Taking Fire Read online

  He put his hand over her soft lips to quiet her. “This is rough and a lot is happening. But for right now, I need you to pull it together. Got it?”

  She nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Christie remained silent as she, Trace, and Dallas worked their way through the growing darkness and hid in deep shadows. Sirens sounded, coming closer and closer to the scene of death and destruction as Christie and her companions slipped farther away.

  She wanted to cry, wanted to fall apart, after everything she’d seen and experienced since they left the hotel and for all that happened over a matter of days.

  So many dead and injured agents—they had families, friends, lovers, coworkers. People who would miss them and have to face a black hole in their lives where that one person used to be.

  Christie choked down a sob. She had to keep it together to make sure no one else died trying to keep her safe.

  The three kept away from streetlights as well as headlights when the occasional car passed by. She’d heard that if no baseball games, conventions or expos happened to be going on in downtown Phoenix, most parts of the area were dead. She hoped it worked in their favor.

  They hadn’t gone far before Trace pulled them even deeper into the shadows, in a dark recess of a doorway. He drew out his cell phone and did his best to keep the light from shining like a beacon in the dark. “Keep an eye out,” he whispered to Christie. “I’m doing a quick search for a small hotel in downtown Phoenix.”

  She kept watch until he found a small, obscure boutique hotel several blocks away. He made an online reservation and shoved his phone back into his pocket. “The directions are simple. It won’t take us long to get there.”

  The three of them left the doorway. They stayed in the shadows as they started in the hotel’s direction.

  A shot cracked the air.

  Trace dropped to one knee and gave a surprised grunt of pain. “Fuck.”

  Dallas snarled.

  Fear washed over Christie in a harsh, cold wave. “Trace!”

  “Get going.” He lurched to his feet. “Now.”

  Her heart thundered.

  Trace wrapped her hand in his and pulled her forward, while telling the German Shepherd in a harsh growl, “Come, Dallas.”

  Voices behind them and another shot. A loud ping as a bullet hit a street sign. Another shot and a brick exploded a foot from her head, sending a cloud of dust in her face.

  The thump of shoes against concrete raised the hair on her arms.

  Christie looked ahead as Trace limp-ran beside her. She couldn’t see any place to hide. Trace slowed but tried to move faster.

  More shots clipped the air. Dallas yelped and stumbled.

  Christie barely held back a cry, afraid of how badly he might have been shot. Her skin crawled with fear for Trace and Dallas. Like Trace, the German Shepherd pressed forward.

  “Right there.” Trace gestured toward the mouth of an alleyway.

  The shooters barely missed them with each shot. The darkness saved them from being seen easily.

  Bullets nicked the corner of the building, causing an explosion of brick and mortar dust. Debris hit Christie’s arm, stinging her.

  “Get behind the Dumpster.” In dim lighting caused by a window on one side of the alleyway, sweat glistened on his forehead.

  Christie knew she should obey. Even though she wanted to help, she would get in the way of the man and dog who knew what they were doing.

  The stench of the garbage Dumpster filled her nostrils as she crouched down behind it. She peered around its corner to watch

  The gunshots stopped and Christie’s heart did, too. What did it mean? Were the men shooting at them getting closer?

  Trace slammed the magazine home, his back against the wall. The sound of sirens masked the clicks the gun made when he reloaded it. He held his weapon in front of him, the barrel pointed up.

  Now that they had come to a halt, she recognized the pain screaming through her shoulder wound. The body armor was so heavy that only the adrenaline pumping through her body kept her upright. She tried to regulate her breathing, but it didn’t work.

  She looked at Trace as he peered around the corner of the building. She had to clamp her hand over her mouth at the sight of his thigh. Blood soaked the material. How much blood had he lost? How had he been capable of moving, much less running?

  Dallas stood beside Trace in a ready position. She couldn’t see any wounds on the dog, but she thought his left back leg trembled.

  A sick sensation in Christie’s belly magnified. She couldn’t bear the thought of either one of them dying. If she lost Trace… God, she didn’t know what she would do without him.

  She couldn’t worry about that now. She had to focus on the three of them making it through this hell.

  Trace motioned her to move back. “I can’t worry about you and get us the hell out of this mess,” he growled in a low voice.

  Her skin prickled and she nodded before she moved as far as she could behind the Dumpster.

  Trace watched as Christie disappeared from view. For now, he would have to concentrate on eliminating this threat and hope Christie did as he’d told her.

  He leaned with his back against the wall, his weapon ready.

  A sharp stab of pain tore through him as if someone held him and turned a knife slowly inside the hole left by the bullet. God damn, but his thigh hurt like a mother. As long as he cared for the wound the first chance he could, he would be fine, but it didn’t make things any easier.

  Dallas stayed close. Tension vibrated through the dog, but he remained a calm professional as always. Trace hoped to hell Dallas would be all right.

  He listened for the sound of voices or footsteps. He heard nothing but sirens.

  Dallas’s ears perked and his body signals told Trace someone approached.

  Trace sucked in a deep breath then let it out quietly. All distraction and thoughts of pain fled his consciousness. He had one job and he would do it with everything he had.

  Protect the woman he loved.

  He swung around the corner, weapon ready in a two-handed grip.

  Two men. Both leveled their guns at Trace.

  Trace squeezed the trigger and shot each man once in the head.

  Both men dropped and lay in crumpled heaps on the sidewalk.

  Trace pulled back for a moment and took calming breaths. He hoped like hell his shots wouldn’t attract more of Salvatore’s men, or the police.

  Law enforcement couldn’t help them. Trace had to get Christie somewhere safe and he had to do it now.

  He waited just long enough to make sure no one closely followed the shooters. He had no idea how many men had been after them. He had to get them moving and pray no one else found them.

  One more time, he leaned out to clear the street ahead and behind them. The street looked empty and silent. He glanced at Dallas, who didn’t show any signs that the bad guys approached.

  Trace winced as he stood and checked his thigh. His coveralls had a large red spot where blood soaked it. The four-inch diameter spot didn’t concern him. The bullet had buried itself in his thigh, but thank God nowhere near bone or the femoral artery—if it had hit the artery, he’d be dead by now.

  “Christie,” he called out her name in a low voice. “We’re good.”

  She peered around the corner as she got to her feet.

  He swept his gaze over her as she came into view. She held her arm close to her chest and pain caused her features to appear strained.

  “Are you okay?” He went to her. “Were you hit again?”

  “Just the same old same old.” Her voice wavered as she turned the tables on him. “You’re shot.”

  “I’m fine.” He did his best not to grimace. He didn’t plan to mention the bullet hadn’t exited his thigh because he didn’t want her to worry even more. “It’s a flesh wound.”

  The tightness of her features relaxed some. “What about Dallas? His left back leg is trembling.”
r />   Trace started to crouch by Dallas, but the bullet in his thigh ground his flesh. Sweat trickled down the side of Trace’s face. He couldn’t get on one knee or crouch if he didn’t want to pass out.

  He remained standing and bent over to examine the K-9’s rear leg. He ran his palm over Dallas’s upper thigh and found a sticky patch of red. The dog didn’t make a sound and only flinched a little. Trace pulled his blood-streaked hand away.

  “I think it’s superficial.” Trace straightened. “I’ll examine it when we get to safety.”

  Christie moved closer. “I’m ready.”

  He pictured the three of them, covered in blood, walking into the boutique hotel. “Get out of the jumpsuit.”

  She nodded and he helped her unbutton it. She stepped out of the suit after pulling it over her shoes. He gritted his teeth as his neck started to burn. He put his hand up to it and it came away streaked with blood.

  “I think it’s superficial.” Christie peered at it and frowned as she looked at him. She kept her voice low. “But we need to get it cleaned up. You also have a huge lump and cut on your forehead.”

  “I’m fine.” He shed the jumpsuit as fast as she had. He wiped away the blood and matter from his neck and forehead with the suit. Christie’s suit happened to be the cleanest, and they used it to wipe as much blood as possible from each other’s skin.

  They tossed the clothing into a nearby garbage can. The body armor stayed on.

  The trio moved slowly through the streets and alleyways. Thank God they were in Phoenix, where the February temperatures averaged a balmy sixty-nine degrees during the day and forty-nine at night. It wouldn’t drop to anywhere near that low for a few hours yet.

  A chill rolled over his body. They needed to keep going and get to the hotel. He hoped he’d made the right choice. Boutique hotels were like bed and breakfast locations, with more privacy. They had less of a chance of running into people there than any hotel in downtown Phoenix. At least he hoped so.

  They pressed on. Fifteen minutes might as well have been fifty.

  Trace felt no relief as they walked into the small hotel. He wouldn’t feel any kind of relief until Christie had testified and Salvatore had been put away for good.

  When Christie would no longer have to check over her shoulder and she didn’t need his protection.

  The lone clerk appraised them as they walked inside. No doubt the body armor drew her attention and they’d probably missed spots of blood. She glanced at Dallas, too, who still wore his service vest over his body armor.

  “I reserved a room online.” Trace pulled out his creds and showed them to the clerk. “Your absolute discretion is required. Are any employees around?”

  The large-boned woman’s black bun looked like it would tumble off as she shook her head. “I’m the owner and it’s just me for the time being. My name is Madge.”

  Trace gave her his bankcard. “I need you to hurry, Madge. Please.”

  “We offer discounts for law enforcement.” Prices skyrocketed during the winter months, the busiest time of the year for Phoenix. Madge made the price generously low.

  He tried to give her a large cash tip, but she refused and handed him the key card. “You need a doctor.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Trace said.

  Madge selected a piece of paper and wrote a code on it. “This is your key code to get in the building. Give it to the doctor. He can go straight up.”

  “Thank you.” Trace blew out his breath. “Again, we need complete discretion.”

  “You have it.” She gestured to the lone elevator. “Go on up.”

  In the elevator, Trace focused on the pale and exhausted Christie. After everything she’d been through today, she amazed him at how well she held herself together. Most people would have fallen apart by now.

  They finally reached the room and Trace thanked God for the heavy metal door with a sturdy bolt lock.

  Christie walked into the room then turned to Trace. He wrapped her in his arms and they held on to each other with a fierceness he’d never known. He tried to be careful of her shoulder, but she pressed into him, becoming a part of him.

  He kissed her gently as he finally drew away from her. “I need to get a doctor here as soon as possible. I’m going to make a couple of calls.”

  Trace called a local U.S. Marshal Service contact. Jason provided Trace with the number for a doctor who worked with law enforcement when they needed his discreet assistance. Trace thanked him and pressed the numbers needed to reach the doctor.

  Dr. Cal Earnhardt answered on the first ring. “Yes?”

  Trace told the doctor who had referred him and why. “Two bullet wounds. In my case, a bullet didn’t make it all the way through my thigh. The other case is what I believe is a superficial wound on my K-9.” Trace gave a brief rundown of their injuries. He provided the hotel information along with the entry code.

  “On my way.” Dr. Earnhardt disconnected the call.

  After Trace had set his phone and weapon on the room’s desk, he took off his body armor and helped Christie with the vest she wore. She let out a breath of relief and sat on the king-sized bed.

  Trace removed Dallas’s armor before examining the bullet wound more closely. Thank God the bullet had passed right through. Grateful for Dallas’ luck, Trace wished like hell the bullet in his own leg hadn’t decided to stay.

  By the time the doctor had come and gone, Christie slept. Dallas curled up on blankets Trace had found and placed on the floor for him.

  Trace dialed Stillwater next.

  “Where the hell are you, Davidson?” she snapped. “Is Christie with you?”

  “We’re safe.” Trace pushed his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to jeopardize that by giving out information on an unsecured line tonight. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “I’ll bring a team and we’ll get Christie to a safer location than you could possibly do on your own.” Stillwater sounded furious.

  Trace tried to keep calm. “The agency hasn’t done a great job since she arrived in town.”

  “This is unacceptable,” Stillwater started.

  Trace cut in. “It’s all I can give you. I’ll call you at eight.”

  He disconnected the call and turned the ringer off, then joined Christie in bed.

  He tried to relax but couldn’t sleep. He remained in protector mode, on alert for any attacks.

  Eventually, he dropped in and out of sleep. He never reached REM, but he did relax. Some.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The monster slammed Salvatore up against the cell’s wall. Salvatore’s skull hit the concrete with a hard thunk as Cowboy John rammed him against it again.

  Salvatore’s mind swam. He’d never expected to share a cell with the massive man and had walked on eggshells ever since they’d been forced into the same cramped space. He had known the man kept an eye on him, but the bastard’s expression never changed. He always looked like he wanted to kill anyone around him.

  And now John would kill Salvatore.

  Blood trickled from his scalp, down the side of his face.

  The monster, who had never done more than growl, put his mouth near Salvatore’s ear. It didn’t surprised him that John had a deep voice, even as the man spoke quietly.

  “El Verdugo grows tired of this game. If he can’t kill your ex-wife, then he’s going to kill you.” John maintained a controlled voice as he shoved Salvatore’s face harder against the wall. “Problem solved, case closed. Blood ties do not matter when it comes to protecting the family.”

  Salvatore was surprised at Cowboy John’s command of the English language. He’d expected the multi-tattooed brute to speak in monosyllables and slang.

  Thoughts of John’s speech came from Salvatore’s mind trying to escape the reality of his situation. El Verdugo, Salvatore’s blood relation, would have him killed if Christie testified and the jury convicted Salvatore. No doubt a conviction of any charges would get him killed anyway.r />
  Rodrigo would probably send the Angel of Death to do the job himself.

  Only the possibility the jury would acquit Salvatore of everything, including murder and rape, kept him alive. Only Christie’s testimony could seal those last charges.

  That fucking bitch and the Circle of Seven. I should have had them all killed before they knew what hit them.

  Salvatore’s throat worked as he swallowed, the concrete cool against his cheek. “My wife won’t make it.” Salvatore’s words came out in a squeak, an emasculating sound. His balls had shriveled at John’s words, so it did not surprise him that he sounded effeminate.

  “I could kill you now.” A smile crept into John’s voice and in his strangely perfect English.

  A college-educated monster. The thought made Salvatore absurdly want to laugh.

  “However,” John continued, “I do not care to be put into solitary confinement and deal with another murder charge.”

  The redneck monster moved his face closer to Salvatore’s, his hot breath causing Salvatore’s hair to stir on his forehead. “Believe me, Salvatore Reyes, it will be easy to find the opportunity to do away with you without anyone knowing who performed the deed. If not me, it will be someone else. I hope I will be the one to wipe out your sniveling presence from the face of this planet.”

  Salvatore’s stomach went queasy. What if he vomited the dinner he’d managed to shove down and puked on John? The somehow educated monster might kill him immediately and be done with it.

  The monster jerked Salvatore away from the wall, then shoved him toward the bunk bed. This time, the back of his head struck the steel bottom rail of the upper bunk. Lights sparked in his mind like falling stars.

  Salvatore collapsed onto the thin mattress. He didn’t think he could move.

  “If you get blood on my blanket, you will give me yours.” Cowboy John walked away, unzipped his fly, and pissed in the toilet.

  Salvatore lay on the bed for a moment, waiting for his head to stop spinning. He ignored the blood that now dripped over his ear and likely onto the blanket. He reached up to touch the back of his head where it had struck the metal rail. Sticky wetness coated his hand and clung to his hair. He pulled his hand away from his head and raised it in front of his face to see blood on his fingers.