The Edge of Trust: Team Edge (21 page)

The walls shimmered. 

She cringed toward the wall when she saw the ugly intent in the Mexican’s eyes.
 
Then she looked for something to grab.

<><><>

Dillon aimed his 9mm at the back of the gunman’s head, wanting nothing more than to pull the trigger.  “Drop your weapon.” 

The Mexican turned around slowly, and the two men locked stares, measuring each other.  The Mexican sneered.  “
Estas muerto
.”  You’re dead.  He fired. 

Dillon dropped to the floor, rolled.  Fired once.  His shot knocked the Mexican across the bed backward.

The instant the man’s arm flipped outward, Sara, in one astonishing move, snatched his gun, then backed toward the door.  It was like watching a really short, really fast version of Cameron Diaz taking down the Alamo. 

Dillon stood, leaned over, grabbed the front of the gunman’s shirt and jerked him upright.  “Where’s Sanchez?” 

The Mexican pressed his palm against the wound on his thigh and sneered.  “Fuck you.” 

Fury snarled.  For several long seconds, Dillon regarded the man with icy speculation.  Sara’s life was at stake and nothing, absolutely
nothing
, was going to stop him from getting to Sanchez. 

Dillon twisted the Mexican’s wrist behind his back, then pushed his thumb into the bullet hole in the man’s thigh.  Gouged down until the other man screamed.  “Try again.” 

“Fuck you, man.  I ain’t saying nothing!”

Dillon leaned closer, pressed his gun against the man’s other thigh, and spoke softly, “I’m going to shoot you in your one good leg, Amigo.  You won’t be able to run fast enough, or far enough, to escape Sanchez.”  Dillon tapped the side of the Mexican’s head.  “But if I find him first, you won’t have anything to worry about, will you?  Now, where is he?”

“You gonna kill me, pig?  Go ahead.”   

He struck the Mexican across the face with the butt of his gun.  The man’s head snapped back.  Blood dripped from his nose, his mouth, and he bellowed with pain and hatred. 

Dillon leaned in closer. “Last chance.”  He pressed the barrel of the gun back against the man’s thigh.

The Mexican’s mouth contorted as he spit blood onto the floor.  “He’s near Puerto Vallarta.  In the jungle.  He’s out of Colombia, that’s all I know.” 

Dillon yanked the phone cord out of the wall.  Checked the Mexican for a cellphone, and came up empty.  “Sara, get in the truck.  Now.”

<><><>

Moving fast, heart thudding, Sara gave him the Mexican’s gun, grabbed her boots and ran as fast as she could out to the SUV. 

Legs quaking, she climbed in and locked the door.  Then she heard another gunshot and recoiled in horror.  Should she run?  Hide?  Scream for help?  Who’d been shot?

Just then Dillon strode out of the room.  Relief hit hard.  He opened his door, got in, slammed it closed, and drove out of the parking lot.

As though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

Maybe for him, it hadn’t. 

Come to think of it, this probably wasn’t too far off the norm for him at all.  Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew he had to sometimes kill people in the line of duty, knew he was no stranger to violence, but he rarely, if ever, discussed the darker side of his job.  She’d never actually seen this side of him before, never seen him cross the line into merciless, ruthless violence.

Kill or be killed.
 

As a reporter she’d seen her share of violence.
 
But always from the outside looking in.
 
Seeing her husband deal with such ugliness first hand took her back a step.
 

You’d have done the same thing.
 
If you’d had a gun on board that boat, you would have killed Sanchez without a second thought.

And look who she was now.
A distant, silent stranger.

Had the same thing happened to Dillon?
 
Had his career, his life in the world Sanchez occupied changed him so much?  Had he really become that cold? 

She wished she knew.  Wished even more she had the courage to hear the answers.

He must have felt her staring at him, because the minute they were on a straightaway, he turned to her and asked, “What?”

She shook her head.  “Nothing.  I guess I’m a little shocked.  I’ve never seen you like that.”

“Would you have preferred that I go up to him all nice-like and say, ‘Excuse me, Señor, do you mind not pointing that pistola at my wife?  And while you're at it,
por favor
, could you give me a little information regarding the esteemed Señor Sanchez with whom you are, I presume, acquainted?’”

She ignored his sarcasm, chalked it up to adrenaline.  “I heard another shot.  Did you kill him?” 

He gave her a grim look.  “No, but I made damn sure he couldn’t follow us.”

“Oh.”  She’d been staring at his face, but when she looked at the rest of him, she flinched.  He had blood splattered all over his clothes.  “Are you shot?  Did he shoot you?”  Dillon didn’t appear shot, but the man she was married to seemed capable of taking a bullet then pressing on out of sheer fury.  “Well?  Are you okay or not?” 

<><><>

“I’m fine.  Mad as hell, but fine.”  Dillon wiped his hands against his pants and allowed himself to loosen tense muscles.  When he’d come back to the room and seen that guy with a gun on Sara, he’d felt murderous.  He should've killed the bastard with his bare hands on sheer principle.  If he hadn’t come back to the room when he had--

“Dillon?”

Glancing over, he noticed how pale Sara’s face was, how tightly her hands were clenched in her lap and frowned.  “Yeah?”

“I hate this.”

“Me, too.”  He reached over with one hand and slid the back of his finger down her cheek.
 
“That little scenario scared the hell out of me.”

“You?”

“Hell yes.” 
I’m scared to death that next time I won’t be able to save you. 
“I’m just a regular guy, Sara.”

“Right.  Just a regular Joe, like a banker or a teacher or an accountant.”

Her words reminded him that his job was anything but normal, that it had more than bothered her twelve months ago, so he changed the subject.  “Good job back there.  Getting his gun, I mean.  Gutsy thing to do.  But next time, do me a favor and run like hell instead.”

“Next time?  You’re so sure there’s going to be a next time before we find Sanchez?”

He wasn’t going to sugarcoat it.  Until Sanchez was caught, things were only going to get worse.  “I think we could be in Timbuktu and Sanchez would probably know it.”

Sara slumped down in her seat and stared despondently out the window.  Knowing she was still scared, he drove a couple more miles and as soon as he felt they were somewhat safe, pulled into a crowded parking lot.  He might be used to dealing with armed men on a fairly regular basis, but Sara wasn’t. 

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he turned to her.  Knowing he probably shouldn’t, but unable to resist, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.  God, she was going to slam-dunk him for sure, but right know he just didn’t care.  He wanted the comfort.  From her and for her.

Caught off guard, she went rigid for all of two seconds before she relaxed against him and let her body respond.  He kept the kiss gentle and sweet, wanting to calm and soothe, to reassure her that she was going to be all right, that as long as he breathed, he’d protect her.

But when she melted against him, from shoulder to thigh, desire seared through every vein, hot and hungry.  The pit of his stomach tightened as he pulled her even closer and deepened the kiss with an intimacy he wondered if she’d welcome. 

He didn’t have to wonder long.  She pulled back, not exactly shoving him away, but was cool enough that the rejection shot a jolt through his chest.

He should have known better, because dammit, she’d made it more than clear last night just where they stood.  When, and if, this bleak scenario ever ended, where would they be?  Would she disappear off the face of the earth again?  Could he forgive her?  Could she forgive him? 

More importantly, did he want her to?  Considering the danger involved in his job, knowing there’d always be another Sanchez, was he willing to take the risk?

Dammit, mixing love and war was like going into hand-to-hand combat with your arms tied behind your back.  And the other guy wins because instead of sucking face with a beautiful woman, he’s got an Uzi with a full clip aimed straight at your head.

He started the car and pulled out onto the street. 

Sara buckled her seatbelt, smoothed her hands down her pant legs, then turned to him, her breathing not quite centered.  “Can we--do you think--are we going to discuss that kiss?”

“No.”  With a capital N.
 
Jesus, he got the picture.  Hands off.

“Why not?”

How was it that a woman could go from scared shitless to pleasantly pleased--or not--then to indignant in the space of a microsecond?  “Because it isn’t going to happen again.”

“Ever?”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Ever.”

She nodded and crossed her arms over her chest.
 
“Good.”

Yeah.  Jim fucking dandy.
 
“Damn straight.”

She whirled in the seat and glared.  “So, that’s it then?”

“Hey, you’re the one who pushed me away.
 
So yeah, that’s it.  Smart move.” 

“You dislike me that much?”

And there it was.  The Big Question.  The one question he didn’t want to answer. 

Shit.

He really did
not
want to talk about this. 

He figured he could tell her the truth, he could put a spin on the truth, or he could just outright lie. 

He went with the spin.  “Same question right back at you.  And why are you asking me? 
You’re
the one who just shoved me away. 
You’re
the one who stayed gone for twelve months. 
You’re
the one who let me believe you were dead.”

“No.  I didn’t.
 
I wanted to--”

“Wanted what, Sara?  To let me suffer?  Well, good job.
 
Damn fine, in fact.”   

“That’s not it!  If you weren’t so obsessed with Sanchez--”

“Oh, but
I am.  And for damn good reason.”

When she slumped back in her seat looking beaten, Dillon felt his heart grind.

God, he hated this.

“Craig said--”

“Screw Craig.  You knew my job then, you know it now.”

“Bullshit.  You were a decorated SEAL when I married you.  Now I don’t know what you are.”

“I’m still the same man.”

“No.  No, you’re not.”

She was right.  He wasn’t.  Not after what happened to his family.  And Dreena. 

Christ, just end this already.  Let her hate you.  Screw the spin and tell her a lie that might save her life.  Be noble.

I can’t.  I love her.  How can I lose her to another lie?

Would you rather lose her to one of Sanchez’s bullets? 

“Look, you hated my job then, and you hate it now.  Sanchez doesn’t matter because even if he was dead, there’d still be another bad guy who could blow you off the dock some night when neither of us saw it coming.  We can’t go back.  You’ll never forgive me for what I am.  Or for anything else that’s happened to you in the last year.
And I’ll never forgive you for letting me think you were dead when you weren’t.  Hell, Sara, you can’t even stand it when I touch you.  So forget it.  It’s over.  We’re over.” 

Her head jerked up, and he watched in anguish as her eyes revealed first shock, then pain.
 
“You’re right.  So keep your hands off me.”

His jaw clenched.  “Not a problem.”

“Tell me something.
Why in God’s name are you helping me?”

“Helping you?”  He gave a short, humorless laugh.  “Is that what you think I’m doing?  Don’t kid yourself.  I’m after Sanchez and you’re my ticket.”

She paled.  “You
bastard
.” 

“Yeah, well, no big surprise there.”

Tears welled up, and for just a moment she looked away.  But when she turned back, turned the full force of her gaze on him, the look he got was just this side of hatred.

Good.  Hatred he could deal with.  Love, on the other hand, would sure as hell get her killed and that wasn’t something he could live through a second time.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sometimes words wounded with lethal intensity.  Some words could never be forgotten, or forgiven. 

She was his ticket to Sanchez?  His
ticket
?

God, she wanted to hurt him.

After everything else she’d been through, the betrayal knifing through her now was suddenly one thing too much.  Quietly furious, she said, “Stop the car.”  She grabbed the door handle, ready to bolt.  She didn’t know where she was going, didn’t care, as long as it was far away from Dillon.  Somehow she’d get her child back on her own. 

“Sara, don’t be stupid.”

“Let me out,” she said, her eyes shooting green venom.  “My God, Dillon, I really think I absolutely hate you.”

“Right.  We’ve covered that.  Hate me all you want, but you’re staying with me until I can get you somewhere safe.”

Just as her hand touched the door handle, he snagged her arm, pulling her back.  She shook her arm free.  “The hell you are.
 
You didn’t do so well at keeping our baby safe.”

The shock, the slap of pain, the absolute agony on Dillon’s face almost made her glad.
 
She hadn’t wanted to tell him yet, hadn’t wanted to hurt him like this, but if he really hated her so much then screw him and his feelings.

He turned slowly, looked at her with dazed disbelief.
 
“
Baby
?”

“Yes.
 
Ellie.  That package Sanchez mentioned?  Well, she’s six months old.
 
Why do you think I didn’t want you to answer your call that day, a year ago?  I wanted to tell you about our--our baby--but you--your job--it’s always been about your job.”  Her voice broke and she wrapped her arms across her stomach.