Page 67 of Avenging Jessie
“J!”
Her breath hitched, eyes wide but fierce. Blood bloomed hot against his hand where he clamped over her side. “You idiot,” she rasped, forcing a smirk that didn’t hide the tremor in her voice. “You’re not dying on my watch.”
“Dammit, Jess—” His throat was tight, rage and fear tangling until he could barely see straight.
Across the aisle, Brewer raced toward the loading bay.
Spence started to rise, torn between going after him and keeping pressure on the wound, but Jessie’s grip on his jacket stopped him. Her fingers curled in the fabric, holding him there with more strength than she should’ve had.
“Finish it,” she whispered, blood staining her teeth. “Take him down.”
He shook his head. “I’m not leaving you.”
Her eyes softened, a rare crack in her armor. “I love you, Spence.”
It was a sucker punch straight to his chest. He swallowed hard, forcing a grim smile even as his hand stayed pressed to her side. “Then don’t make me live without you. Got it?”
The echo of Brewer’s footsteps faded, punctuated by the slam of the loading bay door. Somewhere out there, the bastard was slipping into the dark, carrying whatever fight he had left straight to Langley.
Spence’s muscles screamed to go after him and finish this. Every instinct drilled into him through years of ops screamedmove, chase, kill.
But Jessie’s blood was warm against his palm, and dammit, there was too much of it. Too, too much.
He swore under his breath and scanned the shadows, listening for a second wave of gunmen. Nothing yet, but he knew they’d come.
“We can still—” She tried to push herself up, but the effort wrung a sharp cry from her throat.
“Don’t,” he said, more harshly than he meant. His free hand found her cheek, tilting her toward him. “We’re not doing the hero bleed-out thing, Agent Medoza. That’s a direct order.”
“Spence—”
“Not negotiable.” He shifted, hauling her arm over his shoulders and forcing her to her feet. She stumbled, but he caught her, keeping his injured hand clamped to her side as they moved.
Each step was a calculated retreat, weaving them back through the maze of crates toward the catwalk stairs and out of the line of sight from the bay.
He could still picture the drones screaming toward Langley. But right now, the mission wasn’t a fleet of Cyclones or stopping Brewer in his tracks. It was Jessie.
And no one—not Harris Brewer, not the Pentagon, not even the CIA—was going to take her from him.
“I should have shot him,” she mumbled, “but I was afraid I’d hit you.”
He half-carried, half-dragged her through the warehouse’s side exit, his arm locked around her waist, her blood soaking into his shirt. The night air was damp, cold, and smelled faintly of diesel from the truck yard beyond. “And then you took a bullet for me. Such a dick move, Mendoza.”
She grunted a laugh. “Told you to stay out of the field.”
They reached the SUV, and he eased her into the passenger seat, shoving his pack onto her lap. “Keep pressure here,” he ordered, tearing open a field dressing with his teeth. His injured right hand was slow and clumsy, but he wrapped her side as tightly as he dared.
“Call Tommy,” she rasped.
“That’s not the most important thing here.”
Her eyes were glassy but fierce. “Call him. I need to know my brother’s okay.”
“Taking care of you is my priority.”
“Damn it, Spence?—”
He cursed under his breath, snatched his phone from his pocket, and stabbed Tommy’s number with his thumb. The kid picked up, and Spence said, “Talk.”
