Authors: Kaylea Cross
The room spun and he almost checked out.
Breathe, you have to breathe. You can't help her by panicking. Get the team organized and into the trucks. Focus...
He sucked in a breath as everyone scrambled for equipment. Somehow he forced his legs to work, only to run into his commander. The man put a hand square against his chest, looked him in the eye. “You know the rules, Hutch.”
They weren't going to let him go.
Screw. That.
“Take a minute. You're in shock.”
“I'm not in shock,” he growled. But his body sure thought he was.
His commander studied him, lips thinned. “Truck leaves in four minutes.”
Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance and Christa fought to open her eyes. She was alive, caught in her seatbelt, hanging upside down in her truck, an awful pain in her stomach. One image after another, it all came back to her. The truck hitting the shoulder, the world upside down as they spun through the air. Before that, the crack of a gunshot.
She lifted her hand... something warm and sticky trickled down her face and neck, coating her fingers. Her blood. Had he shot her? Beside her, her abductor struggled to escape the twisted mass of metal, bleeding from his nose and forehead. The gun lay within inches of his groping hand.
Groaning, she fumbled with the buckle of her seatbelt, released it and thudded against the roof. Pain burst inside her. Nauseated and lightheaded, she dragged herself over shards of glass lining the crumpled window frame. She had to escape him.
She inched out, pain stabbing her skull, her shoulder aching. Her abdomen hurt so bad she almost blacked out again. Hideous, searing agony. She couldn't breathe properly. Had she broken a rib, punctured a lung?
Hurry. Hurry, you're almost there
.
A hand snared her ankle and she screamed, kicking at it. He shoved his way out beside her and hauled her to the ground, his bloody face a mask of blinding rage.
“You fucking crazy bitch!” He slammed her shoulders onto the ground.
Stars exploded in her head, the fight draining out of her.
He was panting, grabbing her arm, trying to yank her to her feet, but she collapsed in a heap. Police cars skidded to a stop behind them, and she was now the only thing between him and a bullet to the head. If they took a shot at him, it would be to kill.
“Move!” He grabbed her under the armpits, shoved the gun under her chin and hefted her in front of him. She cried out in agony. “Get up and move.” The icy muzzle of the pistol dug into her tender skin. Her pulse throbbed against it in terror.
Rayne ran up to the police barricade, flashing his badge at the officer posted there. “Hutchinson, ERT.” He hurried over to the cruisers blocking the accident site.
“Is she all right?” he demanded, craning his neck to see beyond the crush of emergency vehicles, the breath whooshing out of him when he spotted the mangled wreckage of her truck lying on its roof beside the shoulder of the freeway, a tangle of metal and broken glass.
And there she was, the woman he loved with all his heart, sagging in front of the bastard who'd wrecked her life, his gun pressed to her, a human shield.
Christ, not again
. Pleading brown eyes flashed in his memory, a little boy silently begging him to save his life. He couldn't get his heartbeat to slow down. He was so scared for her he could barely breathe.
His lieutenant approached. “The perp won't talk to the negotiator, and we're running out of time. This guy's way too unstable. I want the guy most qualified with a rifle to take up a sniper position to the east of them.” He pointed at the field flanking the freeway.
They all looked at him— former U.S. Marine, son of a Navy SEAL. The weight of their stares bore down on him and he fought the gnawing fear in his gut.
The older man's eyes delved into Rayne's. “Tell me straight, Hutch. Can you handle this?”
He nodded mechanically. “Yeah.”
“You shouldn't be here. I know it and you know it. Your objectivity is compromised. Right now though, we don't have time to piss around with protocol. I'd volunteer if I thought I could make that shot, but even with one decent arm you're a helluva lot better with a rifle than I am. Right now, there's no other viable option to protect the hostage.”
“Understood, sir.” He moved toward the flashing blue and red strobes of the cruisers, his feet like lead, panic spurting with each step. Could he take a shot while the guy was using the woman he loved as a shield? He would damn well have to pull the trigger. He couldn't afford to fail her.
He trained his binoculars at the grassy plain, took a deep breath. The bastard was dragging Christa further from the road, his head turning to assess the police positions.
He swallowed hard. Her face was ashen, her body limp. How badly had she been hurt in the crash? Did she have the strength to get herself out of this?
Time to put his training into action, to call upon everything he'd ever learned. He studied the topography, noted the gusty wind and drizzle steadily soaking his shirt. He would have to aim a little higher to make up for the impact of the moisture on the bullet.
His colleague gave a nod. “We've got you covered from up here. Good luck.”
Rayne dug deep for courage and set out with his game face on. He circled to the left, advancing in a crouch. Just like deer hunting, he told himself, trying to distract his brain.
Again, Daniel's eyes pleaded. Daniel pushing to his feet... his father's warning... him diving to catch Daniel in a tackle... the crack of the pistol shot... the spasm of pain on Daniel's face. He gritted his teeth, didn't dare think about the mortal danger Christa was in.
He worked hard to keep his breathing steady, using every trick he knew to slow his racing heart as he drew nearer to his target. Once in position, he sank onto one knee and raised his weapon, adjusting the sight until the crosshairs met between his quarry's eyes.
If the bastard so much as flinched, he'd put a bullet through his skull.
“Drop your weapon! Let the hostage go.”
Seth froze, his mind churning. He could
not
be trapped. There had to be a way to lose them. He glanced behind him, found nothing but the open field, no cover in sight. Pain sliced through his skull, blinding him. His right leg wouldn't cooperate, blood staining his pants and seeping over his boot, each step a separate agony. He couldn't drag her much further and keep hold of his gun.
Christa was bleeding, her beautiful eyes glazed, maybe dying. Sweet, sweet Christa. If only she had been his. That was all he'd wanted. Was it too much to ask? And now look at the price they were paying. If she died, he had no chance. Without her life to use as a bargaining chip, he would wind up dying in jail as an old man.
Screw that. He'd rather die here and now than rot in prison for the rest of his life.
He stumbled back another few steps, shaking with fatigue and adrenaline. “I'll kill her,” he yelled, keeping the cops in front where he could see them. “Stay right there or I'll kill her, I swear to God.” Tears stung his eyes.
“D-don't,” Christa mumbled, squirming from him.
She was trying to escape again. His soul howled in protest. He'd been so close to having her...
He tightened his grip around her, his hand twitching on his gun. His heart drummed in his ears. Blood pumped heavy and thick. Thump-thump... thump-thump... thump... thump...
“Drop your weapon.”
The command came from his left. A fucking cop, less than a hundred feet from them, was sighting him down the barrel of a rifle.
His gaze moved from the black hole at the end of the muzzle to the officer's face. Deadly hazel eyes. The eyes of Christa's lover.
His bowels churned.
Christa gasped, tried to support her weight on her trembling legs, but he held her immobile. Panic suffocated him. Would her boyfriend risk taking a shot while she was in front of him?
He backed away but the man's gaze never wavered from his face, his hands steady on the weapon. Fear freezing his spine, he met the unflinching hazel stare.
He was staring into the eyes of his executioner.
Swallowing, he released the pistol's safety, the click as loud as a gunshot. It echoed through his hollow brain.
“Drop it,” came the next warning. The voice was low and calm. Lethal.
If he raised the gun he would be killed.
Too late now. No choice. No going back.
His trembling hand lifted upward. His eyes closed, imprinting on his lids the memory of Christa smiling as she tended the flowers on the old lady's balcony. She wore a lacy white blouse and a ball cap, her long ponytail falling down her back as she tipped the watering can. Crystal rivulets of water spilled out of the spout. The breeze tugged at her blouse, a tendril of hair swept across her face. Her head tipped back as she pushed it away, laughing, cheeks flushed pink, exposing the delicate line of ivory throat. She looked so happy. So beautiful...
His last breath entered his body.
Hand still creeping upward, he held that image of Christa in his mind.
The pain was unbearable. Like someone had stabbed her in the gut and poured battery acid in the wound. Pinned in Seth's sweaty, panicked embrace, her vision kept wavering. Her heartbeat echoed in her head, her uneven breaths sounding like a hacksaw cutting through a metal pipe.
Blackness closed in.
No. She couldn't close her eyes. Had to keep looking at Rayne. If she let go and closed her eyes she would never open them again.
She forced her heavy lids open and focused on Rayne, wanting to break free and run to him. But that was impossible. Seth was not going to let her go. Ever.
Grief welling in her chest, she stared at the man she loved. Crouched down on one knee in the long, tangled weeds, he held his rifle steady, his eye to the scope. He had to be freaking out inside, but he looked so calm, every inch the trained soldier he was. She tried not to show how terrified she was, but she was mindless with it. The pain blew through her belly like a blowtorch, and she doubled over, tears leaking over her lashes.
Rayne
, she thought, sending out a prayer for him. She didn't want this for him. Didn't want him to have to take a life after what he'd been through with Daniel. But she didn't want to die, so if shooting Seth was the only way to save her, then...
Please God, don't let him miss.
Behind her, Seth's breath quivered in and out like a cornered animal, his forearm digging convulsively into her diaphragm. His gun hand twitched, and she choked back a sob.
The sharp click of the safety releasing slid a fresh wave of terror down her spine. She tried to shake her head, couldn't.
I don't want to die... I don't want to die...
“Drop it.”
Rayne's clipped command made her eyes snap open. She stared at him across the abyss as Seth's gun hand inched upward.
So, this was it. This was how she was going to die.
A spurt of adrenaline lashed through her body, a desperate will to live beating at her with panicked wings, but she was powerless to do anything. The gun continued to move upward.
One last time she drank in the sight of Rayne poised just across the field, hoping to take it with her, wherever she was going. There had to be something more after this life. Something good and peaceful to make up for the suffering.
I love you
, she mouthed, hoping he saw it, and shut her eyes. Panic and despair swamped her, her eyes flying open. She couldn't let go, didn't know how.
A sharp crack rent the air.
The bullet hit with a hollow thud.
Falling, body weightless. Numb.
Blackness. Peace.
Rayne stood back while the paramedics carried Christa to the ambulance, his whole body shaking in the aftermath of the adrenaline crash. When he'd fired, she'd hit the ground like a rock and for a paralyzing instant he'd thought he'd missed and shot her. But the neat, dime-sized hole in the victim's forehead proved Rayne had hit the bastard straight between the eyes, and still he'd held on to her, even in death.
It freaked him out to think about it. If he'd missed by a few inches Christa would be the one sprawled in the wet grass with the back of her head blown off.
Nate ran up to him but he shoved him aside. “Get the fuck out of my way,” he snarled, half crazy with fear.
“Give them a minute, Hutch. You know they're trying to stabilize her, and the best way you can help her is to stay out of their way.”
Every cell in his body was screaming at him to go to her, but somehow he stood there as they lifted her inert form into the ambulance. After what seemed like eternity, one of the paramedics stuck his head out. “Anybody here named Rayne?”
He hopped in beside her and took her chilled hand in his. “I'm here, kiddo, I'm right here. You're going to be okay.” Her eyes opened a fraction.
“Keep her awake,” the paramedic reminded him as he reported her status to the hospital. “Pulse 110; B.P. 95 over 60 and dropping. Pain in left shoulder and left upper quadrant. Internal bleeding likely.”
Rayne's stomach plummeted.
“Pupils dilated and slow to respond. Probable concussion.”
He leaned over her and cupped her pale, blood-streaked face in his hands. “Stay with me, Chris. Come on darlin', open your eyes and look at me.” He stroked her cheek, watched her fight to open disoriented blue eyes and blink up at him, frowning. “I'm here, sweetheart,” he repeated, his eyes wet as he gazed back at her. “You're going to be okay, Chris. Just keep looking at me, all right?”
If he lived to be a hundred, he'd never forget the way she'd looked at him and told him she loved him right before she'd crumpled next to the dead body of her nemesis. He'd never been so fucking scared in his entire life, and the nightmare wasn't over yet.
“Pulse 100, B.P. eighty over sixty, unstable,” the paramedic radioed and glanced at Rayne. “The trauma team's standing by for us in the O.R.”
Fear jolted Rayne's heart as he continued murmuring to her, maintaining eye contact and willing her to fight. He couldn't lose her, he just couldn't. She would be okay, and then they could get on with their life together. He refused to accept any alternative.