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  Trace gripped her arms tighter. “That’s bullshit, Christie. You know that.”

  She stared at the floor for a moment before raising her eyes to meet his. “How do I stop?”

  He sighed and brought her into his arms and held her for a moment, ignoring all the agents in the room. He drew back and held her upper arms more gently. “Do whatever it takes. At the same time, don’t let anything distract you. It’s your job to stay alive.”

  Trace moved his mouth to her ear. “Please, Christie. I don’t want to lose you.”

  He drew back and their gazes held. He’d said the words as if he meant more than just for the job. Could he be thinking of her in the same way she thought of him?

  She wanted to throw herself into his arms again but restrained herself. It wouldn’t do for him to be seen holding her the real way she wanted him to.

  An agent came up to Stillwater, who stood a few feet away. The agent said something to Stillwater that Christie couldn’t hear. The lead agent nodded and turned to Christie. “We’re ready to move you to a new location.”

  Christie shivered. She hadn’t realized how much fear had grown inside her until the time had come for her to be out in the open again.

  Trace rested his hand on her good shoulder. “I’m here with you every step of the way.”

  She inhaled then let out her breath. “You don’t know how grateful I am for you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Christie’s heart pounded as the next ordeal started. She hadn’t fully grasped the depth of trouble Salvatore had put her in or the mess she had caused until now. It had all seemed unreal, as if she’d been trapped in some kind of movie about someone else. She had never realized her ex-husband could be so powerful and well connected.

  According to Agent Stillwater and Trace, Salvatore’s ties with the Jimenez Cartel were significant and he’d been, and continued to be, a valued part of their organization. The cartel didn’t plan on letting him go to prison if it could be prevented.

  Now she and the agents would leave to go to what would hopefully be a safe location.

  Apparently agents had cleared the way, making sure no employees or guests were nearby as Christie, Trace, the decoy agents, and the protection detail left the room. Dallas wore a K-9 bulletproof vest beneath the service dog vest.

  The weight of Christie’s own body armor seemed to grow as they went. She did the best to push the pain of her shoulder from her mind. Her whole body felt heavy, which had little to do with the vest or the pain. It had more to do with a frozen feeling that had sunk into her bones.

  They went down in the service elevators. Christie stood beside Trace, having to look up at him as always because of the height difference. “If the cartel knows we’re here, are you sure no one can follow us?”

  “The FBI has secured the area.” Trace sounded confident, but she wondered if he was as positive of the situation as his tone would lead her to believe. “No one is getting near you.” He touched her arm. “Especially with Dallas and I on the job.”

  Christie bit the inside of her lip. Her skin prickled, an uneasy feeling making the bland food not sit so well with her any longer.

  “Reservations have been made at multiple hotels under various names.” Trace appeared thoughtful. “We’re hoping that will throw off the cartel.”

  Everything became a blur as agents escorted Christie through the back of the hotel and out to one of three waiting vans. Each van looked different—none of them were black like agency cars or SUVs.

  Decals decorated the sides of the older vans. One had Harper’s Plumbing on it, another had Professional One Day Dry Cleaning, and the third advertised Valley Landscaping Services. Each vehicle could easily go unnoticed in the Phoenix valley.

  Christie felt safer dressed like the agents. She blended in well, especially since the decoy female agents were close to her size and weight and all three of them wore matching sunglasses.

  Trace remained at her side every step of the way, true to his word. She met his gaze as they reached the white paneled Harper’s Plumbing van. She noticed Trace didn’t help her through the vehicle’s open door, like he normally did. No doubt he wanted to keep from causing her to stand out from the agents who would not receive the same treatment.

  She climbed inside the dim interior of the almost empty windowless van with no seats. A big wooden box, the size of a plain, unadorned coffin, took up the back of the van.

  The cool floor beneath her chilled her as she settled on the ridged metal. Dallas jumped in after she did and sat on his haunches beside her.

  “Not much for comfort.” A man sitting in the driver’s seat looked over his shoulder at them. “But we’ll get you to your next location safely, Ms. Simpson.” He, too, sported sunglasses and a jumpsuit and he also wore a Bluetooth earpiece.

  “Thank you.” Christie shifted so Trace could sit on the opposite side of her from Dallas. The presence of both the man and dog comforted her, even though she didn’t feel like she deserved it.

  She wanted to apologize time and time again for putting everyone in so much danger, but she held her tongue. What good would apologies do? She’d screwed up and good. Trace had told her not to play the blame game. Everything had happened because of Salvatore, not her. No matter what Trace had said, she did blame herself.

  After a few moments, the agent put the van into gear and pulled away from the building. “On the move,” he said as the van jostled them while it went down the back alley. She guessed he spoke to someone via Bluetooth.

  One-way streets crisscrossed downtown Phoenix. Christie had come to this area once, years ago. She had been in Phoenix with Salvatore during one of his business trips.

  She had driven to a local pharmacy on her own to pick up feminine products. Salvatore had only let her go by herself when he didn’t feel comfortable—like the times she’d purchased certain personal items.

  Something about his fragile male ego, she supposed. He couldn’t bear to be caught with his wife buying something so personally female.

  She had been on her way back to the hotel when she had become totally turned around and ended up in downtown Phoenix. She’d almost gone in the wrong direction on a street, which had scared her half to death since she had never driven in a big city. She’d grown up in Bisbee and had known only small-town driving.

  Eventually, she had found her way back to the hotel using the car’s GPS navigation, which she should have used in the first place. Salvatore had been livid she had taken so long.

  She wondered how she had put up with that chauvinistic, controlling, evil bastard for so many years.

  Christie and Trace swayed as the van turned a corner.

  A metallic sound startled her.

  Dallas snarled.

  Trace threw himself on Christie, slamming her onto the van’s floor. “Down!”

  Her skull struck the ridged metal floor. Her sunglasses skittered away. Pain shot through her head and her mind spun.

  It took her a moment to realize she had heard the sound of bullets piercing the side of the van.

  Terror ripped through her like knives flaying her skin.

  “We’re under fire!” the driver shouted as he gunned the engine. Christie registered he had to be shouting the information over his earpiece.

  The van’s tires squealed.

  Another vehicle’s tires echoed the sound.

  Light came through round perforations in the white panels.

  Christie and Trace were thrown around the back of the van as the driver took tight turns.

  The driver shouted for backup as he drove.

  A pause in the rapid-fire.

  Trace scrambled toward the coffin-sized wooden box.

  The metallic pings started again and Christie wanted to scream to Trace to get down, too.

  Oh, God. We’re all going to die.

  “Stay flat on the floor,” Trace ordered Christie and she obeyed. He signaled to Dallas to lie low and the dog did as instructed.

>   Adrenaline pumped through Trace’s veins as he stayed low while he shoved the lid on the box filled with weapons, extra body armor, and other vital equipment. The lid crashed to the van’s floor.

  Within seconds, he’d pulled out a lightweight assault rifle, loaded it, and flicked off the safety. He grabbed a flash bang and shoved it into a pocket of the jumpsuit before he scooted closer to the front of the van.

  “On the right, coming up fast.” Rich, the agent driving the van, swerved again. “That fucking car can move.”

  Rifle gripped in his hands, Trace climbed into the passenger seat. In the side-view mirror, he could see the red car speeding up.

  He had a brief moment to be glad they were on one of the wide one-way streets and that on Saturdays the downtown Phoenix streets had little to no traffic compared to weekdays.

  A man leaned out of the rear passenger window of the approaching car that pulled up even with the rear wheels of the van. The shooter aimed an AR-15 assault rifle at the back of the van and pulled the trigger, spraying the vehicle with bullets.

  Trace’s focus narrowed on the shooter as he swung his own rifle and aimed it at the man. Trace pulled the trigger, the rifle recoiling from the several shots he got off.

  Blood spurted from the shooter’s throat and blossomed on the front of the white tank T-shirt he wore beneath a flannel overshirt that flapped in the wind.

  The shooter went limp. The rifle tumbled to the street. His body hung halfway out of the car.

  Just as Trace started to aim for the driver, Rich shouted, “Brace yourself.”

  Trace pulled back inside the van and grasped the ‘oh, shit’ handle with one hand. He gripped the rifle in his other hand, just in time for Rich to drive the van through an empty intersection

  Rich jerked the steering wheel to the left, causing the van to swerve, and he rammed a vehicle coming up on the driver’s side. The impact jarred Trace’s teeth and Christie screamed as she slid across the floor and slammed against one side of the van and slid across the floor to hit the other side.

  “How did they know Christie is in this van?” Trace shouted. “Or are all the vans under attack?”

  “All.” Rich shouted above the noise. “Stillwater is filling me in over the Bluetooth.” He glanced out of the driver’s-side mirror. “Shit. Here they come again.”

  Trace glanced at the passenger-side mirror. “Goddamn but they’re coming fast on the right, too. I got one of the shooters, but there’s another.”

  “Watch out.” Rich hung a fast right onto yet another one-way street. “We’ve got to get out of downtown and lose these fuckers.”

  The side of Rich’s head exploded.

  Blood splattered Trace.

  Christie shrieked.

  Rich slumped onto the steering wheel. He landed on the horn and it blared.

  Trace tried to grasp the steering wheel to get some kind of control. Rich’s dead weight slid off the wheel. He flopped to the side and his head landed in Trace’s lap.

  Rich’s foot still pressed the gas.

  The van sped toward a brick wall.

  Trace jerked the wheel to the right. The van lurched, rocking on its wheels, to a parking garage.

  The garage’s striped wooden arm splintered as the van ran straight through it.

  Rich slipped farther to the side. His foot must have slid off the gas and the van began to slow.

  Trace’s heart jackhammered.

  As he tried to wrestle control of the slowing vehicle, he chose the lesser of two evils.

  Instead of slamming into a concrete wall, he aimed the van for two parked cars.

  Metal crunched. The impact flung Trace forward, his skull hitting the windshield. Stars sparked behind his eyelids.

  Christie gave a loud cry that sounded more of shock than pain. A mere instant of a thought flashed in his mind. As long as he heard her cries and screams, he knew she was alive.

  The van came to a hard stop, throwing Trace back into his seat. His mind spun but he didn’t give in to the dizzying sensation.

  Tires screeched, the sound echoing through the parking garage.

  Trace saw a white car come up on his right. He fumbled in his pocket as the car came to a screeching stop, the driver’s-side window almost aligned with the passenger window of the van.

  Trace jammed his hand into his jumpsuit pocket. He grasped the flash bang and jerked it out.

  “Plug your ears and close your eyes, Christie.” Trace shouted. “Now.”

  Before the driver had a chance to use the gun he held, Trace threw the stun grenade through the white car’s open window. It landed somewhere in the car. A panicked expression twisted the driver’s face.

  Trace dropped his rifle and stuffed his fingers in his ears. He ducked down in the van and closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see the flash.

  Even with them plugged, his ears rang from the explosively loud flash bang. The eyeball-searing eruption of light had Trace seeing red behind his closed eyelids.

  The car contained most of the sound and flash, which easily put its occupants out of commission.

  With a burst of strength, Trace pulled Rich’s body between the front seats so he could better see the red car coming up on the left side.

  Trace drew his Beretta 9mm from a special pocket in the jumpsuit.

  In the driver’s-side view mirror, he saw two men shoving their doors open and climbing out, rifles raised.

  Trace scrambled into the back of the van. He glanced at Christie and held his finger to his lips. She looked terrified, but she nodded.

  He kept low, waiting just where he could see from between the seats. Adrenaline caused his heart to thunder and his body to vibrate. But he maintained his steady grip as he braced his right hand with his left and aimed the gun at the open driver’s-side window.

  A man with long hair and a sneer pointed his rifle into the van.

  Big mistake. The man should have grabbed a handgun.

  The fleeting thought vanished as Trace aimed for the man’s forehead. The weapon’s report echoed in the van.

  A hole appeared in the man’s head. He dropped. Trace heard the clatter of the man’s rifle as it hit the concrete.

  Trace ground his teeth from the painful ringing in his ears that followed the shot he’d made from the van. After sucking in a deep breath, Trace prepared for the second man to approach the window. Instead, the man retreated in a hurry. He bolted back to the red car and flung himself into the driver’s side.

  Trace climbed into the van’s driver’s seat at the same time the car’s tires squealed in the man’s rush to back up.

  He reached the window and aimed his Beretta at the red car. The front window spider-webbed and a hole appeared in the center of the broken safety glass.

  The driver didn’t stop. The car shot forward, speeding out of the garage.

  Trace let out a breath. He knew the occupants of the white car on the right would be incapacitated just long enough for him, Dallas, and Christie to get out of there.

  “Come on.” He glanced over his shoulder at Christie. She’d lost the brunette wig and her red hair fell like a flame against her skin. “Grab the wig if it’s close.”

  She looked dazed but she immediately picked up the bundle of hair. She lurched toward the front.

  He swept his gaze over her. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” She shook her head.

  He riveted his attention on Dallas. “How are you, boy?”

  The dog raised its head in a proud stance. In that pose, he told Trace he wasn’t hurt.

  “Trace.”

  Trace spun to face Christie and he met her fearful expression. “You’re bleeding. Your neck.”

  Adrenaline pumped through him so hard he felt nothing. “It’s fine. Hurry.”

  She obeyed and scrambled toward him. Dallas stayed at her side without Trace telling him to.

  They scurried out of the van. He heard the sounds of the men in the white car as they moaned and groaned. Someone retche
d so loudly it echoed in the concrete building.

  Trace swept his gaze around the garage and saw nothing that concerned him. He glanced over his shoulder and held up his hand to tell Christie to wait. She froze in place. He continued forward and peered around the van.

  The shooter Trace had killed earlier still hung half in and half out of the car. Blood had dried on the side of the vehicle in rust-red trails on the metal.

  Two men inside stirred. Trace watched as the dazed men fumbled with weapons. He took careful aim at the driver as the man started to open his door.

  When the man had opened the door by about a foot, Trace leveled his weapon at his chest, center mass. Trace pulled the trigger and shot him three times. He slumped to the side and fell out of the car. He hit the concrete floor of the parking garage with a thump.

  Trace crouched and moved closer to the white car. Through the open gap in the driver’s-side door, he saw the other man leaning out of the opposite window. The man retched loudly and vomit hit the concrete with a splat.

  His weapon in a two-handed grip, Trace eased up to the door.

  The retching stopped.

  Just as Trace reached for the door handle, the man swung around, a handgun in his grip.

  Trace pumped three bullets into the man’s chest. The shots echoed in the garage. The man slumped in his seat.

  He made sure both men were dead then returned to Christie and Dallas. “We’ve got to move.”

  She nodded and he grasped her hand. Instead of running out of the entrance and into the street where they had entered, he pulled her to the exit on the opposite side of the garage. Dallas stayed with them.

  Trace kept a grip on Christie’s hand as they hurried away from the garage. He’d had to come to Phoenix for work several times, but not enough to be too familiar with the buildings and definitely had no idea where a hotel might be in the downtown area.

  “I can’t believe—all this—for me.” Christie spoke too loudly.

  Trace pulled her into the shadows. “You have to be calm and be quiet.” He took her by her upper arm. “Got it?”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know you’re right. It’s just—”