Snowed In with the Quarterback
Page 7
“Rebecca, cover us back there!”
I rolled onto my side, pulled my bandana from my pocket and wiped the blood from my face. The hairs on my arms stood straight up at the sound of a hailstorm of pops and flashes. Vibrations from the explosion rang in my ears like metal dragging across glass. Lifting my head, my eyes flicked to the ceiling and to the walls, faint light poured in through the west wall window. Dust and debris clouded my vision, but I could see the outline of three figures at various points along the wall of the warehouse. Sully, Horton and Rebecca all accounted for. Where was Sasha?
“Zero, this is Delta team, do you read me?” The message rang loud and clear through my earpiece.
Aside from twinges of pain in my arm and chest, I felt fine, probably just a cracked rib or two. I’d been shot before, but there was no physical sign of trauma. I eased up and there it was, a burning ache. I felt my shoulder and sure enough my shirt was soaked with blood. Shit! I had been cut, but definitely not shot. I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to use my bandana as a makeshift compress.
Still no answer from Zero. Rebecca, Elite Eight’s Chief Communication Officer and field operative, tried three more attempts to get command on the line. Through squinted eyes, I identified three large barrels in front of me and to my left. Aware of the bullets whizzing above, I managed to stay low and crouch behind them.
Seconds later, glass popped and shattered. The explosion rocked me back about four feet, slamming me into an iron bar. Bits of debris rained down from the ceiling, and I narrowly escaped getting knocked the fuck out by a goddamn two by four. I shook it off, and then pulled my handgun from my vest. Plaster fell, giving way to live wires sparking each time they hit the ground. Black smoke billowed outside, dancing with a raging fireball. Fucking terrorist scumbags.
“Everybody okay?” Horton called out.
I took this as my opportunity to let them know I was alive. “Robo here,” I shouted back. My eyes fully focused once more, allowed me to survey our surroundings.
“Nice to see you’re awake, Sleeping Beauty! We missed you.”
“Fuck you, Sully! I’m touched by your concern. You good?”
“Yeah, just another day in paradise,” he yelled, before firing off four rounds. “Whoo! Take that mother-fuckers!”
I craned my neck, and in the dusty light not more than five feet away lay Sasha Bloom, Elite Eight’s Intelligence Analyst. Without concern for my own life or the pain in my chest, I ran to her. Dark liquid oozed across the floor in a stream, and that is when I saw the jagged metal lodged in her leg. My heart crumbled, under a hammer of pain. I knew this wasn’t good. I ripped the bottom of her right pant leg and made a tourniquet and used the remaining cloth to apply pressure to the wound.
Kneeling beside her, I grabbed her hand. “Sasha, hey, baby. Can you hear me?”
“Alex,” she whispered weakly. “One leg hurts and the other is now cold.”
I chuckled. “Sorry about that, but I needed it.” I pointed to my injury to keep her mind off her own pain.
“It’s okay, but I thought tough guys like you didn’t get hurt?”
“Oh that’s just a scratch, baby,” I joked, and got a clearer look at her wound. It was gushing blood, the metal sliced right through her femoral artery.
Fuck! If we didn’t get out of here soon, she would die on the floor in this dirty warehouse. And I couldn’t allow that to happen. I loved her too much. Plus, we had plans after this mission, a date on the rooftop bar at the The Hilton Molino Stucky. Her choice. She called Venice the most romantic place in the world. The view of the lagoon from the terrace was something Sasha loved, and she had told me all about it on more than one occasion.
“Rebecca,” I yelled, over my shoulder. “Get command on the line! Tell them Bloom is hurt and we need an extraction plan, now!”
“Fire, fire, fire.”
The window above us shattered. Instinctively, I covered Sasha’s body with my own. I wouldn’t let it end this way.
Not here.
Not now.
Not ever.
“It’s okay.” Her breathing was shallow, and she swallowed a few times before speaking again. “I love you.” Her head lolled from side to side, as her eyes rolled back in her head.
I cupped her face in my hands. “Look at me, Sasha. Stay with me,” I begged. My throat was dry and tight. “You’re going to be fine. I’m going to get you out of here.”
“It’s okay, Alex.” Her words came out soft and comforting. As if I was the mortally injured one and hanging on for my life. Her pulse was weak, and I knew the blood coming from her nose was a sign of internal bleeding. I was losing her. Fuck!
“Baby, please don’t leave me,” I pleaded, aware of the desperation in my voice. “Trust me. I’ll get us out of here.”
An explosion rocked the building sending more glass and metal down from the ceiling. I held Sasha in my arms, protecting us both from the flying debris. I don’t know how long we stayed like that, but I heard machine gun fire followed by another explosion. Through the haze of smoky fog, the chopper came into view.
“Babe, the cavalry’s here,” I said relieved, looking down at Sasha. Her eyes were glassy, wet from tears that never came. “Sasha, no . . . no,” I whispered, pulling her closer and burying my face in her hair.
Numbness settled around me. I’d failed her and it was my fault that she was dead.
Buy Bound to Me here
BOOKS BY CHRISTY PASTORE
The Scripted Duet
Unscripted
Perfectly Scripted
The Harbour Series
Bound to Me
Healed by You
Return to Us
Standalone Novels
Fifteen Weekends
Wicked Gentleman
The First Lights
Royal Gentleman
The Cardwell Family Series
Beautiful March
Sweet Agony
Copper Lining—Coming in 2021
Novellas
Double Contact
Snowed In with the Quarterback
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
International Bestselling Author and self-proclaimed french fry addict, Christy Pastore writes sexy, contemporary romance books that contain no nonsense (mostly) heroines and swoony gentleman with a naughty side. Readers so overwhelmingly embraced one Wicked Gentleman, Jackson Hart specifically, turning many of her #AuthorGoals into a reality.
When Christy’s not turning her risqué thoughts into something worth reading, you’ll find her geeking out on all things pop culture, obsessively stalking Pinterest for home interior ideas, lunching with friends, or researching her next vacation destination.
She has strong opinions about folding laundry, fruity wines, the Oxford Comma, fashion, and mixed vegetables.
Christy lives in central Indiana with her husband and their two loveable ginger kitties, Cheeto and Dorito. But as cute as they are, please send scratching posts asap because they’re slowly destroying the furniture.
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Table of Contents
Copyright
From the desk of Author Christy Pastore
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Epilogue
End of Book Note
Afterword
Bound
to Me Excerpt
Books by Christy Pastore
About the Author