His to Take (33 page)

Anxiety and excitement biting into her belly, Bailey reached into the box and lifted
the plastic bundle. She tore into the taped seal of the bubble wrap, her fingers fumbling
with nerves and haste.

She nearly dropped it. With a shriek, Bailey bit her lip to hold the sound in as the
protective coat finally unraveled from the device.

“Some sort of electronic storage medium,” she murmured. “Viktor left me information.
It’s got to be his research. He left me information that potentially has the power
to change the world. Oh, God.”

“It’s a compact flash disk, kind of a precursor to an SD card. My mom had a camera
that stored images on one of these.” Joaquin put an arm around her waist to steady
her, and Bailey was grateful for his support.

They’d found what her sire had left her, what might secure her safety once and for
all. Callie’s, too.

“I’ll take that,” called a voice behind them.

Bailey whirled around to find the man with the hoodie she’d seen at the hotel, pointing
a gun directly at them.

J
OAQUIN’S blood froze. Just beyond the man with the gun, he saw the red truck idling.
Son of a bitch, he should have realized . . . He should have questioned its mysterious
appearance more, scouted around. But he’d let his impatience to help Bailey get in
the way of his natural caution. His failure might cost them their lives.

He tightened his grip on Bailey. “Don’t.”

“Stop trying to be a hero. Just give me the disk,” their assailant sneered.

So he could shoot and kill them the moment they complied? Joaquin knew he had to keep
this guy talking.

“How did you find us?”

“I followed you from the Aslanov farm. I’d been monitoring the place, hoping you’d
turn up. Good to know I was right.”

“You were driving the silver sedan at the hotel?” Bailey blurted.

“You’re not totally stupid for a ballerina.”

Joaquin didn’t bother asking why the goon hadn’t confronted them then. Of course this
guy had waited, hoping Bailey would remember where Aslanov had hidden his research.

She frowned. “Then you traded it for the red truck at the fast-food joint not far
from the lake—”

“Again, you figured me out. Congratulations,” he drawled. “I’m done talking. Now,
dance the disk over to me, ballerina, or you both get it.”

“I’ll bring it to you,” Joaquin offered.

Annoyance flashed across his shadowed features. “This ain’t a negotiation. I don’t
talk to federal agents, even former ones, so fuck off.”

This guy knew who he was, too? That set him back and made Joaquin reassess the enemy,
who was clearly one step ahead. Their aggressor wasn’t big, maybe five-foot-eight,
and a little on the scrawny side. The hoodie hid what appeared to be a young face.
In a hand-to-hand fight, Joaquin knew he could take the guy, despite the tattoo running
up the side of his neck that self-proclaimed him a badass.

Joaquin sized up his limited options. Play along? Jump the creep and hope he could
get a good swipe in before a bullet landed between his eyes? Maybe he could draw his
own gun and get in a lucky shot before he bit it. Would any of those options give
Bailey enough time to run?

Probably not.

They were fucked.

He wished like hell he’d listened to Hunter and come with backup, but this woulda,
coulda, shoulda was too late now. Still, he wasn’t going down without a fight.

Joaquin tried to ease the arm he’d slid around Bailey toward the small of his back
to reach his gun.

“Stop there, asshole,” the man warned. “Hands up.”

Shit.
Joaquin winced.
Now what?

The criminal trained his gun on Bailey. “Do it! Or I waste her while you watch.”

No choice. Any chance he had of keeping Bailey alive, Joaquin would take. He raised
his hands above his head.

“Take a step away from her.”

Fuck.
Did this asshole mean to shoot him and leave Bailey at his dubious mercy? Again,
Joaquin didn’t see a choice. He took one step to his left, away from her trembling
body. He sent her a look that told her he’d do whatever possible to keep her alive.
If they could just find a way to distract the guy for a few seconds . . .

“Good. I like cooperation,” the man in the gray hoodie snapped. “Keep it that way.”

Then, without warning, he pulled the trigger of his weapon, hitting Bailey in the
neck.

Panic fired Joaquin’s blood as she staggered back. He watched her crumple to the ground
and fell to his knees at her side. What had happened? She couldn’t be dead. His thoughts
jumbled. His heart chugged.

Joaquin inspected Bailey. She wasn’t bleeding. Instead, a little dart protruded from
her neck. He realized the gun hadn’t discharged with a loud bang but a quieter hiss.

Their attacker started laughing. “Psych! It’s a tranq gun, you moron. You couldn’t
tell?”

The parking lot had been too shadowed for him to get a detailed look. Joaquin thanked
goodness she wasn’t dead, but he was absolutely going to have to shoot this bastard
to get her out of here in one piece. Luckily, he had no problem with that.

“Bailey,” he called.

“Hmm.” She sounded barely coherent.

Worry torqued Joaquin’s gut.

“She can’t hear you,” the bastard in the hoodie sneered. “She’ll be asleep for the
next twelve hours—at least.”

“I’ll give you the research.” Joaquin reached for the disk. “You want it?”

“Don’t touch it!” their assailant shouted. “Get away from her and put your hands in
the air, damn it.” He transferred the gun to one hand and reached into his hoodie
pocket with the other, retrieving a semiautomatic. Instantly, he wrapped his finger
around the trigger. “I need her alive. You? Not so much. Get on your knees. I’m itching
for the chance to waste a scumbag who made a living as a federal agent.”

Joaquin scrambled to his feet and stepped away, knowing that if he knelt again, he
wouldn’t ever get back up. His best chance to save himself, Bailey, and the research
was to take cover and shoot this asshole.

“Yeah?” he challenged. “I’d like the chance to waste the scum trying to tear this
country apart.”

If he was going to get out of this alive, he needed a distraction. On the edge of
an empty parking lot, his choices were few.

Joaquin sank to one knee, as if he meant to stoop down. Instead, he quickly grabbed
at the disk and tossed it across the asphalt.

“You fucking shithead!” the criminal yelled and tore after it.

Joaquin tried to lift Bailey and haul her with him to some cover, but he couldn’t
hold her and his gun at once.
Damn it!
A glance up proved the guy in the hoodie had retrieved the disk and was now shoving
it in his pocket.

Joaquin hauled ass toward the cover of the wide trunk of the tree. As dark as the
lot had become, he wouldn’t be an impossible target to hit, but he would be a much
more difficult one. As if to prove him right, the separatist shot at him. A bullet
whizzed past his shoulder.

With a curse, the attacker came after him. He’d probably rather take Bailey and the
disk, then flee. But he wouldn’t leave a loose end alive if he could help it.

Another bullet zipped past his ear as Joaquin reached the trunk and stood sideways
behind it, then grabbed his gun from his waistband. He peered around the tree and
saw the guy in the hoodie racing toward him. He popped off a shot and obviously missed
because the assailant fired again—now closing in. This time, the bullet pinged off
the bark.

Joaquin took a chance and crouched down, then leaned around the tree to take another
shot. Just as he did, a second man opened the door of the red truck in the distance,
gun in hand. The new psycho bore down in Joaquin’s direction, his features shadowed
by the falling dusk.

Together, the two separatists fired a hail of bullets at him. Joaquin hunkered on
the ground, inching toward the lake. If they both came at him at once, guns blazing,
he might not have any fallback position except the water. But damn it, he didn’t want
to leave Bailey to them. God knew what they’d do with her. Still, he was more use
to her alive than dead.

Since he had limited ammo remaining for his gun, his options were also limited.

“You’re a dead motherfucker,” one of them shouted.

Joaquin eased closer to the water. He hoped like hell the woman inside the restaurant
had heard this barrage of gunfire and called the police. It might be his only chance
to leave this parking lot alive. Without that, he was outmanned, outgunned, and out
of his mind with worry for Bailey.

“Grab her,” the second assailant, wearing a black T-shirt, said, approaching the tree,
gun at the ready. With a tattoo of a burning American flag on his forearm and a mean
expression, he looked as if he’d lived a hard fifty years. He also sported a smooth-shaved
bald head and a familiar face.

McKeevy.
Shit!
Joaquin’s heart stopped.

“I can’t get to her with this asshole firing at me,” the guy in the hoodie complained.

“Oh, I’ll do it, you whiny fucking bastard,” McKeevy spit.

Joaquin peeked around and found that he’d flung Bailey over his shoulder fireman style.
Son of a bitch.
She was in the arms of a sick fuck who enjoyed torturing young women to death in
the most gruesome ways imaginable.

The hoodie-wearing asshole nodded. “Good. I’ll dust this guy.”

Joaquin didn’t have a moment to waste. He crawled on the far side of an adjacent bush,
then stood, caught the younger criminal in his sight line, and pulled the trigger.
At the same time, the man fired, but aimed toward Joaquin’s previous position, closer
to the tree. He missed, then staggered back as Joaquin’s bullet went into his chest
and rattled around his rib cage. Blood spurted from his wound as he toppled to the
ground.

Not wasting a second, Joaquin raced over the man’s limp form, toward McKeevy, now
darting fifty feet ahead of him for the red truck. Bailey’s limp body hung over his
shoulder, her torso flopping along his back. He’d run too far for Joaquin to get in
a clean shot without risking her, especially with dwindling sunlight, but if the crazy
separatist got her in the truck and left, Joaquin doubted he’d ever see her alive
again.

Planting his feet, he tried to steady his shaking hands.
Calm. Focus. Breathe.
He lined up his shot and fired—once, twice. From this growing distance, he hit just
wide of the moving target.

Thoughts raced. Options dwindled. He’d been tentative with McKeevy to protect Bailey.
He had no problem shooting the asshole’s tires.

Altering his aim slightly, Joaquin pointed the gun and fired again. The first shot
pinged off the rim. The second seemed to hit its target. McKeevy would make it out
of the parking lot, but he wouldn’t get too far without stopping for air or a patch
job. Just for good measure, Joaquin fired at the tire again, hitting it. Then he balanced
once more, waiting for the moment the asshole would throw Bailey in the truck, then
try to climb in himself, leaving his back vulnerable.

Three, two, one . . .
As his finger tightened around the trigger of his P229 and he squeezed, the bastard
he’d previously shot jumped on his back and wrestled him for the gun. Joaquin fought
back with an elbow to the gut and a right hook to the jaw, followed by another shot
between the eyes. The hoodied goon fell to the ground, finally dead.

By then, McKeevy was peeling out of the parking lot in the red truck. Cold dread filling
him, Joaquin gave chase on foot, but it was too late to keep the madman from stealing
Bailey away—maybe forever.

*   *   *

THREE hours later, Joaquin paced the local-yokel sheriff’s station, going out of his
fucking mind. He scrubbed a hand down his face, worry eroding his guts like acid.
How was Bailey feeling? Was she still alive? Was McKeevy, even now, beginning to tear
her delicate body apart?

He couldn’t think that or he’d go homicidal and insane.

“Coffee?” Deputy Williams offered with a sympathetic glance.

“No.” He’d probably puke it up.

As soon as the red truck had disappeared from sight, Joaquin had raced to his own
SUV and tried to give chase, but McKeevy and the dead dipshit had already slashed
his wheels. Even with the tires on McKeevy’s truck compromised, Joaquin doubted he’d
be effective at catching him and Bailey.

Still, he’d tried, but he hadn’t caught sight of them before he’d reached a fork in
the road. Though lost and worried out of his mind, he’d refused to give up, exiting
the remote, parklike area the same way he’d entered, all the while calling the number
for the Philly branch of the FBI as he speeded down the two-lane road.

Still in mid-conversation with the feds, Joaquin hadn’t encountered any sign of the
red truck—just a police barricade. He’d been tossed out of his SUV, slapped in cuffs,
and thrown in a cruiser faster than he could blink. Every one of his protests and
explanations had fallen on deaf ears.

Quickly enough, he found out the waitress in the restaurant had called the sheriff
about a shooting. Joaquin provided details and advised them about the body laid out
in the lot. LOSS member Andrew Vorhees had perished on the asphalt.
Good riddance.

For the past two hours, Joaquin had tried everything possible to prevent being charged
with murder and to start a manhunt for Bailey before it was too late. After a few
calls from Sean’s end, the police had finally listened to reason and a pair of feds
from Philly had entered. They were working through the last of the red tape now and
had ruled Vorhees’s death self-defense. Soon, Joaquin would be free.

But McKeevy had three hours’ head start.

“We found the red truck abandoned in an industrial area about five miles from the
lake.”

Joaquin let out a curse, trying to hold everything else in. “McKeevy wouldn’t have
been prepared to have his tire shot, and he may not have known that he’d be confronting
us today, so I’m not sure he would have had a backup vehicle ready. Any reports of
stolen cars nearby in the last few hours?”

A deputy tapped a few things on the ancient computer. “A new red Mercedes convertible
and a minivan that’s about two years old.”

“He’d take the minivan,” Joaquin assured him. “He’s got a hostage to transport, and
he wouldn’t risk fleeing in the flashy-ass convertible.”

One of the feds from Philly—Joaquin couldn’t remember his name, so he’d dubbed the
guy Generic Suit Two—nodded. “McKeevy will be heading west. We studied Vorhees’s burner
phone. He had a few text messages. He and McKeevy had orders to bring her and Aslanov’s
research to the LOSS leadership at their compound in a remote section of Decatur County,
Iowa. We’re calling agents in Kansas City and Omaha to see if they can seal off the
roads around the compound. But even if he goes there, a barricade may not work. Remember,
these are separatists, so they’re survivalists, too. They grow their own food, slaughter
their own meat. They’ve also made their own roads and tunnels.”