Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Ellis needed to disappear. Not tomorrow or in a few hours. Now. Before Brett and his team started making plans. Calling in chits. While they were still regrouping at the safehouse. Still riding the adrenaline high. All she had to do was get to the closest exit and run.
It shouldn’t be hard. A trip to the washroom, then out the window. Gone in under thirty seconds. Five minutes. Maybe ten before they clued in. Came knocking. Not much of a head start, but it might be enough to vanish—save Brett’s team from ending up like Six. Bleeding. Life riding on a Hail Mary.
She wouldn’t survive. Not alone. But, at least, she’d die without their blood on her hands—the ones permanently stained with Six’s.
It didn’t matter how many times she washed them—scrubbed them raw—the red wouldn’t fade.
Wouldn’t leave her mind—the image of him beside her.
Pale. Jaw clenched in pain, but still thinking about her. Her safety. Her life.
She’d forgotten what that was like. Having a team.
People who’d take any risk, make any sacrifice, if it meant their brothers would live.
She might not be one, but he’d extended her the same courtesy without knowing all the facts.
Because she’d meant something to Brett, once.
Which was crazy, now that she’d read the letter—knew how it had all played out.
They should have dumped her ass at the hospital.
Cut their losses when they’d figured out she was radioactive—a lethal commodity that would spill over into their ranks. Get them all killed.
But they hadn’t. Had risen to the challenge time and again. And she’d let Six down. Hadn’t run fast enough or dodged quick enough—and he’d taken the bullet meant for her.
The realization screwed with her head. Her thoughts.
None of the NCS agents she’d worked with would have done that.
Would have shielded her—dragged her along.
Hell, she was pretty sure Brett would have hiked her up on his shoulder and kept running if she’d puked.
Passed out like she thought was going to happen because her body just couldn’t keep up.
Maintain his brutal pace. And he wouldn’t have slowed down.
Would have fought through the pain, the fatigue because that’s what he did. What they all did.
It was humbling. Sitting among them. Seeing them all in a new light. They were true warriors. Men without limits. Without fear. And she’d be the reason they died.
She couldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t.
Ellis pushed to her feet, mumbled something about needing to pee, then headed straight for the door down the left side of the hall.
The stupid push lock wouldn’t slow the men down—maybe a second or two.
Just long enough to boot the fucker in. But if she could get the window open—jump out before they came knocking—she might pull it off.
Her clothes were soaked. Sweat. Rain. Blood. Brett had mentioned he’d get her more—extras that Cannon had in the back of the Jeep from a recent stakeout they’d done together—but there wasn’t time. It was ticking down, every second another chance for McCormick to find her—send another wet squad.
She knew him. Knew how he worked. What his thought processes were.
He’d send his own men, this time. Former-Special Forces soldiers just like Brett.
Like Cannon. Men who’d trained to kill. To complete their mission at any cost. And they’d have more resources.
RPGs. Grenades. Drones armed with machine guns or missiles.
Maybe some kind of chemical agent. Whatever it took.
Whatever the toll. McCormick would pay it, if it meant he’d win.
Ellis hit the washroom door already working through steps four and five. Was mentally preparing to shove down the pain in her side. The heavy feeling in her legs. She didn’t know how far she’d get, but it would have to be enough. She’d make it enough.
A quick glance at the window as she stepped inside made her pulse kick up.
Contact alarm. Decent looking lock. Nothing she couldn’t bypass, but it would take time.
Time she didn’t have because she knew Brett.
Knew all of them. They were still edgy. Still on high alert, and they’d subconsciously have a set number of minutes inside their heads that was appropriate for taking a leak.
Splashing some water on her face. Washing her hands, again.
And they’d be kicking that door down once that timer had run out.
If she wasn’t far enough away, hadn’t requisitioned a car or found a sewer to hide in, they’d be on her. And she’d be back to being their weak link. Signing their death certificates.
Adapting wasn’t fun, but she’d learned. She grabbed the handle, shoved the door closed, only to have it stop a few inches from fully shutting. Fingers grasped the edge, one large black boot wedged against the frame. Then, Brett was inside, crowding her against the sink, ruining all her plans.
She palmed his chest, was in the process of shoving him away, figuring out how to still make it all work, still get away, when he kissed her. Slid one hand around the back of her neck, threaded his fingers through her hair and sealed his mouth to hers.
Heaven. That’s what he tasted like. Pure.
Sweet. One swipe of his tongue, and she was lost. Opening for him.
Surrendering. Her fingers fisting around his sweater—pulling him closer.
If she could have wrapped her legs around his waist without falling—making him break his hold in order to catch her—she would have.
Instead, she hooked her foot around his calf. Rode his damn thigh as he nudged her to the side of the sink then pushed her against the wall. All those big firm muscles flexing and releasing, keeping her trapped as he traced every inch of her mouth, bit at her lips then down the side of her neck.
Ellis let her head fall against the wall, angling over when he nipped at the soft spot behind her ear.
She gasped in a breath, looking him in the eyes when he broke away.
Smiled. Then, he was back. Harder than before, grabbing her arms and pinning them above her head—just like she’d wanted him to do earlier.
Before their world had gone sideways. Before she’d nearly gotten Six killed.
She must have stiffened. Gasped. Something because Brett froze. Mouths still joined, bodies flush against each other, one hand cinched around her wrists, the other resting on her rib cage. Just above her wound as if he was reminding himself not to touch her there.
He remained still for several heartbeats before lifting his lips from hers, giving her a bit of space. He studied her face, searching her eyes, glancing longingly at her mouth before sighing—easing up on his grip.
He raised his other hand, ran his thumb along her jaw. “It’s not your fault, El. Whatever happens, it’s because we chose to fight. You’re not to blame.”
Tears stung her eyes, blurring his face as she fought not to let them fall. Her chin quivered, shaking through her arms until he finally let go. Backed up.
She wrapped her arms around her ribs, bracing her weight against the wall. “But it is. I’m to blame. For all of it. For putting your friends in danger. Getting Six shot. If I hadn’t shown up on your doorstep—if I’d just kept on running—”
“You’d be dead.”
“Better me than Six. Or Cannon. Or y…”
She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t chance voicing it in case some weird act of fate made it happen. Turned her worst fear into reality.
He snorted. “You always were stubborn. And I’d die a thousand times over if it meant you’d live.
Always would have. Always will. I know I let you down, and I’ll have to live with that.
Knowing you were hurt. Trapped. Waiting for me.
You didn’t say it before, but the truth is…
You needed me to save you. And I didn’t. ”
The tears she’d been holding back, fell. Slipping off her chin to land on his hand.
Brett frowned, wiping the next few away. “I can’t make up for that. But I’m not going to fail you, again. So, all those plans you made—about ditching us. Climbing out that window and running off. Hot wiring a car or holing up in some cockroach-infested motel—forget them. Not happening.”
“But…how?”
He laughed, this time. “I could always read you, sweetheart. From the first day we met. It was like we were vibrating on the same frequency. Dancing to the same song. Had you pegged from the moment you walked through the door—stared down at your hands. Which means, it’s time to talk.
Really talk. About McCormick. The CIA. All of it.
I know I don’t really deserve your trust, but I’m asking for it, regardless.
Begging, in fact. Please, El. Help us get this bastard. ”
Holy shit.
He’d nearly screwed it all up. Nearly failed her, again. If he’d been one minute slower. Hadn’t been watching her, deciphering every twitch of her lips, every flex of her muscles, Colt would have missed the signs. Would have let her waltz into the bathroom without a second thought.
And she would have disappeared.
He knew it. Despite the alarms, the locks, the damn cameras panning the perimeter, Ellis would have broken ranks and taken off. And Colt never would have seen her, again. Not alive.
Like he’d told her. Not happening. He might not have ridden to the rescue before—hadn’t been the man she’d needed him to be—but he would be, now.
Would stand between her and whatever this asshole, McCormick, threw her way.
Shot. Stabbed. Barely breathing or bleeding out—as long as he had one neutron still firing.
One ounce of strength left, he’d have her back.
No more running. No more hiding. All she had to do was let him.