9

~Damon~

 

“You’re sure? This intel is solid?” I bark into my cell phone as I pace up and down the edge of the lake surrounding Alana’s secluded safe house.

“Yeah. That’s where Cartwright’s operating from,” my contact responds.

“Good work. I’ll take it from here,” I say, hanging up abruptly.

I pull the backpack that I’d been storing in Alana’s bedroom off my shoulder and place it on the ground. I had my driver and bodyguard, Mike, pack it. As much as I’d hoped I wouldn’t need it and that Cartwright would come to his senses and back the fuck off, I knew there was a good chance that wouldn’t happen.

After driving us up here, I’d dismissed Mike and he’d taken the limo back to the club. It wouldn’t fit in the garage and it was too conspicuous to be parked out front.

A shame, because it’s bulletproof—always a handy trait.

I look through the trees, back at the house, to make sure Alana isn’t watching me.

She isn’t. And that asshole, Mark, hasn’t returned since his angry exit a couple of days ago, so I don’t need to worry about him either.

I open the bag. I pull out two hip holsters and attach them to my jeans. I smile grimly at the Desert Eagle staring back at me and struggle to push back the surge of memories that wash over me just from seeing it again after all this time. I snatch it up and check the magazine. All good there. Sliding it into the holster at my right hip, I reach for the 9mm Beretta—my backup weapon. I slide it into my left holster. I check the rest of the contents. A first-aid kit, a couple of blades, some rations, a wad of cash, three credit cards and personal IDs in the names of my aliases. And a bullet proof vest. I pull it out and zip up the bag. Shedding my white t-shirt and brown leather jacket, I slip the vest on, securing it with the ease of someone more than a little used to wearing such a thing. I might be cocky, but I’m not stupid. I know I’m a little rusty. It’s been a while since I’ve been in the field. The likelihood of me taking a hit or two when breaking into Robert Cartwright’s base of operations is pretty damn high.

I’ve barely shrugged my jacket back on when I hear tires crunching on the asphalt driveway.

Shit.

I strap my backpack to my back and hurry back to the house. Hopefully, it’s just that asshole, Mark, returning with his tail between his legs. It’s incredible, but Alana has the ability to bring any man to his knees and the amazing thing is that she doesn’t even realize it.

As I reach the house, Alana bolts down the porch steps, Beretta drawn.

I spot the white Sedan crawling up the driveway. It stops a few feet away and four guys jump out.

Two muscle-bound guys decked out in tactical gear cradling M16s catch my attention. Muscle.

The third guy is Cartwright. He starts strolling towards the house, staring down Alana as she aims her gun his way.

The fourth guy is none other than Mark.

Son of a bitch.

I join Alana on the steps and draw my Desert Eagle. I see the surprise in her eyes, but she doesn’t say anything. Now is clearly not the time.

“Mark, what is this?” she demands.

“Me saving your life.”

Cartwright laughs and the sound sends a chill through me as I recall the last time I heard it.

He looks right at me and says, “Long time, Damon.”

“Not long enough,” I hiss.

He smirks and turns his attention to Alana. “You’re gonna kill him and we’re gonna watch. Then we’re gonna walk away. I won’t bother you again. You should thank your friend for this deal. I’m not usually this accommodating, Miss Halton.”

“I’m not killing him. If you’re so determined, why don’t you do it? You’re right here.”

I smile inwardly, impressed by her question. Good point, baby. She’s trying to unnerve him.

“Because he’s not good enough,” I growl at Cartwright.

I see the surprise on Alana’s face.

And so does Cartwright.

“You didn’t know he was a world-class contract killer once upon a time?” he asks her. “Did he also neglect to tell you why he quit?”

“Don’t,” I seethe, cocking my gun.

“I wouldn’t,” he tells me, gesturing behind him at his guys training their rifles on me. He smirks at me and addresses Alana, “He choked. Couldn’t hold his goddamn gun steady. Some PTSD shit, according to the rumors. You wanna know who his target was that day?”

“Stop, Rob!”

He ignores me and tells her, “Andrew Forest.”

Fuck.

I see her aim falter.

And against all rules of armed combat, all commonsense, she takes her eyes off her target—Cartwright—and glares at me. “What?” she chokes out.

“Yeah. That fucker is still alive, because of your boyfriend,” Cartwright says, pouring more salt into the fresh wound.

“It’s more complicated than that,” I tell her.

“Do you know where he is?”

“Alana—”

“Do you!” she screams.

“You need to let it go.”

Her eyes blaze at me, burning right through me.

“Yeah, you want to kill him now, don’t you?” Cartwright laughs.

I take a threatening step towards him. “Why don’t you tell her why you want me dead, Rob?”

The arrogant smirk leaves his face and he glares hard at me, pissed that I’m about to rip his entire plan apart.

“Tell her!” I roar.

He hesitates.

“All right, then let me.”

Before I can get another word out, one of his guys takes a shot at me.

The bullet plunges into the vest, right on target for my fucking heart.

The brutal power behind it knocks me to my knees and I grunt at the impact.

The only thing I can think about is that I need to get to my feet and protect Alana.

I hear shouts. Mostly hers. Followed by rounds of gunfire.

And then I feel arms around me.

But they’re pushing me down, not helping me to my feet.

“Stay down!”

Alana’s voice.

I look up and see a remote in her hand. A remote detonator. The same one she’d threatened me with at my club.

She fingers it.

A second later, a deafening explosion tears through the house, ripping it apart in a ball of furious fire.

I hear shouts in the distance. Cartwright? Mark?

“We need to move. Now!” she yells.

I climb to my feet and she pulls my backpack off my shoulders before I can stop her. She slips it on, taking the weight for me and then grabs my hand, leading me towards the forest surrounding the house.

“I have a Hummer parked a couple of miles on the other side of the forest. Mark doesn’t even know about it.”

“You just blew up your own house.”

“It was compromised thanks to Mark. He took a bullet to the thigh for his betrayal.”

Shit, she just shot her best friend.

“I can’t believe I showed mercy. It’s all your fault.”

“My fault?”

“Yeah. Making me feel shit,” she says with disdain.

I chuckle, but then end up choking as a result of the bullet still lodged in my vest and pushing painfully into my chest.

“Good thing you’re wearing a vest,” she says as she wraps her arms around me and helps me along. God, she’s strong for such a little thing. Adrenaline, I reason.

“How did you know?”

“That shot was fatal. You’d be dead if there was no vest,” she says matter-of-fact.

We finally make it to the car after what feels like a damned eternity. She hauls open the passenger door and I climb inside. She’s on me in a second, lifting my t-shirt to get a look at the vest.

She rips the bullet out and tosses it out of the car.

Her hands work quickly to open the vest.

“Shit,” she exclaims.

I follow her line of sight and see the severe bruising over my heart.

She traces her fingers over it gently and her eyes lock with mine for a moment.

I see the terror in her eyes at what could have happened had I not been wearing the vest.

Just as I start to see emotion filling her big blue eyes, she looks away and pulls back. She slaps my shoulder lightly and tells me, “You’ll be fine. Suck it up.”

“You’re a real Florence Nightingale, aren’t you?”

She responds with a smile and then shuts the passenger door and hurries around to the driver’s side. She shakes off my backpack and tosses it onto the back seat. She reaches into her leather jacket pocket and pulls out a shit load of keys. Choosing one, she shoves it into the ignition and the car roars to life.

“Buckle your seatbelt. We’re going over some rough terrain.”

I grunt at the strain of the movement on my chest and reach for the belt.

“Don’t be a baby,” she chides me.

I grin as I secure the belt to the buckle. “You want me to put this vest on you and shoot you with a fucking M16 close-range and see how you handle it?”

She pulls her jacket off her right shoulder and points to a scar there. I remember seeing it before in the bathroom the other day. “Bullet from a TEC-9. Close-range. No vest,” she tells me.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

As she maneuvers the car through the dense forest, I catch sight of her left hand. Blood is trickling over her fingers, coming from beneath her jacket sleeve.

“You were hit?”

She follows my gaze and shrugs her shoulders. “A blade. Cartwright wanted to have the last word, I guess. Before I kicked his ass.”

“How deep is it?” I ask, reaching for her.

She bats my hand away. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. Let me drive. We need to get the fuck away from here as fast as possible.”

“I have a place.”

“Address?”

I give her the directions and she nods.

We reach a clearing and she makes a turn onto a back road. She clips the curb and I watch her eyes glaze over. She blinks hard and grits her teeth.

“Stop the car,” I order.

“What? No, I’m fine,” she says dazedly.

Yeah, sure you are, baby. “Stop the fucking car. Now.”

She blows out a frustrated breath and brings the car to a sudden jarring stop. I throw open the passenger door, grunting at the exertion on my chest and rush around to the driver’s side. I haul open her door, unbuckle her belt and gently ease off her leather jacket.

What I see shocks the shit out of me.

There’s blood everywhere.

And it’s not an arm wound as I’d thought. Is a goddamn chest wound. Cartwright just missed her heart.

But it’s deep. She’s losing too much blood, too fast.

I grab my backpack off the backseat and rummage inside until I find the first-aid kit. I rest it on her lap as I take what I need.

“Not deep, huh?” I scold her.

“We need…to go…they’ll…come,” she wills me weakly.

“In a minute,” I tell her. “If I don’t stop the bleeding, none of that will matter, baby. You’ll bleed out. This is serious.”

“No…hospitals…the cops.”

“Fortunately for you, you have me. No hospitals needed.”

I apply some alcohol to the wound, needing to disinfect it. She hisses and bucks against me, but I hold her steady.

“Could have…warned me.”

“Giving a warning just makes it worse,” I tell her. “Suck it up,” I jest, echoing her words to me earlier.

I work to compress the wound as much as possible, given my limited supplies.

“You need stitches, but that’ll hold until we get to my place.”

I drape her jacket over her shoulders and pull off my own and wrap that around her too to keep her as warm as possible. She’s shivering and I know it’s shock.

I carefully lift her over to the passenger seat. She grunts in protest. “No one…drives…my car.”

“Yeah, okay. You think you can drive right now, tough girl?” I buckle her seatbelt and then do my own. I start the car and crank the heating to max to keep her warm. “I need you to keep talking. About anything you want. You can’t sleep. Do you hear me?” I thunder at her.

“Yes...fuck, Damon,” she says, clearly offended by my tone.

Right then I know she’s weak and not herself. Normally, she wouldn’t give a crap about what I said to her. She’s not an easy woman to upset.

I pull back onto the road and step on the gas. I need to hurry. She needs proper treatment. I just need to get her to my place and I’ll be able to take care of her.

“Damon...” she calls tiredly.

“Yes, baby?” I respond gently.

“I…love you.”

My gaze snaps to hers. She’s really out of it. Shit, the first time she says it and I have no idea if it’s really her talking or not. “You do, do you?” I respond, casually.

“Maybe,” she giggles. “You do.”

“You think I love you?” I ask, coyly.

“I know.”

I smile to myself. I was not prepared for this cutesy side of her at all. “I do,” I end up admitting, figuring she won’t even remember it tomorrow anyway. No harm done. And right now my priority is keeping her talking, no matter which route the conversation takes.

Her hand brushes my arm and she grips my bicep weakly. “Fuck me later,” she breathes.

“What?”

“I want you…to…fuck me…how you said.”

“You want me to take control?”

“Yeah,” she says, grinning at me.

I try to keep my eyes on the road and not on the come-fuck-me expression all over her face. Those eyes of hers do something to a man. I feel my cock responding. “We’ll see how you feel about it tomorrow.”

I bring the car to a halt at a set of lights. Lights on a damn country back road? Ridiculous.

“Kiss me,” she says suddenly, leaning into me a little.

I glance at the lights. Still red.

I grasp the back of her head gently and press my lips to hers, taking her in a soothing kiss. She responds aggressively, thrusting her tongue down my throat, moaning as she tastes me.

Shit.

I pull back quickly, trying to catch my breath and quell my raging hard-on.

I glance at the lights again. Green. Phew.

This is gonna be a long-ass drive.