Singed (21 page)

God.
Claire stepped around in front of him to get his attention and set her hands on either side of his head, taking in the battered and scalded state of his face. She was so grateful he was alive, but scared out of her mind about how badly he was injured. “We don’t know how bad you’re banged up inside.
Please
stay still until the paramedics can check you. For me, Gage. Please?”

He reached one hand up to curl around her wrist in a gentle grip she was sure he meant to be reassuring and shook his head. “Eardrums are shot…my chest is tight but I’m…okay otherwise. Promise.”

She stared at him, wanting to shake some sense into him. How could he promise something like that? “If you hurt yourself worse because of this, so help me, Gage—” She cut herself off before she could finish that thought and let her hands drop, swallowing the tears in her throat. God, she was shaky as hell, wanted nothing more than to curl around him, protect him and ease the pain he was so intent on hiding. She also knew he’d never let her do it. Not with his guys around and the danger still looming. Mostaffa had taken off in the minivan somewhere but he had to be close by unless he’d ditched it and stolen another vehicle.

Bending to rummage through the medical supplies, she came up with another bandage and started wiping at the blood drying beneath his eyes, nose and mouth. God, it made her feel sick to know he’d almost been killed a few minutes ago. Her hands shook as she did her best to clean him up.

At a gentle touch beneath her chin, she glanced up. Gage was watching her, his blue eyes filled with understanding and tenderness. Yes, tenderness, even though he was the one bleeding all over and in pain he’d never admit to. “It’s fine,” he said.

She swallowed and looked away from his gaze, struggling to hold it together. More than anything she wanted to hug him, feel his arms around her to reassure her he really was okay, but there was no way to do that without hurting him. “No it’s not,” she whispered, aware that he couldn’t hear her.

Hunter spoke to her. “Emergency crews are almost here. You okay alone with him for a bit? We’re gonna go secure the perimeter before the cops get here,” he said in a loud enough voice that Gage would hear. “Claire and I saw Mostaffa drive by just before the bomb went off.”

“Plate number?” Gage got out, pausing to gasp for a second. Claire wanted to scream at him. He shouldn’t be worrying about any of that right now.

“Only a partial,” Hunter answered. “He must’ve remote detonated it when he saw you by the door.”

“Fucker,” Gage snarled, hands curling into fists. The veins in his neck seemed to be standing out and his color wasn’t right, pale from shock and pain and hopefully nothing more serious.

“You guys wait here,” Hunter said to Claire, handing Gage the pistol Claire had dumped on the grass before he and Ellis took off across the street. Even in this state she knew Gage would defend her to the last if Mostaffa or anyone else attacked. Sighing, she looked away from him and realized for the first time that a large crowd of onlookers had gathered on the sidewalk in front of them, everyone gawking at the burning house and Gage.

She slipped her hand into his and held on tight and he squeezed back, bending over a little to ease his breathing as he watched Hunter’s and Ellis’s progress across the street. She could feel the heat of the fire all the way over here and the acrid tang of smoke filled the air. Gage’s big body was tense, the shakes already lessening, and for one moment she thought he was determined to go after them. Claire opened her mouth to yell at him, ready to tackle him if he dared try it.

Thankfully he didn’t, instead staying beside her with the gun in his hand and it suddenly dawned on her that he wasn’t staying put because of his injuries; he was staying put and wouldn’t leave her side because as far as he was concerned the threat wasn’t over yet. He was on full alert, still guarding her in spite of what had just happened to him. God dammit, he was going to make her cry again. She held his hand and ran her free one up and down his back, wishing there was something she could do to help.

Ellis and Hunter were across the street directing the crowd back from the safe house and doing an initial sweep of the property when the first responders finally arrived. Police cruisers roared up and cops swarmed the area. One officer came over to her and Gage to help and she filled him in on what had happened and explained that they were working for the NSA, while others talked with Hunter and Ellis and worked to get all the bystanders back to a safe distance in case another device went off. Gage’s ID was in his wallet but hers was back in her purse, on the floorboard of the SUV she’d been in with Hunter.

When the ambulance arrived Gage was none too pleased about being herded toward it but she and the cop assisting her gave him no choice. He flat out refused to get on a gurney though, and stubbornly sat on the tailgate while the paramedics checked him over. She stood back a ways with the officer and overheard one of the medics say something about a chest tube.

The cop shook his head, eyeing Gage in a kind of awe. “What branch did he serve in?”

Claire expelled a long breath. “Army.”

He gave her a cynical look. “No way he’s regular Army.”

“Nope, no way,” she agreed, not caring to elaborate though with his shirt off the cop must have been able to see the SF tattoo on Gage’s arm.

“Looks like the door took most of the blast for him. If he hadn’t been standing behind it when the bomb went off…” He shook his head. “He’s damn lucky to be alive.”

“I know.” Looking across the street at the ruined door lying on the front lawn, her stomach pitched. “But I still want to shake him until his teeth rattle.”

****

Concealed in the back of the garage in a yard one block over, Mostaffa waited until the third set of sirens arrived before he worked up enough nerve to leave his hiding spot. He pulled his hoodie up over his head to help disguise his appearance. He’d ditched the Yankees hat in the van he’d abandoned four blocks over after he’d triggered the bomb. After darting through a yard down the street from the target house he’d walked to this new location, careful not to draw attention to himself.

The device had gone off exactly as planned, though he didn’t know how many of the team members he’d managed to catch in the blast. Now he had to find out and make sure whoever he’d hit was dead, so he could start making plans to take out the others. He had no idea how he was going to do that with the amount of risk he was facing, but he’d rather be taken out cleanly in a fight with the remaining team members than die a slow and hideous death at the hands of the man who’d hired him.

He checked his gun one last time, ensuring he had a round chambered, then ducked out from behind the garage door. His running shoes were silent against the pavement as he turned onto the sidewalk and approached the chaos ahead, falling in with a line of people walking down to see what all the commotion was. All up and down the street, crowds of onlookers stood around on the sidewalks and neighboring lawns. Police were everywhere.

He ducked lower into his hoodie and stuffed his hands into his pockets, ignoring the way his heart was trying to pound its way out of his chest. Fire trucks were already on scene and at least one ambulance. From this distance he couldn’t tell if anyone was in the back of it, let alone what state they were in.

He slowed, hanging back a safe distance until he could judge if it was safe to come any closer. The burning safe house stood empty, orange and yellow flames licking at the blown out lower floor windows. A bomb squad vehicle lumbered past him down the road and parked near the main body of the crowd where the police were keeping everyone away from the scene. He watched the black-clad bomb technicians climb out and talk to the other officers already there. No doubt they were here to assess whether it was safe for the firemen to attack the flames.

He noticed a light brown haired woman in a red sweater standing apart from the crowd, near the ambulance. Something about her was familiar. Drawing nearer, he caught a glimpse of her profile and recognized the female who worked for the NSA. Not one of his listed targets, but important nonetheless because of her connections to the rest of the team. The others had to be close by; they would never leave her unprotected.

As though she felt the weight of his gaze, she turned her head and made eye contact with him. Her eyes widened in recognition and his steps faltered. Then her mouth opened and she raised a hand to point at him as she yelled something.

Shit!

Mostaffa started to spin around, ready to bolt. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of someone in the back of the ambulance standing up. His gaze locked on Mostaffa like a heat seeking missile and he felt his insides shrivel at the rage and determination in the other man’s eyes. Gage Wallace, the Titanium team’s second-in-command and one of Mostaffa’s highest priority targets, along with Hunter Phillips, the team leader. Wallace had been right by the door when Mostaffa had hit the remote, yet he wasn’t dead. Hell, he was still freaking
standing
.

Swearing, Mostaffa took off and veered between two houses. At the end of the first lawn he risked a frantic glance over his shoulder and was stunned to see Wallace coming after him, gun in hand. Two big men and a few cops were right on Wallace’s heels. Mostaffa swerved into the nearest yard and ran headlong for the wooden privacy fence at the back. Reaching it, he grabbed the top with both hands and vaulted himself over it, landing with a bone-jarring thud on the damp grass on the other side. Something popped and buckled inside his right knee and he went down.

Stifling a cry of pain, his ribs and shoulder took the brunt of the impact as he hit the ground, costing him precious seconds he didn’t have. Terror and adrenaline flooded his system. Fear drove him back onto his feet and forced him onward in a running limp as he crashed through the shrubbery to aim for yet another fence. A dog started barking in the next yard, the high-pitched yapping adding another lash to flay at his frayed nerve endings.

They were coming. He could feel them, gaining on him with every second. Lunging upward, his hands closed over the top of the latticework in the fence. His muscles bunched as he hoisted his body up. He’d just thrown one leg over the top of it when a shout from behind him froze him in place.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!”

Unable to help himself, Mostaffa looked back. A big man with dark hair stood where Mostaffa had just fallen at the last fence, a black pistol in his grip, his gaze narrowed on Mostaffa’s hands. He knew that face. The team leader, Hunter Phillips. Icy fingers of fear plucked at his spine. The man’s posture and expression screamed death. Before Mostaffa could move, another man vaulted over the fence. Light brown skin, deadly demeanor. Blake Ellis, former Marine scout/sniper.

Mostaffa knew he was a dead man.

Fear paralyzed him, sapping the strength from his suddenly unresponsive muscles.

“Get down on the ground and put your hands over your head,” Phillips growled, stalking ever closer. Ellis mimicked his movements on the other side, boxing Mostaffa in. He could hear other men coming, shouting in the distance. There was no escape except over this fence, and with his knee already swelling in his jeans he knew he didn’t have a prayer of getting away. His hand twitched, ready to go for his weapon tucked into his waistband.

“Hands up,” Ellis barked. “Get on the ground, now.”

“Hands!” Phillips barked.

They wanted to take him alive, he realized with sudden clarity. But he knew what would happen when they took him into custody. There was no way he was letting that happen.

In that split second decision, he reached back and withdrew his gun. An instant later two bullets hit him in the chest. He didn’t even have the breath to scream as he toppled from the fence and slammed into the grass on his back. The pain was so intense it robbed him of breath, an agonizing burn that blotted out light and sound. Somehow he found the will to force his eyes open. The two men were still poised across the yard, watching him with weapons up, ready to fire. He realized dimly that he no longer held his gun. But he did have something else.

Choking on the blood he could feel welling up into his mouth, he forced his hand toward the front pouch pocket of his hoodie.

“Hands where I can see ‘em,” the commanding voice rang out.

His numb fingers closed around the remote, managed to curl around it. He couldn’t see anymore, could only pray this would work. With his remaining strength he urged his shaking arm to pull his hand from his pocket.

“Bomb!”

Before he could draw another breath, more bullets slammed into his chest. He collapsed onto the wet grass, the remote slipping from his numb fingers, then blackness slammed down.