  Trace said nothing. He’d like to see Stillwater try to keep him from Christie, because that sure as hell wasn’t happening.

  He knew he had to maintain focus and concentrate on keeping her safe. If it was the last thing he did, he’d make sure she got to that trial alive, then back to her new home in Indiana.

  The thought of her heading back to another state so damned far away made him grind his teeth.

  Fuck. What was the matter with him? Everything that had gone down with Salvatore Reyes had traumatized her, and she’d only said a few words to Trace at the wedding. She barely knew him.

  More than anything, he’d like to change that. Maybe after the trial was over and she was safe again, just maybe—

  Ah, hell. He dragged his hand down his face. Nothing was what was going to happen, and he might as well get used to that fact.

  No matter how hard that was going to be.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Christie is not dead?” Salvatore Reyes gripped the receiver tightly as he clenched his teeth and processed what Paco Esperanza had just told him.

  Paco shook his head. “But your ex-wife is in the hospital.”

  Fire burned Salvatore’s gut as he stared through the window between him and one of his most trusted men. Salvatore spoke in a controlled voice to make sure the prison guards didn’t overhear him. “Tell me exactly why my wife isn’t dead.”

  Christie might have divorced him on paper, but as far as he was concerned, she was still his wife. She was his property. And no piece of paper could say otherwise.

  Paco scowled. “Someone tipped off the Feds. They were waiting, and engaged witness protection protocol. Davies got off a shot but we verified she’s in the hospital now, recovering from the wound.”

  “Fuck.” Salvatore gripped the receiver tighter. “What about Davies?” Ryan Davies was one of the best snipers in the business and had done extensive work for Salvatore.

  “You know him.” Paco snorted. “The man is like a ghost. He was in and out. Vanished before the FBI or any other law enforcement could find him. They even shut down the fucking airport.”

  That Davies was alive and at large was at least good news. Davies was too important to lose. He was the best money could buy and Salvatore needed him.

  Fortunately, Salvatore was a wealthy man with money the Feds knew nothing about. He had a second unknown accountant who disbursed funds from an offshore account to pay Salvatore’s men for what needed to be done.

  The accountant was a distant cousin who lived in Mexico, a man Salvatore trusted implicitly. When Salvatore was out of prison, he would richly reward his cousin. Salvatore had more than enough money to move to Mexico and live the good life. He would take his place in the Jimenez Cartel and continue what he was good at, just in another country. He had a knack for laundering money. He would never have been caught if it hadn’t been for the fucking Circle of Seven, his wife’s circle of friends.

  Paco’s gaze remained steady. “What do you want us to do now?”

  “What the fuck do you think?” Salvatore growled the words. “Figure it out—that’s what I pay you for. Make sure she gets what she deserves and that she never has the opportunity to testify.”

  Paco gave a nod. “I will make sure it happens.”

  Salvatore gave a nod. “I know you will.” Paco wouldn’t let him down.

  “Time to go, Reyes.” One of the prison guards caught Salvatore’s attention and gestured to the door.

  “I want to know it’s done the next time you’re in here.” Salvatore threw out the words in a low voice to Paco.

  The guard put his hand on Salvatore’s shoulder. “Now, Reyes.”

  Salvatore wanted to shove the guard’s hand away. Hell, he would fucking love to break the bastard’s neck.

  Instead of shrugging away from the guard, Salvatore controlled himself, hung up the receiver, and got to his feet.

  The chain cuffed to his ankles made a jangling sound as he shuffled toward the door that would lead away from visitation. He hated the orange jumpsuit he was forced to wear and scowled as the thought of the TV show Orange is the New Black. Fuck that shit.

  And fuck Christie.

  As Salvatore was taken down the hallway that would lead back to his cell, he thought about how perfectly everything had been progressing. One of the cartel’s computer experts had hacked Christie’s Gmail account. The dumb bitch hadn’t changed her email address.

  When the hacker got into her email, he had discovered the airline confirmations. From that, Salvatore’s men had everything—the airline, the city she was flying into, the flight number, and time of arrival.

  They’d learned she was in Indiana, but not exactly where. A single email from Christie’s cousin, Natasha, who had begged Christie to at least let the FBI know she was going back to Bisbee for a visit with Belle and Dylan, had given Salvatore the perfect plan.

  Salvatore had decided he’d let Christie come to him. She would fly into Tucson and he would have her taken out when she arrived.

  But his men had royally fucked that up. Now they’d have to find other ways to kill her and it had to be done right away. The trial would be starting soon and Salvatore would be transported to Phoenix. Christie was the last person scheduled to testify, and it was her testimony that would be the most damning. It was her testimony that could put him away for the rest of his life.

  She would never make it.

  Salvatore was too smart and the new head of the cartel was too powerful. As long as Christie never lived to testify, Salvatore would be in El Verdugo, the Executioner’s, good graces. El Verdugo was Salvatore’s distant cousin and had turned over some of his resources to Salvatore.

  However, if Christie did somehow testify, El Verdugo would no doubt have Salvatore killed so that he wouldn’t have the opportunity to double cross the cartel and turn state’s evidence.

  Salvatore had made it clear that he would never do such a thing, but the head of the cartel only trusted so far, even though Salvatore was a relation.

  The guard shoved the cell door closed behind Salvatore after he walked in.

  Ignoring the asshole on the bottom bunk, Salvatore climbed onto the upper bunk and flopped on it. He put one palm behind his head and stared up at the stained ceiling, wishing for a snort of cocaine.

  He also wished he’d been able to take care of Christie. If only he’d snapped her neck sooner than he’
d planned and had gotten rid of the body so that it would never be found. If only he hadn’t kept her around to fuck and humiliate.

  He put his arm over his face and closed his eyes. Instead of brooding over past mistakes, he could make sure his plans were carried out. And that was exactly what he was going to do.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Everything since arriving at the airport to ending up in the hospital had blurred together in Christie’s mind. She could barely grasp anything that had happened after she’d been shot until well after she’d come out of surgery. Attempting to remember all that had happened was like trying to grab tendrils of smoke.

  Mostly she remembered Trace talking to her in his rich Texan drawl after she was shot, and how his words pulled her from the darkness, saving her from a deep abyss.

  She sat on the edge of the hospital bed, dressed in her own clothing—jeans and a nice pink shirt, along with socks and athletic shoes—as she waited to be released. Two days had passed, and despite the wound and the sling she was wearing, she felt better and ready to get out of the hospital. It had been more or less a flesh wound, but because it had clipped an artery, they wanted to make sure she was well rested.

  Brooks, the DHS agent who had helped Dylan and Trace take down Salvatore’s men, had suffered an injury protecting Christie at the airport. From what she understood, Brooks had been shot in the shoulder, but she’d been assured it wasn’t serious.

  One FBI agent was in critical condition, however, and her stomach ached at the thought. Another FBI agent had been injured, but thank God, would be fine. She prayed that the agent in critical condition would make it.

  Her cell phone nearly slid off her lap, and she caught it just in time. She unlocked the screen before pulling up the video app and opening the video that Dylan and Belle had sent yesterday when the baby had been induced. Christie had watched the video three times already. She couldn’t get enough of seeing her friends so happy.

  First was Belle, smiling and holding their son. “Hi, Christie.” Belle rocked the baby in her arms. “We wish you could have been here for Shane’s birth, but Dylan and I are both grateful you’re all right. When this is all over, you need to come stay with the three of us for a while.”