Beneath the Burn (68 page)

“Roll over and take off your shirt.”

A pause. “Can you do it with the shirt on? In case someone pokes their head in?”

She pushed down the impatience bubbling up inside her and bit his lip playfully. “One of these days, Jay Mayard, you will wear those scars with pride.”

Starting on his pecs, she kneaded over the bumps and valleys, working her way to the sinews connecting his neck and shoulders. He grinned and moaned and dug his fingers into her ass. As she ground her knuckles, the weight of the day pressed down and her body slumped closer and closer toward his. She stared into his golden-brown eyes until his eyelids drooped and hers soon followed.

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A hollow reverberation woke Charlee. She jerked upright and banged her head on the bunk’s ceiling. “Ow, shit. What was that?”

Jay untangled their limbs, rolled off her and thudded into the aisle.

Feet pounded through the bus accompanied by Tony’s shout. “Delta team’s transport is down.”

What? One of the Suburbans? Charlee’s muscles locked up.

Pop….Pop.

“Alpha and Bravo down,” Tony barked. “I repeat. Three Suburbans are disabled.” Multiple footfalls filled the front and rear of the cabin.

Terror gripped Charlee’s insides and a shiver chased her spine. “Jay?” She jumped into the aisle. “Jay, was that a gun?”

Pop.

“Echo team down. We’re on our own.”

“Charlee!” Jay shoved the drape aside, his expression tight. “Charlee, get on the floor. Cover your head.” The white of his eyes glowed in the dim light.

She dropped to her knees and choked, “You better get down here with me.”

Pop.

The brakes squealed, and the force of the stop threw him into the front of the bus, beyond the fall of the drape. Her head slammed into the frame of the bunk. She rubbed at the throb and climbed to her feet only to drop again with an onslaught of dizziness.

“.50 cal shots. Engine blocks targeted.” Tony’s shout ripped through the sudden hush. “Colson, are we hit?”

“Affirmative. Engine block.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Tony’s tone pitched. “Set up the perimeter. We need to get off this goddamn bus.”

Charlee’s heart hammered, and her pulse screamed through her veins. Get off the bus? She knew they were sitting ducks, but how many Craigs would be waiting for them to pile onto the road? Was there traffic? Maybe someone could help them.

“Faye has 911 on the phone,” Nathan said from somewhere up front. “Where are the shooters?”

“A thousand meters. Could be more. That ridge, maybe,” Tony said through a rushed breath.

Thank fuck for their headsets. Charlee put all her faith in the communication and organization of the protective team.

A strong fiery smell tickled her nose. She moved toward the drape as Jay shot through it, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her into a wall of smoke.

She coughed, blinked through the haze. “Fire?” How would his triggers react? He seemed calm enough, in control.

“Engine’s smoking. I don’t know.” He pushed forward along the aisle, and the white cloud enveloped him. He was only an arm’s length away, and she couldn’t fucking see him.

“Jay! The gun. We need the gun.”

“I’ve got it.” His voice was hoarse, breathless. No oxygen. Too much smoke. “Pull your shirt—” He hacked, wheezed. “Over your mouth. Eyes closed.”

Wetness blurred and stung her eyes. The burn from the smoke forced so much saliva into her mouth she had to spit it out. She yanked the collar of her shirt up to her eyes, buried her face in the thin material, and let him guide her.

“Charlee!”

Nathan. Somewhere ahead. She tried to respond, but her voice choked. She clung to Jay’s hand and waved the other in front of her. She cracked an eye and regretted it instantly. Tears flooded down her face in a hot surge.

“The smoke doesn’t smell right.” Nathan’s rasp was muffled and too far away. Where was everyone else? No other voices hopefully meant they’d fled the bus.

Jay stumbled, kicked something out of the way. The clutter made their progress painfully slow, and the smoke weakened her lungs and weighted her movements.

“Almost there.” Jay squeezed her hand, slick with sweat.

Her boot caught the edge of a large open case. It flipped into her leg and knocked her off balance. She tottered, lurched, and a sharp prick seared through her bicep. Ouch. What the hell was that?

Jay’s hand tightened in hers as he turned. “Charlee?”

His voice echoed in her head. Numbness chilled her limbs and spread through her core. The cabin fell quiet, the smoke grew thinner, and something wrapped around her throat, pulled from behind. “There’s something…” Her voice slurred. Wheezing. Dizzy. There was something back there. Something there. Then, there was nothing.

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Charlee’s hand ripped from Jay’s grasp, and the panic he’d tried so hard to stifle tore from his throat. “Charlee!” He gulped, toxic air scorching his insides. “Charlee!”

No answer. Christ, did she fall? Hit her head? He fell upon his knees and shoved aside guitar cases and electronics. “Charlee? Charlee, where are you?” He raced over the floor on hands and knees, sweeping the couches, under the dining table, the seats around it.

The heat smothered him. The smoke…so much smoke. His body locked up, and the walls closed in. The oven. Oh God, he was too big. He curled into himself, didn’t want to touch the scorching walls.

His lungs burned, his eyes scratched and watered, and he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face through all the goddamned smoke. No. Not the oven. He was on a bus…a bus…a bus. With Charlee. He shot to his feet and stretched his arms. Fuck. “Charlee, please. Answer me.”

“Jay?” A deep baritone.

“Colson?” He spun toward the voice.

“Yes, sir. You need to get off the bus. It’s going to blow.”

Blow? His heart rate spiked, and his shoulders stiffened. “I can’t find Charlee. She was right here. She must’ve tripped. I don’t know. I can’t fucking find her.” His hands swung over the floor, slamming into furniture and bouncing off the luggage and can goods strewn over the aisle.

“Okay,” Colson said from behind him. “I’ll search the front. You take the back.”

She couldn’t be anywhere but right fucking there. Tears mixed with smoke and poured down his face. His lungs wheezed and labored. He crawled over the floor, dread rising with every lift of his legs. “Charlee! Charlee!” His voice shredded his raw throat. Fuck, where was she?

“I’ve got her. I’ve got her,” Colson shouted from the front of the cabin. “I’m getting her off the bus. Hurry.”

“You have Charlee? You’ve got her?” Jay scrambled to his feet and plowed through the shit in his way.

“Yes, sir. I’m taking her to safety.” Colson’s voice floated in from outside the door.

His blood pumped faster with the urgency of his strides. He crashed into the front dash and stumbled down the stairs. The billow of smoke followed him as he pitched across the asphalt, staggering to stay upright, coughing and blinking through stinging eyes. “Charlee? Colson?”

He swung around, the landscape obscured by the pitch-black sky. No streetlights. No headlights. The road appeared deserted except for their motorcade. The Suburbans and buses angled haphazardly around him, submersed in plumes of smoke and swarmed by the silhouettes of his protective team. Charlee was nowhere amongst the mayhem.

The door behind him swooshed closed, and the engine turned over.

Blood drained from his face. No, no, no, no. He spun, drew his gun from his waistband. The bus rolled forward, accelerated.

He ran, raised the gun, fired at the door. The glass cracked. Just the surface. Fucking bulletproof. His heart thrashed in his chest, and his legs burned from the exertion of his sprint. Pain exploded through his jaw from the force of his clench.

The smokescreen within held its thickness. How the fuck could the driver see?

The bus picked up speed, moving faster than Jay could run. He shot a tire. Another and another. They continued to spin. Too many tires. Too far away. The gun clicked. Out of ammo.

Nausea tore through his stomach and boiled through his chest. He didn’t slow his strides. He couldn’t. Couldn’t let the taillights out of his sight. “Tony! Nathan!”

The taunting red lights faded, vanished, swallowed by the night. His heart fractured, releasing unbearable agony. He clutched his chest, his eyes swelling, his throat constricting. No, he wouldn’t give into it, wouldn’t let his grief take the wheel and drive.

He pulled out his phone and dialed 911, hoping the police could track a tour bus in the middle of goddamned nowhere, fucking praying they weren’t on Roy Oxford’s payroll.

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