by Elle Kennedy
He edged along the wall, inhaled a breath, risked a glance around the corner.
One guard. Short, stocky, curly black hair. Cradling an AK to his chest.
The rifle gave D pause. Trevor had reported that Meiro’s bodyguards usually carried pistols. The switch to assault weapons meant Meiro really didn’t want his prisoners to get away. And chances were, said prisoners were being held beyond the door being protected by the curly-haired goon.
Well. He couldn’t keep Callaghan and Blondie waiting.
Keeping a steady grip on his H&K, D sprang into action. He experienced a surge of adrenaline as he burst into the corridor and took the rifle-wielding guard by complete surprise.
Pop.
The suppressor on his gun ensured that the bullet entering the guard’s forehead did so with the softest of hisses.
D caught the guard’s lifeless body before it toppled to the floor. He was just patting himself on the back for one of his most soundless kills when the gunshots rang out.
• • •
Isabel had never felt more powerless than she did now, tied to a chair while chaos reigned above her. She had no idea what was going on up there, but judging by the rhythmic rat-tat-tat that was making the ceiling vibrate, she assumed Morgan and the others had launched a full-blown assault on the mansion.
She tugged on her bindings, but the thin cables Lorenzo’s men had used to secure her wrists behind her back were too damn tight. As she struggled against them, the cables dug into her flesh and made her wince.
“We have to get out of here,” she said in frustration. “That door could burst open any second, and if those aren’t our people up there . . .”
No sooner had the words left her mouth than a round of gunfire boomed beyond the door. Isabel’s pulse sped up as the doorknob exploded in a spray of wood splinters. The metal knob snapped off and bounced on the concrete floor, and then the door was kicked open and a familiar face greeted them.
“You okay?” D’s coal black eyes revealed no emotion as he stalked toward them with purposeful strides.
Trevor rolled his eyes. “We’re great. Can’t you tell?”
D swiftly sliced their bindings with the sharpest hunting knife Isabel had ever seen. As the blood rushed back to her hands and ankles, pins and needles pricked her flesh. She rubbed her numb wrists and stumbled to her feet. When she heard another muted gunshot, she glanced at D in alarm.
“What’s going on up there?”
He shrugged. “Morgan’s in the middle of a Wild West shoot-out with Meiro.”
“Blanco,” Trevor muttered.
“Huh?”
“Long story. I’ll tell you all about it later.”
“Deal. Let’s go,” D ordered.
The three of them hurried out of the cellar. Isabel was grateful that D took the lead, because she had no idea where they were going. They raced down a narrow hallway boasting exposed ductwork and the scent of mildew, then reached a set of wooden steps that D climbed two at a time. He’d tossed Trevor a nine-millimeter handgun, but nothing for Isabel, who felt naked and vulnerable without a weapon. She stuck close to Trevor as they emerged onto the main floor.
The house was quiet. No gunshots. No voices.
D signaled for them to stop. He crept toward the end of the hall. Ducked out, then gestured for them to follow.
The corridor they entered was bathed in shadows, but there was a light at the end of it, along with something shiny and silver flashing on the floor ten feet away. No, not silver. Glass. And several bullet holes were visible in the wall above the shattered glass.
Those shards would make their escape difficult. D’s boots and Trevor’s leather wingtips hadn’t made a sound against the parquet, but they didn’t stand a chance of staying quiet once they reached those sharp pieces littering the floor.
D must have concurred, because a resigned expression settled on his face. He made a few hand motions to Trevor, who nodded briskly. Isabel knew both men had been U.S. Army at one point—Trevor had served in the Special Forces, D was Delta. She suspected they could carry on entire conversations and formulate complex strategies without ever uttering a single word.
Trevor touched her arm and signaled for her to stay close. He held up three fingers, then pointed to the end of the corridor.
Drawing a steadying breath, she nodded.
Her muscles coiled tight as she waited for Trevor’s count.
He held up one finger. Two.
Three.
D took off first, his boots crunching on the broken glass as he charged forward. Isabel kept her head down and ran. The hallway spilled into a large parlor lit by a crystal chandelier that rocked wildly as if an errant bullet had sent it swinging.
Gunfire erupted the second they entered the spacious entrance. A bullet whizzed over Isabel’s head. A sharp glance to the left and she saw Morgan duck out of a corridor she assumed led to the back of the house.
“Go,” Trevor shouted, practically shoving her toward the front door.
Isabel was two steps from the massive double doors when she was yanked backward.
Lorenzo had popped out of the shadowy living room behind them and was trying to pull her toward him, but although the dress she’d worn to the gala looked damn good, it was the flimsiest garment ever made. The strap in Lorenzo’s grip snapped apart, forcing him to make a mad grab for her hair.
For her wig, which was ripped off her head, allowing her to dive out of his grasp. She landed on the floor with a thump just as horrified recognition and sheer outrage dawned on Lorenzo’s face.
He stared at the wig in his hand, then at Isabel, and she knew exactly what he was seeing—her Valerie red hair slicked back and held in place with bobby pins. Her bangs had sprung free from the pins and now fell across her forehead.
“You fucking bitch!” Lorenzo’s livid cry bounced off the parlor walls.
She caught a fleeting blur of movement, saw the muzzle of his gun dip down and train on her. Adrenaline sizzled in her blood, but she knew she couldn’t roll out of the line of fire fast enough.
Her heart stopped as she prepared herself for the impact, as she watched Lorenzo’s fingers curl over the trigger.
But the pain didn’t come.
A gunshot blasted and her field of vision turned black. For a second she thought she’d fainted, but then she realized she was looking at the back of Trevor’s tuxedo jacket.
“No!” she screamed.
He’d thrown himself in front of Lorenzo’s bullet.
Jesus Christ.
Trevor had taken the bullet meant for her.
Isabel watched in horror as his broad body jerked, as he stumbled from the force of impact. She dove forward just in time to catch him, while her pulse shrieked in her head like a banshee and her hands trembled violently.
Five feet away, D lunged at Lorenzo, whose pistol clattered out of his hand. As the two men crashed to the floor locked in battle, Isabel fought back a wave of panic and struggled under the weight of Trevor’s torso. Her arms were wrapped around him from behind, and a glance at his abdomen triggered a new surge of terror.
Blood poured out of the bullet hole in his gut, soaking his white dress shirt, pooling on the hardwood floor. No vest. He hadn’t been wearing a goddamn vest because of the gala, and now . . . now he was going to fucking bleed to death in front of her.
Isabel’s breathing went shallow as she slid her hands down his chest and brought them to the wound. She clasped her fingers together, applied pressure, tried not to weep.
Trevor’s eyelids fluttered, opened, but his eyes were out of focus. “Wasn’t . . . gonna . . . let you die,” he mumbled.
Her heart was beating so fast it was a wonder it didn’t burst right out of her chest. Trevor’s face was so pale. Too pale.
She pressed her hands to his belly and her cheek against his temple. “Don’t talk,” she told him. “Save your strength, Trev.”
There was another crash, then a grunt as D managed to grab the gun Lorenzo had dr
opped. Isabel jumped when a flash of black whizzed in the corner of her eye, but it was just Morgan, limping up to her and Trevor.
Morgan took one look at Trevor’s face and clicked on his earpiece. “Rookie, bring the car right to the front door. Make sure Sully’s with you. We need to get Trev to a hospital. Pronto.”
The mercenary peeled off his black shirt, crumpled it up, and dropped to his knees in front of Isabel and Trevor. “Move your hands,” he ordered.
Isabel barely heard the sharp command. She felt like she was in a daze. Trevor was so cold. And the blood. It was oozing out of his stomach like oil from a leaking car.
“Isabel.”
She balked when she felt Morgan forcibly push her hands off Trevor. “No! He’s bleeding out!”
“I know,” Morgan said grimly.
He jammed his balled-up shirt against the wound, eliciting a low groan of pain from Trevor’s lips.
Tears blurred Isabel’s vision. Oh God. He couldn’t die. He couldn’t.
Ten feet away, the muzzle of D’s gun was trained on Lorenzo’s head. The big mercenary cocked the weapon ominously, but Lorenzo was too busy glaring daggers at Isabel to pay attention to the gun at his temple.
“You little bitch,” he hissed. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
She felt utterly numb as she looked into Lorenzo’s furious dark eyes. Then her gaze dropped to the man in her arms, the man whose skin was now a sickly shade of gray.
“Did you enjoy playing me for a fool, Valerie?” Now he was downright smirking, his attention focused on Trevor. “I hope that son of a bitch dies. I hope he dies in your fucking arms, you cunt. I hope—”
The gunshot reverberated in the parlor.
Shock filled Lorenzo’s face, only for a nanosecond, and then he was gone. Limp body crumpling to the floor, a bullet in his left temple.
Isabel was stunned as Lorenzo’s body hit the hardwood with a loud thump. He landed with his head turned in her direction, offering a clear view of his eyes. They were wide open. Lifeless. A frozen mask of surprise and accusation.
Isabel stared into that vacant gaze for several seconds, then turned to look at D with shocked eyes.
The black-eyed mercenary showed no remorse. “I was getting bored of listening to him talk.”
Isabel had no idea what to say, and no time to process what had just happened. Dead, alive, she didn’t care about Lorenzo Blanco. Not when Trevor was dying in her arms.
A car engine rumbled outside, and suddenly Morgan was reaching for Trevor.
“No,” she growled. “I won’t leave him.”
Ignoring her, Morgan heaved Trevor over one broad shoulder and carried him to the door.
Isabel raced after them, her legs so wobbly she was surprised she could make them work. But she refused to leave Trevor’s side. He was dying.
He was dying, and it was all her fault.
He’d taken that bullet to protect her.
Oh God. She was going to lose him. Just like she’d lost everyone else she’d ever cared about.
“Isabel, you have to let go,” Morgan snapped.
They were on the circular driveway now. The rear door of the sedan had flown open and the men were attempting to move Trevor into the backseat.
She wanted to tell them to hurry up, until she realized that the reason they couldn’t get him in the car was because she was clutching Trevor’s arm like a life preserver.
“Let go,” Sullivan said gently.
Swallowing, she unclenched her fingers from Trevor’s sleeve. “I won’t leave him,” she said in a quavering voice.
You were planning to.
She ignored the accusatory voice and slid into the backseat, where Sullivan hovered over Trevor. Somehow the car started moving, but she couldn’t for the life of her pay attention to who was driving or where they were going. Her only focus, her only concern, was Trevor.
“He needs blood,” Sullivan said briskly. “How far is the hospital?”
“Ten minutes,” Morgan barked from the front seat.
“He might not have ten minutes.”
Sullivan’s response was spoken so softly Isabel knew he hadn’t intended for anyone to hear it. But she’d heard. God, she’d heard every word.
Her heart throbbed with agony as she looked at Trevor’s ashen face. His head was cradled in her lap, his hair damp, his forehead clammy and icy cold beneath her lips when she bent down to kiss it.
She looked up and glared at Sullivan. “Give him blood, then. Kane performed a blood transfusion on D in the fucking chopper back in Mexico. You can do it too.”
Sullivan’s features creased with regret. “We don’t have the right supplies.”
The Australian continued to apply pressure on Trevor’s abdomen, but the look on his face wasn’t encouraging.
Trevor’s shirt was no longer white. It was crimson, and his skin was so gray Isabel’s throat closed up to the point that no air could get in. She drew in a weak breath, then bent over and brought her lips close to Trevor’s ear.
“Don’t you dare die on me,” she whispered fiercely. “Do you hear me, Callaghan? You are not allowed to die on me.”
His eyelids twitched, and then those whiskey brown eyes were peering up at her. Glazed, slightly blank, but God, the mere sight of them sent relief shuddering through her.
When he spoke, it was in a hoarse croak. “Don’t . . . leave.”
She held him tighter. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
“No . . . you . . . you’ll use it as an excuse.” Each word seemed to take a toll on him. “You’ll say it’s your fault . . . me getting shot. Won’t let you.”
Her eyes burned from the tears. “No excuses,” she choked out. “You’re . . . you’re the only man, the only person, who’s ever really, truly seen me. I’ll never leave you, Trev.”
The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, like he was trying to smile. “Love you.”
She swallowed the lump obstructing her throat and whispered in his ear again. “I love you, too.”
She knew the other men could hear every word being spoken in the backseat, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about being vulnerable, or revealing the emotions she normally kept locked up. She didn’t care about anything or anyone but Trevor.
“Again.”
His wheezy command made her smile through her tears.
“I love you, too,” she repeated.
He gave the slightest of nods, and then he passed out.
Chapter 25
Trevor woke up to find Isabel curled up on the chair next to his bed. Her cheek was resting on her palm, and her hair fell into her face, shielding her eyes from his view.
Groaning, he tried to sit up, but the streak of pain in his lower gut had him sagging back down.
The groan succeeded in waking up Isabel, who was on her feet and at his side in a heartbeat. “You’re awake,” she blurted out. “Oh, thank God. I’ll get the nurse!”
It took all his energy to grab her hand. “Wait.” His voice was so hoarse he felt like he’d smoked ten packs of cigarettes. “Don’t go.”
Her eyes softened. Blue. They were blue again. The familiar color caused a wave of peace to wash over him.
“Trev. I need to get the nurse,” she insisted.
“Not yet. Tell me what happened.”
“You got shot,” she said darkly.
“Yeah, I gathered that.” Another groan slid out. “Blanco?”
“Dead. Just like his father.”
Her matter-of-fact response brought a pang of satisfaction. He couldn’t remember what had gone down after that bullet connected with his flesh, but he did recall the bloodlust in Lorenzo’s eyes right before he’d pulled the trigger. The man had wanted to see Isabel dead. He’d craved it.
But Trevor had stopped him. He’d saved Isabel. He’d saved her, the way he hadn’t been able to save Gina.
“The Meiro mansion is crawling with cops,” she added. “But nobody’s come knocking on our door.
Morgan and Sullivan are out in the waiting room, but everyone else is back at the White Sands. Noelle’s ready to bolt. She called a while ago and said she doesn’t want to spend one more second with Morgan or his men.”
He smiled faintly. “Should I feel insulted?”
“Nah. Trust me, you don’t want to spend time with her either. She’s mean.”
That garnered a laugh, but unfortunately, laughter and a bullet to the gut didn’t mesh well. As his stomach clenched with pain, Trevor breathed through his nose and tried to ward off his rising nausea.
“I need to get the nurse,” Isabel said firmly.
He tightened his grip on her hand. “Wait.” His tone was equally firm. “First I need you to tell me that I didn’t imagine it.”
“Imagine what?”
“You telling me you loved me. Telling me you’d never walk away from me again.” He met her eyes. “Did I imagine it?”
She went quiet for a moment and then a small smile lifted her lips.
“No, you didn’t.”
Warmth suffused his heart. “So if I let go of your hand, you’re just going to leave the room to find the nurse, right? You’ll find a nurse and come back, right?”
“I’ll come back.”
“Promise?”
Still smiling, she lowered her head and brushed her lips over his. “I promise.”
Chapter 26
“Where will we live?”
Isabel snuggled close to Trevor, being careful not to jostle him. They were lying together in his hospital bed, despite the surgeon’s orders for him to get some sleep. But, of course, the stubborn man refused to heed the doctor’s command.
“Wherever we want,” Trevor said in response to her question.
“What will we do?”
He planted a kiss atop her head. “Keep working. Be together. Love each other. Get married.”
“That’s quite a list.” She hesitated. “Is that what you want, to get married?”
“Yes. Do you?”
“Yes. But only if you rock the proposal. No hot sauce spaghetti, thank you very much.”
He laughed, his arm tightening around her. “I’ll order takeout, I promise.” Now he was the one hesitating. “Do you want kids?”