Page 13 of Leif

She sighed. “Because they’re going to fire me. Maybe if I bring him back, they’ll go easier on me, but this is a big deal. I made this trip alone because my partner came down with food poisoning. I thought I could stick to the schedule and do this myself.” Her head lowered. “I was wrong.” Her voice was so soft I almost missed the words.

“What makes you think they’ll fire you, though?” It was an accident.

“I broke protocol.” She lifted her chin while carefully tying a neat knot in the stitches she’d put in me. “I didn’t consult my superior officer about the trip. I was so focused on getting there on time, I broke the rules, and they have every right to fire me for it. This is all my fault.” She dropped the bloody needle onto the lid of the first aid kit and lowered her head. “If Ryder was with me…”

“Is Ryder your partner?” I asked.

She nodded. “None of this would have happened if he was with me.”

“You didn’t mean for this to happen.” I wanted to pull her into my arms.

“I still think it was planned. Partner or not, they’d have pulled something.” But why? It didn’t make sense. Why get this one guy out of prison? He didn’t show up on any of our databases as anyone important to Doubletap and if one of our own were in on it… the puzzle didn’t fit together. It didn’t make sense.

She wiped her hands down with a disposable alcohol pad and put fresh gauze on my wound before taping it up. “There. It’ll be ugly, but it’ll heal.”

“I thought chicks dig scars?” I was teasing her, but she met my gaze with a level stare.

“I have no idea what most chicks like. So good luck.”

Silence fell as we stared one another down. I couldn’t deny the pull I felt toward this brave, no-nonsense woman. She’d been through hell, yet here she was, level-headed and calm.

Not that it mattered that I was attracted to her.

“Thank you,” I said, picking up my shirt. The flash of disappointment in her eyes told me exactly what she thought about me putting my shirt back on, and I filed that away as interesting.

Her eyes met mine. “So, what are we doing next?”

7

Mel

“What do you want to do next?” He pulled his shirt over his head and emerged through the shirt’s collar with an intense glance in my direction.

“I want to get him back into custody,” I said without hesitation. The guy was a criminal. A criminal that had taken me, hostage, to do who knew what with me. I wanted to carry out the job I’d been given and feel that rush of satisfaction when I handed him over to the guys that would ultimately deliver him to prison.

“Okay. Then that’s what we’ll do.”

I pointed at his shirt. “There’s still blood on it. I think that’ll be a problem for your son.”

He glanced down, let out an almost inaudible curse before peeling the shirt up over his head once more. He tossed it into a hamper, and I watched, fascinated by the easy bunching and bouncing of the muscles in his arms and shoulders as he threw the dirty shirt.

“I have an overnight bag in the jeep.” He stood up, but I planted a hand flat on his chest and pushed him back down onto the chair. Of course, he moved with me—I doubt I could have made him budge if he decided to stand his ground—and stared up at me in stunned surprise.

“I’ll get it. Where’s it at?”

His brows tightened a bit, creating a slight crease above his nose. “In the back under the roll bars.”

I nodded and turned toward the bedroom door before realizing I had no idea where the front door was. Turning back to Leif, I opened my mouth, but he beat me to it. “Out to the living room, hang a right.”

“Thank you.” I left the room, noticing the kid was still passed the heck out on the couch. I slipped out the front door and headed for the Jeep. The scent of damp earth hit my nose, and the chill in the air sliced right through my thin shirt. I hurried to the Jeep and stopped up short. My fingertips traced from bullet hole to bullet hole, my mind running a million miles a minute.

How did he manage to get me out without my getting hit?

He’d even taken a bullet, though it was a grazing shot to the shoulder, but if the guy was right-handed—and everything I’d seen him do was right hand dominant—then he’d have likely carried me with my head on the right side to support the bulk of my weight on his stronger side.

But I hadn’t been hit. The Jeep had. The guy carrying me had been hit. Something wasn’t right.

I leaned into the back seat and grabbed the thick black strap of the bag and hauled it out. Throwing it over my shoulder, I passed for a second to look at the holes before heading back to the house with troubled thoughts circling my brain like hungry vultures.

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