No Ordinary Day | Book 2 | No Ordinary Getaway

by Tate, Harley

  “Damn straight I am.” He strode toward John. “You take me to them, we’ll get our rocks off, and then we can kill them together.”

  John winked like it was all part of the plan, counting down in his head as Willy neared striking distance. He held out his hand for a shake. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” As soon as Willy’s hand slid into his, John yanked him closer. He brought his knee up swift and hard, slamming into Willy’s groin just like he’d taught Emma.

  The man grunted but didn’t go down.

  John pulled back, but Willy’s grip tightened on his wrist. He swung the rifle with his one free hand. John kicked the weapon. It dipped, but Willy rushed in, slamming his head straight into John’s nose.

  Stars shot across his vision. He staggered back as blood filled his nasal passages and dripped into his throat.

  Willy shoved him to the ground. “You really think I bought that act? I’ve been watching you, man. I’ve seen you acting all chummy with those bitches. It isn’t to get in their pants. It’s to freaking save them.”

  He nosed the rifle into John’s chest. “Just wait until I tell my uncle how lame you are. How one woman spreads her legs and that’s it, you’re whipped.”

  “I’m not sleeping with Emma.” John spat a mouthful of blood on the ground and wiped his face before bringing the handgun up to point at Willy.

  “Right. And I’m not about to kill you. Stop pretending John. You might have bought her sob story about looking out for the little guy, but that’s all it is. A story. What do you care if she lives or dies? What is she to you?”

  “A purpose.”

  Willy laughed. “Nick always said you were a loser. Now I know he was right. And to think, I looked up to you, man. I thought you were everything I wanted to be. Cold. Detached. Impersonal.”

  He lifted the rifle until the barrel landed square between John’s eyes. “What, is she the first woman to give a damn after dear old mom? Uncle Dane told me about what happened, you know. How she left you all alone and the Marine Corps took you in. Told me you were easy to control. Orphans always are.”

  “I die, so do you.” He kept the gun trained on Willy. “Mutual destruction. That more your thing?” John slid forward on the ground, gravel cutting into his back. “You really think Dane sent you on this mission because he trusted you to do the job?”

  Willy shifted position, but didn’t respond.

  “He sent you to die. Do you know what they promised him? A whole island in the Caribbean. Just for him. You really think he’s going to let his screw-up nephew with a jumpy trigger finger share that paradise?”

  “Of course he is.”

  John barked out a laugh. “Right. Just like all the other times he got something he wanted. That whorehouse in Tijuana. You get any of that action?”

  “I was on assignment in Canada.”

  “That sweet gig in Costa Rica where Danny and I snorted coke off a drug boss’s woman for weeks before taking him out?”

  Willy blinked. “Dad said I was needed at home.”

  “What about that time he wined and dined on the government’s dime while you scuttled around doing the dirty work for that senator.”

  “He was the front man. Said I was too good at my job to waste my time in a suit.”

  John inched closer. “He didn’t send you here to kill me, William. He sent you here to die.” In one fluid movement, John hooked his left foot behind Willy’s knee, jammed his right into his hip flexor, and grabbed the rifle with his free hand. He yanked the riffle, shoved his right foot, and Willy toppled backward onto the pavement.

  He tore the rifle out of Willy’s hand and aimed the handgun at his head. “How did you find me?”

  Willy’s glasses perched half-on, half-off his face, revealing one blue eye. He stared up at John, confusion and anger clouding his expression.

  “Tell me.” John fired a shot two inches to the right of Willy’s temple. The bullet slammed into the asphalt and ricocheted into the trailer.

  “You’re tracked. We all are.”

  “How?”

  Willy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Remember those shots we got a few years ago? Said it was BCG because we had that mission in Mexico.”

  “The shot that left the scar.”

  “It wasn’t BCG. You’re microchipped just like a dog.”

  John rolled his shoulder. Now it all made sense. How Nick arrived so quickly. How Willy found him. Hell, how Dane knew when a mission veered off course. I’ve been a fool. Dane hadn’t trusted him. He hadn’t trusted any of them.

  Caught up in the truth, John missed the subtle movement until it was too late. Hot pain lanced his calf as Willy drove a knife into John’s leg and twisted.

  He fired the handgun as he fell, the shot clipping Willy in the arm. The rifle clattered to the ground. Willy scrabbled forward, dragging the knife up John’s leg. He stabbed again, a shallow attempt barely grazing John’s chest.

  John swept the handgun around, firing as Willy reared back to stab him again. The shot sliced Willy’s ear. He screamed and dove forward, all of his weight landing on John’s shooting arm. The handgun skittered out of his grip.

  Willy reared back, eyes wide and crazed. “Uncle Dane cares about me.” Blood dribbled from the tatters of his ear. “It’s you he deemed expendable. It’s you he wrote off.”

  “That’s not true and you know it.” John spat a glob of spit and blood on the ground. “You’ve always been in my shadow. You’ve always tried to measure up, but never quite made it.” He sucked in a deep breath. “How many times did Dane cover up your messes? Paper over your bad judgment?”

  Willy brought his arm back to stab John again, but John leaned forward, wrapping his hand around Willy’s forearm as he shoved the heel of his palm into Willy’s chin. His head swung back, and John pivoted with his hips, throwing Willy over and onto the ground. Blood whooshed in John’s ears, poured from his broken nose, and clogged his throat.

  As he used his injured leg to rise up, fresh blood slicked his skin and puddled in his shoe. Spots swirled in his vision. He leaned forward, weight on Willy’s forearm, and immobilized the knife. “Stop fighting and walk away. Don’t die out here because your uncle asked you to.”

  “I’m not dying.” Willy struggled against John’s grip. “You are.” He lashed out, kicking John’s leg where he’d stuck the knife and John collapsed, muscles unable to withstand the blow.

  Willy threw him off and scrambled for the handgun. John rolled away, but not fast enough. Thoughts came slow and sluggish as he fought against the blood loss and pain. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. His vision dimmed, his ears rang, and he braced himself for a bullet that never came.

  Something loomed above him, white and red and calling his name. John lifted a hand before succumbing to the pull of unconsciousness.

  Chapter Twenty

  Emma

  Emma dropped the crowbar from the cab of the truck on the ground. Blood splattered her white shirt, flecked her eyelashes, and coated her hands. Willy lay in a crumpled heap on the ground, blood oozing from the wound she’d inflicted to his skull. Emma stepped over him, grabbing the discarded rifle before hurrying to John.

  She grabbed him by the shoulder. “John! John, it’s time to go!”

  He moaned.

  “John, come on, you’ve got to get up.”

  “L-leave me.”

  “No! Are you crazy? You’ll die out here.”

  John batted her away. “I deserve it.”

  “No, you don’t. Now help me.”

  He tried to stand using her as support but collapsed back to the ground. Emma let out an anguished sigh. She pulled on him again, but it was no use. He’d passed out cold.

  What am I going to do?

  Emma turned, focusing on Willy’s body. Coagulating blood matted in his pale hair and Emma thought over her options. How the hell did he find us? Raymond insisted John’s motives weren’t pure. A few days ago, she would have wholeheartedly agreed. But she ref
used to believe he’d led one of Dane’s men straight to them. He wouldn’t have done that and then risked his life fighting the guy off.

  No, he found them some other way. She stared at the Jeep. John explained how he’d found it in the woods. How it belonged to the men who ambushed them at the cabin. Was it under surveillance? Did it have GPS? Did GPS even work anymore? The thoughts came rapid-fire, Emma’s researcher brain spewing out scenario after scenario. She shook her head to clear it.

  Wasting time on the what ifs would get her nowhere fast. If someone else was headed their way, they needed to move. Now.

  She ran to the trailer and climbed inside before rooting through the boxes for anything strong enough to support John’s weight. She threw aside crumpled plastic wrap, peanuts, and half a cardboard box. There had to be something.

  Besides the open boxes and the ceramic planters, all that remained was a half-full pallet of more of the same. Plastic wrap covered the back side, wrapping around a long piece of corrugated cardboard used to stabilize the pallet. Emma paused. That’s it.

  She tugged on the remaining wrap, pulling it free in fits and starts before yanking on the cardboard. The huge piece flexed against her and she stumbled back, landing hard against the side of the trailer. Pain shot up her back, but she ignored it.

  With a deep breath, she tried again, hauling the awkward cardboard free as she stumbled toward the open doors. She hopped down, pulling the cardboard with her. It bumped and bopped over the grass as Emma traipsed back to the edge of the road. John still lay where she left him, passed out and immobile.

  She plopped the cardboard down beside him and bent into a squat, used all her weight to shove him over. He rolled side over side, flopping out onto the makeshift litter.

  “Here goes nothing.” Emma dug her fingernails into the cardboard’s edge, curling it around itself as best she could before leaning back and pulling. John and the cardboard moved. First an inch, then five. The muscles in Emma’s back screamed, her legs trembled, but she kept going, dragging him back up onto the road in bursts of effort and toward the waiting Jeep.

  Sweat slicked her back and forehead, mixing with Willy’s blood as it dripped off her chin. She had to smell worse than Vince’s stable after a hard ride. At last, she reached the Jeep and grabbed ahold of the window to catch her breath.

  She spun in a slow circle, surveying the weeds and grasses and the empty stretch of road. No sign of another vehicle. No sign of any other men. How did Willy even get here? She thought back to what Holly said about the man who killed her father. Was this the same guy?

  She shuddered, sweat growing cold as a wind tousled her matted hair. She turned back to John, throwing the backseat door of the Jeep open before reaching down to grab him under the armpits. She hoisted him up, half dragging, half lifting him into the backseat. Blood crusted across his face, clotting in his nostrils. The skin around his nose swelled, eyes almost too puffy to open if he were awake. Bruising spread across his cheeks.

  With a grunt of effort, she managed to flop his body onto the backseat. She’d always known men weighed more. They were bigger and stronger than her slight frame. But she’d never hauled one like a sack of potatoes across a road.

  Note to self: get some weights.

  She almost laughed, on the brink of hysteria, until she caught sight of John’s leg. Blood dripped from the inside of his shoe and Emma ’s breath caught. What the—?

  She leaned in, holding her breath as she inched the pant leg up to expose the skin. The trapped air flew from her mouth in a rush. A huge gash spread up his calf, six inches at least, with a nasty wobble at the base. She forced bile down as the sight of bone turned her stomach.

  No wonder he’d passed out. She hurried to the back of the vehicle and threw the gate open, searching for anything to use to stop the bleeding. They had used the Jeep to haul the food and water to Mississippi, and in the morning, Raymond and John unloaded while Emma and Gloria cleaned up from breakfast. The back was empty.

  She cursed, about to slam the back shut, when a handle caught her eye. She pulled it open, lifting a portion of the floorboard to reveal a small compartment beneath the carpet. Inside sat a change of clothes, a pair of shoes, and a gun. Whether they came from the men who’d ambushed them at the cabin or John, she had no idea. At the moment, it didn’t matter. Emma wasted no time, ripping her own bloodied and ruined shirt off and swapping for the black T-shirt two sizes too big.

  She hurried back to John, ripping her dress shirt into strips before tying them around his leg and pulling tight. One after the other, she layered them like she’d layer a round of test tubes in a centrifuge. When she ran out of fabric, she assessed her work.

  He needed stitches—a lot of them—but hopefully the bleeding would slow enough for him to make the journey back to Raymond, Gloria, and help.

  Would Raymond fix him again? Even after finding out about a new attacker? Emma hadn’t heard most of the conversation between John and Willy, too focused on finding a way to help without accidentally hurting John or getting caught in the middle.

  She made no claims to be good with a firearm. Every shot she’d fired in the heat of the moment veered off target. How many chances would she have to shoot Willy? One? Two? If she missed and shot John instead, or Willy managed to reach her first…

  It wasn’t until she found the crowbar that she came up with a plan. Seeing John there on the ground, about to die at the hands of that monster...

  She shook her head and shut the door on John’s unconscious form. No time to relive the horror. Only time to drive.

  She climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine before easing back onto the road.

  “Just hold on, John. I’ll get you some help. I promise.”

  She meant it. After all he’d done, after he risked his life to save her over and over again, she wasn’t going to let him die. Not when his boss was still after them. Part of her wanted to save him as a thank you for saving her, but the other part knew the grim reality. If John didn’t make it....

  Who would keep her safe?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Willy

  Something pecked at Willy’s finger, rousing him from unconsciousness, and he shook his hand. A bird cawed and feathers brushed across his skin, leaving a trail of cold air in their wake.

  He blinked sticky, blood-coated lashes. The viscous liquid, half-congealed in puddles beneath his eyes, smeared as he wiped his face.

  “What the ever-loving…” He let out a string of curses as a wicked throbbing took up residence in the back-half of his skull.

  With gentle pressure, he palpated his scalp, sussing out the contours of a sizable gash. Reality faded in and out with the rising pain as he fought to remember. He’d been standing, about to put a bullet through John’s skull, when it all went black. That woman. He never thought the spindly research scientist had it in her.

  Vertigo overwhelmed him as he sat up. His stomach heaved and the remains of an energy bar and a sports drink vomited onto the pavement. He’d like to think he’d been lucky. Survived a brutal attack, which from the looks of it, entailed the bad end of a crowbar laying five feet away. But he didn’t feel lucky.

  Anger welled up inside him, hot and syrupy, coating his insides like his blood coated his skin. Anger at his mistakes, at John’s competence, at his besting by a woman. Everything. He was failing and he knew it. Struggling to his feet, Willy managed to stay conscious long enough to reach an arm out for the trailer. He held himself upright, waiting for the spinning to subside.

  Get it together, man. If you can’t do the job, then Uncle Dane will find someone else who can. And then where will you be?

  He took a halting step and then another. Nausea threatened once again to dump the contents of his wretched stomach on the ground. Willy clenched his hand in a fist, digging his nails into his palm, before lashing out to punch the air. I’m all right. I’m all right.

  After a round of positive affirmations and a few more fi
st pumps, he pushed away from the trailer. He made his way, one halting step at a time, down the road toward his truck, concealed behind a clumping of rangy bushes and trees.

  It had been easy to find John, the little tracker beacon blinking on and off, on and off as he zeroed in on his target, decreasing the distance until he spied the Jeep parked on the side of the road.

  What fool didn’t know about the tracking chip? Had his uncle really kept that from the other men? Willy’s pride blossomed. Yet another thing he had over John.

  That man thought he was the best. Thought he had it all. But he didn’t. I do. Willy thumped his hand against his heart as the truck came into view. It wasn’t a fancy sports car full of gadgets and high-tech gear, but it did the job and blended in. Key ingredients to any successful mission.

  He flipped down the tailgate and reached for the backpack strapped to the side. He pulled out the first aid kit and set to work cleaning the blood from his face, hand, and hair before opening a QuikClot bandage and slapping it on his head. It stung, pain increasing as he applied more pressure. But bleeding out from a head wound wasn’t how he intended to go.

  I’ll be damned if that jerk outlasts me.

  With the QuikClot holding in place, Willy wrapped his head in an Ace bandage. He pinned the two butterfly clips across the tan fabric, popped a couple prescription pain pills, and cleaned up his mess. In a few minutes, the drugs would take effect and he’d be floating on a cloud, pain gone, mission a go.

  He headed up to the cab of the vehicle and flipped down the visor to check out his handiwork. He laughed. Paging Nurse Ratched. Looks like Willy’s escaped again.

  He flipped the visor back up and reached for the satellite phone before dialing the only number he’d ever needed. After three rings, a gruff voice answered.

  “What’s your status?”

  “Alive. But it didn’t go according to plan.”

  “How so?”

  Willy kept it simple. “Crazy research woman hit me with a crowbar. Took me out before I could do the job.”