Taking Fire Read online

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Dedication

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Publisher Page

  Taking Fire

  ISBN # 978-1-78651-119-5

  ©Copyright Cheyenne McCray 2017

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright May 2017

  Edited by Rebecca Baker

  Totally Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2017 by Totally Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, UK

  Totally Bound Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Burning and a Sexometer of 2.

  Deadly Intent

  TAKING FIRE

  Cheyenne McCray

  Book three in the Deadly Intent series

  Protect

  Trace Davidson is determined to protect Christie from her ex-husband who has ordered a hit on her from his jail cell. Trace will do anything it takes, including putting his own life on the line, to make sure Christie survives.

  Persist

  Salvatore Reyes of the Jimenez Cartel intends to make sure his ex-wife never makes it to the witness stand to testify against him. Christie is the only one with enough damning evidence to send him to prison for life. If he’s convicted, he’s as good as dead—the drug cartel will kill Salvatore if he doesn’t kill Christie first. Salvatore isn’t going to let her live another day.

  Prevail

  Trace and Christie end up on the run. They must keep moving to avoid Salvatore and the cartel’s men. In the midst of danger, Trace and Christie find love—but first they have to make it out alive.

  Dedication

  To Martin.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  7-Up: Dr Pepper Snapple Group Inc.

  Ace Ventura: Warner Bros.

  American Idol: FremantleMedia Ltd.

  AR-15: Strategic Armory Corps, LLC

  Arizona Highways magazine: Arizona Department of Transportation

  Arizona Republic: Gannett Company, Inc.

  Associated Press: Associated Press

  AZCentral.com: Gannett Company, Inc.

  Ben-Hur: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc.

  Beretta: Fabbrica d'Armi Pietro Beretta S.p.A.

  Boeing: The Boeing Company

  Captain Crunch: PepsiCo, Inc.

  Coach: Coach, Inc.

  Coleman lanterns: Newell Brands Inc.

  Copper Queen Hotel: Copper Queen Hotel, Restaurant and Saloon

  Dexter: John Goldwyn Productions

  Doritos: PepsiCo, Inc.

  Dumb and Dumber: New Line Cinema Productions Inc.

  Facebook: Facebook, Inc.

  Ford: Ford Motor Company

  Ford Explorer: Ford Motor Company

  Frisbee: Wham-O Toys Inc.

  Fruity Pebbles: Post Holdings, Inc.

  Ghostbusters: Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc.

  Gladiator: DreamWorks Pictures

  Gmail: Google Inc.

  iPad: Apple Inc.

  iPhone: Apple Inc.

  iPod: Apple Inc.

  MacBook: Apple Inc.

  National Geographic magazine: Twenty-First Century Fox, Inc.

  New York Times: The New York Times Company

  Orange Is the New Black: Netflix Inc.

  Ranger shooting glasses: Randolph Engineering, Inc.

  Scrabble: Hasbro, Inc.

  Stetson: John B. Stetson Company

  The Bodyguard: Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.

  The Cabin in the Woods: Lionsgate Films

  The Lord of the Rings: J.R.R. Tolkein

  The Walking Dead: AMC Networks Inc.

  The Wizard of Oz: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc.

  Trivial Pursuit: Hasbro, Inc.

  Vicodin: ABBVIE Inc.

  Walmart: Wal-Mart Stores, Inc

  Wanderlust magazine: Haymarket Media Group

  Wranglers: VF Corporation

  YouTube: Google Inc.

  Chapter One

  Trace Davidson sighted his weapon on his target and tried not to think about Sarah’s email. A jagged blade of anger had ripped through his gut when he’d read the message. Flames of fury engulfed his body even now.

  Brody Danson’s image appeared in front of Trace and he blinked to regain his focus. Sweat rolled down the side of his face as his finger twitched with his urge to pull the trigger. He should put a bullet between the bastard’s eyes and be done with it.

  Trace slowed his breathing, holding back the raw rage threatening to overpower him. Nerves of steel and an almost unearthly calm had kept his hands steady and his mind clear in the past.

  Now he barely kept hold of the reins of his self-control.

  Dallas, Trace’s retired K-9 and off-duty partner, stood beside him. Tension vibrated from the German Shepherd. The dog’s extensive training prohibited him from moving a muscle, but his desire to help Trace was palpable.

  In a matter-of-fact manner, Sarah’s email had spelled out everything Uncle Brody had done to Aunt Barb. Trace had read his cousin’s tears in between the lines. Sarah had practiced hiding her emotions from a young age, thanks to a home life filled with the pain of having a physically abusive father.

  Trace worked to relax his grip as he braced his assault rifle against his shoulder and prepared to shoot. If he didn’t better control his fury, he might miss the target. And he rarely missed with the first shot, much less any subsequent rounds.

  He squeezed his eyelids shut and counted to ten, then another ten and another until his muscles relaxed enough he could breathe easily.

  Still, his mind went over the email. Uncle Brody had shattered Aunt Barb’s wrist, broken two of her ribs, and smashed her knee. He had left her vomiting blood on the kitchen tile and gone to play poker with the boys.

  Heat swamped Trace and he had to do his best to calm down all over again. Not that he had been able r
elax since reading Sarah’s email.

  When he’d unhinged his jaw enough to speak, he had picked his cell phone off the desk and called her. Sarah had held it together, but she’d clearly had to struggle to keep from falling apart.

  Trace tried not to picture Barb with a bruised face, swollen jaw, bandaged ribs, and her wrist in a cast. It proved impossible to chase the images from his mind.

  Adrenaline pumped through his veins. To hell with it. Screw being calm. Trace moved his finger to the trigger and squeezed.

  His earplugs muffled the rifle’s retort as he placed one bullet after another in a near perfect circle, center mass. He lowered the rifle. Decimating the paper target held no satisfaction for him.

  If Brody hadn’t been in jail right that very moment, Trace would have traveled home to Texas to pummel the son of a bitch who had beaten Aunt Barb. If Trace didn’t have a badge, he’d take care of Brody. Permanently.

  Maybe this time Aunt Barb would leave Brody. Maybe this time she wouldn’t drop charges against the man who had beaten her for the past thirty-plus years.

  Maybe this time will be different.

  But he knew it wouldn’t.

  Eventually, Barb would forgive her bastard husband and the cycle would start over. He would give her flowers, dinners out and lots and lots of promises.

  Then he’d start beating her again.

  No, things weren’t likely to change. Even if Trace made the trip home to Texas and confronted Brody, as he had done multiple times before, Barb would defend him even while damaged, bandaged, and broken. And from there things would escalate.

  Trace’s own mother had died long ago, thanks to domestic violence. If only he had been older, stronger, she would have still been here.

  He dragged his Ranger shooting glasses from his face as he stared at the target and slid the pair into his pocket. He pulled off the ear muffs and gripped them in one hand, the rifle in his other and punched the button to bring in the target.

  “Nice shootin’, Tex,” Dare Lancaster said from behind Trace.

  Trace glanced over his shoulder at his friend. “Your turn, Lancaster.”

  Dare studied Trace with an appraising gaze. “You appear to be a man with a problem,” Dare said.

  Trace tossed his glasses on a nearby bench. “I’ll deal with it.” He grasped the target and pulled it from the clip before crumpling the paper.

  “Something you need to get off your chest?” The former police officer turned Department of Homeland Security Agent turned PI was one hell of a man and a good friend. Dare and Trace had done everything from shooting the breeze to working out a problem or three.

  Trace shook his head. Hell no, he didn’t want to talk about it. “Maybe later.” He didn’t think he could speak calmly much less discuss what had happened with anyone, no matter how good a friend. “Got chores to take care of at the ranch. See you at Dylan’s for the Super Bowl party tomorrow?”

  “You bet.” Dare gave a nod.

  When Trace had packed up his weapon and his gear, he headed to his Ford Explorer with Dallas at his side. The K-9 had worked for the United States Border Patrol with his handler, Trace’s good friend, Steve Abrahams. After human traffickers had killed Steve and injured Dallas during a raid, Trace had adopted the German Shepherd.

  Trace’s skin cooled in the chilly February air but his temper had not. He felt so damned helpless being so far from Texas and his family. He’d transferred to the DHS’s Immigrations and Customs Enforcement office in Arizona some time ago. He liked working for the Department of Homeland Security while living in the Grand Canyon State and had decided to make Bisbee his home. Times like this made him feel like maybe he should return to his place of birth where what family he had remained.

  He opened his Explorer’s door and Dallas jumped in on his hand signal. No, it wouldn’t do any good to be in Houston, not yet. He’d just want to kill Brody, but he didn’t intend to land in prison because of that sniveling bastard. Still, what could he do to help Aunt Barb and Sarah?

  He swung up into the cab and gripped the steering wheel, staring out at nothing. He thought of another woman who’d been emotionally and verbally abused, and opened then closed his fist. Christie Reyes had narrowly escaped a terrible fate—but not until she’d endured more than any one person should have to face in a lifetime.

  Most people had a difficult time spotting non-physical abuse because there were no bruises or broken bones. At least on the outside. On the inside, both the heart and soul of the person could be bruised and broken so deeply it might as well have been a knife twisting in one’s chest. Like in his own family.

  He’d seen that kind of pain and more in Christie.

  The thought of Salvatore Reyes abusing Christie nearly sent Trace back to the shooting range to destroy more targets. Instead, he’d go a few rounds with his weight-lifting equipment at home.

  Trace sucked in a deep breath then let it out. When it came to women being mistreated in any way, Trace had a tough time holding in his fury. He had to harness that anger and put it to good use.

  His thoughts settled on Christie. He didn’t know her well—the first time he’d seen her had been when her husband—now ex-husband—had nearly killed her a year ago.

  Trace had managed to exchange a few words with her at Dylan and Belle’s wedding, but then Christie had once again been whisked away into a hiding place, God knew where. She had refused to go into the Witness Security Program to await Salvatore Reyes’ trial. But the FBI had been keeping her safe in the meantime.

  At least he hoped so.

  Dallas sat in the passenger seat. The K-9 studied him with dark eyes that seemed to understand Trace’s emotions at that moment.

  “Let’s get home, boy.” Trace started the Explorer and drove out of the parking lot. “We’ve got horses and cattle to feed, dinner to cook and clothes to wash. Just a couple of bachelors with a mile-long list of chores.”

  Dallas barked his agreement. He turned his attention to the scenery that started to move past as Trace pulled the SUV onto the highway.

  * * * *

  “It’s freaking freezing out there.” Christie rubbed her upper arms with her palms as she stared out of the window at the snowy Madison, Indiana landscape. Even though central air heated the entire wing, chill air pressed against the glass. “I can’t wait to return to Arizona.”

  “If I could leave the store, I’d head there with you.” Natasha moved beside Christie. “But after the FBI says it’s all right, which won’t be until it’s time to go to the trial. You shouldn’t even think about going back early. Please reconsider leaving tomorrow.”

  “Not that again.” Only mild irritation accompanied Christie’s shrug. Natasha just wanted the best for Christie. “I want to be there for the birth when Belle’s doctor induces her.”

  “I know. But think on it a little more.” Natasha rested her hand on Christie’s shoulder. “I don’t want anything to happen to my favorite cuz.”

  “I’ve thought plenty about it.” Christie glanced at Natasha. “Nothing is going to happen.”

  Natasha didn’t respond, but her silence spoke volumes. A free spirit with a joy for life, Natasha had a vibrant and rarely quiet personality.

  After a moment, Natasha gave one of her bright smiles. “We’d better get back to the foyer and help. They’ll be ready soon.”

  “This is my favorite part.” Christie returned Natasha’s smile and they headed down the hallway.

  Natasha’s green eyes sparkled. “Mine, too.”

  Chatter grew louder as they made their way. They reached an archway that opened up into an enormous foyer at the old Mason Mansion. People milled around a three-foot high fence that encircled the center of the room in a small corral.

  Tension in Christie rose every time a man looked at her with interest. Ever since Salvatore, she’d had a hard time being around men. Therapy had done amazing things for her, but she still couldn’t handle a man’s attention. Not yet.

  Natasha
and Christie moved through the crowd toward double doors that opened into what had once been a ballroom. The sound of barking came from the ballroom and echoed through the foyer.

  They took up their positions on either side of the door, besides other volunteers, for what Christie and Natasha called the Running of the Dogs. Otherwise known as the Madison Adoption Palooza.

  The doors opened. Dogs of countless shapes, sizes and breeds bounded out of the room, down the chute of volunteers and straight for the corral.

  The crowd responded with cheers as the rescue dogs ran around the ring. The small beasts jumped against the fence, raced around the circumference and played with one another, all while yipping and barking.

  Christie laughed, the sunshine of sheer joy pushing aside the darkness that often dwelled inside her. At this moment, she delighted in the quarterly event she had volunteered for since moving to Indiana.

  When every retriever, terrier, poodle, cocker spaniel, shepherd, and mutt had entered the ring, volunteers allowed a few attendees inside. Those at the front of the line were allowed in first. Gradually the dogs would be selected for adoption until the last one remained.

  Christie always hated to see any dog left for last and she had to force herself to not adopt the animal herself. She never let any dog go without being adopted and always made sure homes were found for them.

  Natasha’s landlady didn’t allow dogs or cats in the small home, or Christie would have had a houseful by now. Both Christie and Natasha had been saving toward renting a larger place where they could have the number of pets they wanted.

  Salvatore had never allowed Christie to have a pet during their marriage and she wanted one almost as much as she wanted a child of her own.

  She frowned, memories of her ex and her past making her feel ill. Thoughts of the bastard were more than unwelcome. For months she’d gone through daily therapy to turn her life around and deal with the past. She didn’t want him to color any part of her life ever again.