Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
He was dreaming. That had to be it. Somehow, he’d fallen asleep in Cannon’s living room. Beer in one hand. His feet kicked up on the recliner. It was the only explanation that made sense, because if this was real…
Colt had been watching the hockey game he’d bet fifty bucks on, urging his damn team to pull themselves together and score a freaking goal, when pounding had sounded downstairs.
Cannon had frowned then gone over to the window.
He’d opened it enough to yell out that they were closed, but the knocking hadn’t stopped.
If anything, it had gotten louder. More urgent.
Colt had pushed to his feet—offered to see who was determined to break the damn door down—then had headed for the stairs. He’d barely rounded the corner when he’d caught sight of the black Suburban through the window. A guy hanging out of the passenger side. Gun drawn. Aimed their way.
Colt hadn’t really taken stock of the woman still hitting the glass.
Just enough to see the blood. To know she was the target, before he’d reacted.
Yelled for Cannon as he’d raced to the door.
Two seconds and Colt had it open—catching the woman as she pitched forward.
Body limp. Eyes squeezed shut. Another two seconds, and she was braced in his arms, nothing but a dead weight as he twisted them out of the line of fire.
Bullets had started flying, then. Ricocheting off the walls.
The door. A couple hitting the desk behind him.
He’d gotten off a couple of rounds when Cannon had appeared.
His M9 already aimed as he’d fired back—clipped the asshole shooting at them then landing a few in the radiator.
Steam had poured out of the hood before the driver had veered away—limped the damn vehicle around the next corner and out of sight.
Cannon had stayed poised at the ready—his body braced against the wall. His gun nestled at his shoulder. He’d glanced at them, frowned, then said the one name Colt had never expected to hear, again.
Baker.
Of course, it could have been someone Cannon knew outside the Teams. Another Baker.
But the name had all but stopped Colt’s heart cold.
Had made him look down—give the woman in his arms a shake in order to get her to tilt her head up at him—open her eyes.
She’d barely managed it, but it wouldn’t have mattered if her eyes had remained closed.
Once her hair had fallen away from her face, he’d gotten a clear view of her.
The shape of her jaw, the line of her brow.
The pert little nose and full lips. Despite the bruising, he would have recognized her anywhere, even if he hadn’t stared into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. The ones that still haunted his dreams.
He hadn’t realized he’d said her name—had been able to get his tongue to work enough to form the two syllables—until she’d palmed his cheek with one sticky, bloody hand. Her fingers had pressed against his jaw as she’d laughed and said his name in return.
Then, she’d gone limp, and she hadn’t moved in the few seconds he’d been shaking her, since.
Jericho appeared beside him, with Six standing behind her. She glanced at Ellis, cursed, then had her phone in her hand. “Is this a 911 call or…”
The woman was smart. Had spent the past six months getting intimately familiar with their work. Their team. And she knew not all emergencies could go through the normal channels. She’d been one of those exceptions, when her prison transfer had gone sideways.
Cannon knelt beside Colt, brushing back Ellis’ blood-streaked hair. “I… Shit. I don’t even know what to say. What this is. Is it really her?”
It seemed insane. Hell, impossible. But it was Ellis Baker.
Colt’s former lover, and the woman who’d crushed his heart.
Left it shattered on the floor with little hope of ever being reassembled.
The only person he’d broken his cardinal rule for, and the reason he’d never crossed that line, again, since.
“It’s really her.” He did a quick body scan, wincing at the obvious injuries. It didn’t take a doctor to know she’d been beaten. Shot. And the way she was dressed…
He shook his head. “She’s got marks on her wrists and ankles. A gunshot wound to her right side and multiple bruises and lacerations. The woman’s been held. Interrogated. She needs a fucking doctor, several units of blood, but if we take her to the hospital—”
“They’ll notify the cops. Probably the feds.
And seeing as armed men just tried to kill her—kill us for opening the door…
Six, get the first aid kit. We’ll do what we can.
Slow the bleeding.” Cannon nudged Jericho.
“Call Ice. We can’t risk taking her anywhere until we have a better understanding of what’s going on.
How deep she’s in. I just hope he can treat her. ”
Jericho nodded, hit a button, then handed the cell to Cannon. The other man’s voice sounded after only two rings.
“I’m starting to think I might regret agreeing to move back to Seattle. That working for you is going to be way more involved than it was for Bishop.”
“That’s because you’re paranoid. But in this case… I need you to grab your kit. All of them. And I need you here five minutes, ago. Bring that O neg you have stashed in your fridge, too. And call Rigs and Midnight on your way over. This is big.”
“Harlequin’s already warming up my truck. I’ll be there in a flash.”
Cannon disconnected the call. “Considering the circumstances, we need to have a few contingency plans in place. Obviously, it all depends on whether Ice can treat her. But if he can, we should make it appear as if we took her to the hospital, regardless. In case whoever chased her is watching. We don’t want them to think we have any connection to her. ”
Cannon smiled at Jericho, and Colt swore the man beamed. Actually beamed looking at the woman. “Think you can use your badge to get the hospital to do us a favor? Even without an actual body? Maybe put a Jane Doe in their books to buy us some time?”
Jericho shook her head in mock frustration.
“And here I thought you’d stopped underestimating my abilities?
You can carry me out once Ice gets here and doesn’t insist we haul her off to Harborview.
Let them think I’m your vic. Either way, I’ll make sure there’s a Jane Doe registered.
I can’t promise you more than a few days, but that should be enough to track down some intel, right? ”
“It’s like you know me.” Cannon handed the phone back to Jericho, then palmed Colt’s shoulder. “Let’s get Ellis someplace more suited for Ice to treat her. Let him determine our next course of action.”
Colt gathered her against his chest, then stood. Damn she was light—light and limp and too damn right against him, her breath caressing his neck. Her hair soft against his skin. Even out cold, she was stunning, not that this was the time to notice.
Thankfully, Cannon had expanded the upper section of the warehouse—incorporated two more loft apartments.
Colt had commandeered one, Six the other.
It made sense when they seemed to spend twenty hours a day working.
The other four keeping an eye out for anyone who might come looking for them, or Jericho.
Being a Deputy U.S. Marshal, the lady had more than her fair share of threats, and there wasn’t a chance they’d let anything happen to Cannon’s girl.
Cannon hadn’t actually phrased it that way. Not when Jericho would likely kick his ass. But that didn’t alter the fact that they belonged to each other—had the kind of relationship Colt had thought he’d found with Ellis.
He’d been wrong, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want Cannon to get his happy ending. That his buddy didn’t deserve to have the kind of life Colt had envisioned.
So, taking Ellis to his quarters seemed logical. Seemed fitting. Of course, Six had already anticipated Colt would head for his place, not Cannon’s—had already cleared off the table. Laid down some sheets. Had the first aid kit open. Some of the items placed to one side beside a bowl of water.
Colt eased her onto the surface, careful not to jostle her, then went to work.
Blood loss seemed the most pressing issue, not that being shot wasn’t a concern.
But after over a decade in Delta—experiencing a lifetime’s worth of violence—he’d gotten good at judging a fatal wound from a non-fatal one.
The angle of the twin punctures suggested the bullet had ricocheted—exited her side.
It was gaping and definitely needed stitching, but it wasn’t life threatening.
If it had been, she never would have made it this far.
Christ, how long had she been running? He glanced at her feet—at the ragged strips wrapped around them. They were bruised, but the shirt sleeves she’d used to protect them had done the job. Saved her from getting any serious lacerations.
He frowned. He didn’t remember learning that in the Teams—might not have taken the time to cover his feet.
He’d been trained to fight through pain.
Ignore it. There was always time to worry about how much it hurt after reaching safety.
When anything short of death could be fixed.
And seeing as she hadn’t been Special Forces…
Made him wonder where she’d undergone the additional training.
The kind that screamed she was no longer a soldier.
That she’d been recruited by a different kind of organization.
Jericho stood across from him, gently cleaning some of the more superficial wounds as Colt stemmed the bleeding on her side. “I realize this isn’t the time to ask who this woman is or how you know her, but… Do you know which agency she’s with?”
Colt snapped his head up. “You think she’s CIA?”