Chapter Six

 

 

Dylan woke to a dull throb in his foot and a soft weight on his chest. Cracking a lid, he could barely make out Cara’s still form draped across him like a blanket. She shifted and he groaned as his body responded. He wanted her and knew she wanted him. She didn’t want to, knowing what he was, but she couldn’t hide her body’s reaction. He ran his hands down her back and scooted her higher so he could capture those beautiful lips. She smiled when his lips touched hers, giving in to the kiss. When he broke contact, her heavy-lidded eyes opened. Suddenly they snapped wide and she gasped, rolling off him to land hard on the ground.

“Ouch. What are you doing?”

“Waking you up, Red. It’s time to get moving.”

She sat up with a sigh, her hair a riot of copper curls. She tried to tame them and gave up, her hands falling to her sides. He had the overwhelming urge to lean over and kiss her again.

Dylan reined in his emotions and gathered their possessions, stuffing them into the bag. It was packed as full as he could get, especially after he added the rest of the cocaine. “I go first. And try not to make any noise.”

He carefully eased the covering away, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Very little moonlight filtered through the canopy of trees. He searched the area and listened, not hearing any noises besides crickets chirping and tree frogs calling out a night melody. He crawled outside and stood, excruciating pain shooting up his leg. He barely bit back a groan as blood rushed to his broken foot. Cara scurried out beside him and latched on to his belt loop.

He forced the pain from his head. After checking the compass on his watch, he led them through the forest. Cara didn’t make a sound, but her death grip on his jeans let him know how uncomfortable she was navigating the forest in the dead of night.

He didn’t want to tell her they were headed back to the airplane. They could run into Frankie’s goons at any time, which is why he wanted to travel at night when they were likely to be stoned. They'd find a place to hide close to the plane where they could watch as Frankie’s men headed out in the morning.

His old plan had been to find Frankie, show him the bag and explain that he would take care of Cara once the exchange was made. But now that he'd shot Bob, Frankie would definitely be gunning for him. He might've thought Dylan was simply retrieving the goods before, but now he’d know the truth. Dylan’s double-cross wouldn’t go unpunished. That changed the stakes completely. He had a target on his back. No more shooting to injure. To get out of this, it would be kill or be killed.

Leaves rattled beside them. He stopped, trying to make out the shape in the darkness. A big fat opossum scurried out of the brush. Cara screamed.

“Shh.” Dylan slapped a hand over her mouth.

When her breathing slowed, he removed his hand. “I can’t help it,” she whispered.

Crack.

Bark splintered beside their heads. “Go, go,” he urged her as another bullet pinged into the ground by their feet. They were lucky these guys weren’t trained snipers. He spotted a jagged rock ahead and pulled Cara behind it, shielding her with his body. He located the man doing a poor job of hiding, but he appeared to be solo. He looked like he’d been asleep, probably had. Cara’s scream likely woke him up.

“I thought you said they wouldn’t be out at night,” she accused.

He ignored her and fired, hitting the man in the torso. The guy howled, dropping to his knees, his hand clutching the wound. If he didn’t get help soon, it was probably a kill shot. Dylan grabbed Cara’s hand and tore off through the woods. The gunshots would likely bring reinforcements.

"I hear someone behind me," Cara whispered urgently.

That galvanized him into action. Dylan shoved her behind a fat tree as another shot rang out. Big Tony, Frankie’s right-hand man and co-pilot, appeared. He was sweaty and lumbering, not used to physical activity. But he had hawk-like vision. He zeroed in on Dylan and fired.

Dylan jerked behind the tree, bark splintering and grazing his face as Tony emptied his round.

Dylan waited a beat and then whipped around and aimed. Even fuzzy with pain, his aim was true. He double-tapped Tony between the eyes, but not before Tony got one more shot off that ripped through his arm. Damn, that hurt.

"You killed him," Cara accused, peeking around the other side of the tree. He had to give her credit, she wasn’t screaming and freaking out like most women would be in this situation.

"Kill or be killed, Red," he gritted out, blood dripping down his arm. The bullet was a through and through. That was good. "Those shots will alert Frankie. We need to get the hell out of here and hide."

She looked like she wanted to argue but then said, "This way."

Normally he would take charge, choose the direction. But pain made him lightheaded. He was losing the use of limbs at an alarming rate. He let her lead.

They’d only traveled fifty feet when the only warning he had was a muttered, "Uh-oh."

~*~

Cara saw the drop-off a fraction too late. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, the ground dropped out from under her. They tumbled and slid down the sharp hill, twigs cracking on their rapid descent. Branches lashed at her face and she was pretty sure she'd never get the foliage from her hair. She came to an abrupt halt only to cry out as Dylan landed on top of her. She tried pushing him off so she could breathe, but he didn’t budge. "Dylan?"

"Last damn time I let you lead, Red," he growled. "You hurt?"

"Other than the fact that I can’t breathe with you on top of me, I’m fine."

"We need to move," he said, making no attempt to do so. Eyes closed, he rolled to his side, the stuffed backpack halting his progress.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, instantly at his side. It occurred to her that this was her chance to escape. Take off and save herself. But for some reason, she couldn’t leave him, especially when she noticed the sheen of sweat coating his forehead and the blood staining his sleeve. There was a perfectly round hole in the arm of his jacket that could've only come from a bullet. "You were shot?"

"Just a graze."

She lifted his arm and stuck a finger in each hole. He hissed in a breath.

"That's no graze."

"Not my shooting arm," he said, as if getting maimed from a bullet was no big deal.

She searched the area. It was too open. The moon was casting enough light for someone to easily locate them. They needed to hide so she could check his injuries. "Can you walk?" she asked, her hand stroking his handsome face.

His eyes popped open, glazed with pain. "Yeah, we need to get moving."

"Come-on," she urged, sliding her hands under his arms. Too late she remembered the injured arm as he wheezed in another breath. "Sorry."

"I can walk," he grunted, pushing unsteadily to his feet. She rushed to his uninjured side and guided him through the woods, searching for a hideaway like the cave they'd used earlier. He was moving pretty fast for someone with a broken foot and an extra hole in his body. She was already huffing and puffing. They were back under the trees, so the moon barely helped navigation. But her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. "There." She pointed to a cropping of rocks with a shallow opening a few feet away, much like the one they'd hid out in before. It would make a nice shelter. If she could get him there, somehow move all that muscle, she could hide them and tend his wounds.

"Good thinking," he said when he realized her intent.

"Rest and I’ll camouflage the opening this time."

"I’ll do it," he insisted, even as his legs gave out and he sank to the ground. After making sure he was okay for the moment, she gathered materials and covered the gap, doing a pretty fine job if she did say so herself. Once they were safely hidden, her shoulders sagged.

She set off this morning to do something daring, bold on her birthday. She was tired of being Careful Cara, the name of her newspaper column. She wrote on how to be logical, think things through before acting. She was an expert on the subject, having spent the first twenty-nine years of her life that way.

But she woke up this morning with a new resolve. She was tired of being the good girl, taking the road travelled instead of the one less so. She wanted to meet an exciting man by Christmas, a month away. She was ready for a serious relationship. She needed to challenge herself. She’d decided to skydive. She must've been hungover from all of the Thanksgiving turkey and pumpkin pie to come up with an idea that ridiculous.

An optimist could look at this as an added bonus. First successfully jump from a plane, then get chased by a pissed-off drug lord. How many people had that opportunity? But she just witnessed one murder and she was seriously afraid hers would be next.

And to top it off, she was falling hard for the man beside her—a criminal no less. So yes, she might reach her goal of meeting an exciting man by Christmas, but at what cost?

"Happy birthday to me," she muttered.

~*~

"Aw, Red, I didn’t know it was your birthday," Dylan mumbled with closed eyes. He’d tended to the bullet wound while she covered their cave, ripping a strip of his shirt to stop the blood. He was currently propped against the cave wall to apply pressure to the exit wound, while holding the shirt against the entry. The blood flow had slowed down considerably. "I’d have picked you a flower or something." He cracked a lid to see her shoot him a scowl.

He smiled. He was about to tell her how adorable she was when angry but a branch snapped nearby. When her startled eyes flew to his, he shook his head and held a finger to his lips, snapping off the flashlight.

He wasn’t really happy with their current situation. The area was more open than he’d like, hardly any trees to disguise their shallow cave. As gingerly as he could manage, he moved to the opening and peered outside. Frankie appeared in the clearing, backlit by the glow of the moon. He stopped and glanced around, his gaze landing on their hiding spot for a heart-stopping moment before flicking away. Cara had done an excellent job of concealing them. Dylan trained his gun to take him out if necessary but he didn’t want to upset Cara again. She was tough but there was only so much one person could take before they broke.

Besides, they needed the bastard alive to pay for the numerous crimes he’d committed.

Frankie jerked out a phone and stabbed in a number. "Anything?" Pause. "Bastard killed Artie and Big Tony. Find them," he ordered. "But don’t kill them. That’s my job." Slamming the phone in his pocket, he stomped away.

If Frankie’s cell worked, it meant Dylan’s would, too. He groped in the pack for the phone, his stomach dropping when he found it…or rather pieces of it. Withdrawing his hand, he held out the crushed remnants of plastic. It must have been smashed on their trip down the rocky slope. "Don’t suppose you have a cell phone on you," he asked.

Cara shook her head. "Locked in my car."

Time for Plan C. He needed to get them to the helicopter so he could fly them out of here. It would be tricky with a bullet hole in his arm, but he’d manage. Just getting there would be the problem. So far he’d taken out Big Tony, Bob the pilot and Artie, one of Frankie’s flunkies. That left Frankie and three others, not counting the helo pilot. If he weren’t injured, he’d take those odds any day.

They needed to make sure Frankie was out of the area before they made a run for the chopper. Plus, light was swiftly fading…or since it was already dark outside, maybe it was just him. He blinked rapidly, trying to stay conscious so he could get them out of this mess.

"You’re not really a drug dealer, are you?"

Dylan could only make out her silhouette in the darkness, but he could feel the intensity of her stare. “What makes you say that?"

"The way you act, handle a gun. Take care of me even though you’re hurting. You don’t act like a criminal.”

"Been around a lot of them, have you?"

"Quit answering my questions with questions."

Dylan sighed. He opened his mouth to respond but she uttered softly, "Don't lie to me."

It took all of the wind from his sails. He'd started to lie, but for some reason, he didn’t want to disappoint her. They were on the run for their lives; anything could happen. He didn’t want her to think badly of him if this should all go south.

"You’re a cop?" she guessed, before he could confess.

"DEA…Drug Enforcement Agency," he corrected. "This trip was supposed to be the culmination of six months of undercover work."

When he woke this morning, his plans for the evening had been a celebratory steak dinner, free-flowing alcohol and a beautiful woman, not necessarily in that order. Instead he was holed up in a cave, bleeding and broken. At least he got the beautiful woman part right.

As night faded into dawn, they split a granola bar and bottle of water. They talked about their childhoods and shared funny stories. He knew she was trying to take his mind off the pain and it worked. He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed so hard or exposed so much of himself to a woman. He could fall hard for this redhead, feared he already had. If not for the bullet wound, broken foot, and impending unconsciousness, he would take advantage of the healthy dose of lust crackling between them. He needed to close his eyes for just a few minutes before they had to get moving.