Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Cold.
The kind that reached his bones, settled in the depths of his soul. That signaled he was almost out of time.
Nick clenched his jaw, shoved everything down. The bite of the tourniquet, how his leg throbbed with every slow beat of his heart, or the way his fingers tingled from the blood loss. He inhaled, not that it helped, each breath too shallow, too ineffective, washing his vision into a patchy gray.
Sloane had sent a reply several minutes ago — COMING — 15 — HOLD POSITION. DON’T FUCKING DIE. All caps. What he assumed was her barking out an order. Her way of getting him riled, keeping his head in the game.
One of the things he loved most about her. How she always knew which button to push to get the response she wanted. And she obviously wanted him motivated. Angry, even, at having her ride to the rescue. What she figured would keep him alive the longest.
She wasn’t wrong.
He focused on breathing, on keeping his damn eyes open as the minutes ticked away, all that resolve slowly bleeding into the stone.
Into the press of the rocks against his torso, the steady drip of blood down his leg.
He tried to shift, nearly blacked out, that warning voice in his head shouting at him.
And it didn’t take a medic to know he might have finally come out on the wrong side of a few inches.
He shook his head, straightened, gaze snapping to his phone. To the blip he’d banked his hope on. How it moved with impossible speed down the highway, then onto some obscure forest road.
A renewed flicker of hope cut through the dread until her icon stopped, lingered at some crossroads with a logging spur.
One minute. Then two.
No movement, just that blue dot pulsing in place.
All his hope going up in flames.
She was in trouble.
He knew it. Sensed it. The primitive part of his brain still functioning. He tapped the screen, willed her to move, but the dot stayed over that intersection, the truth glaring up at him.
That maybe she was out of time, too.
Voices.
Drawing closer.
Starting and stopping, scuffs sounding between.
They were searching in a grid formation. Inspecting anything remotely large enough to hide a body. And it was only a matter of time before they found him.
He could wait, maybe take one or two of them with him — go down guns blazing. Or he could move — toward Sloane. Give her some much-needed backup.
Images of her walking into an ambush, facing multiple tangos with nothing but her Glock and the fury of a caged badger looped in his head. And he realized her facing that alone terrified him more than taking another bullet. Having to confront the assholes hunting him while teetering on the brink.
He drew in a breath, worked his way out of the fissure, every twist pure agony. Sweat beaded his skin, pain a constant, thudding rhythm in his leg, as he leaned against the cliff, tried to clear his head.
Hearing those assholes nearing the tree line off to his left got him stumbling across the small opening, using anything waist high as a tether. A rock, a tree, a low-hanging branch. One brace to another until he’d faded back into the forest.
Not that it would take long for them to track him down. Once they discovered the fissure — the pool of blood he’d likely left behind — they’d follow his footprints. The slight drag of his left leg through the moss and mud, the bloody handprints smeared across any decent-sized rock.
He’d deal with them. Whatever it took to reach Sloane before…
He shoved down any doubts, kept slogging his way through the wet ferns until he reached a nondescript fork in the road, one deer path heading left, the other right.
Neither seemed all that familiar, the scenery nothing more than a wash of green and gray.
He looked at his phone, judged which way would take him to Sloane the fastest, then turned right, took a step.
A whoosh, then a bullet cracking a trunk behind him, spitting wood back at him. He dropped, then rolled beneath a thick pocket of salal, gun shaking in his hand, streaks washing across his vision.
The men emerged out of the trees like a pack of wolves, silent, focus set on where his shadow had been a moment earlier.
They closed in on the branching paths, scanning each way before the lead asshole pointed left.
What likely headed back toward the lodge.
They took off, boots sinking into the ground, weapons notched in their shoulders.
Nick waited until they vanished, any hint of sound bleeding into the rustle of leaves as the wind picked up, trees swaying back and forth, the odd squeal as two trunks rubbed together. He checked his phone, inhaled.
Cracks covered the screen, a sliver of lead lodged in the front. A piece of the damn bullet that had ricocheted. While the cell had saved him from another minor wound, it had destroyed his one lifeline.
His tether to Sloane.
A strangled laugh tried to bubble free, but he crushed it, staggered down the right trail, navigating on pure instinct. The pain ebbed a bit, more like the distant roar of the ocean than the white-hot raging river it had been. A clear indication he was losing the battle.
Shock, the clinical part of his brain noted.
He ignored it, pushed on, when movement sounded ahead of him. Not the quiet professionalism of the tangos, something else. Something equally lethal.
A scuffle.
A muffled grunt.
A single, panicked shout cut short.
Then silence. A predatory emptiness that made the hairs on his arms stand up.
He shuffled over to a massive cedar, flattened his body against the trunk — Sig raised shoulder high, arms shaking like he needed a hit. The air shifted behind him, then a shadow peeled off the trees, lean, compact.
He aimed, his gun wobbling, breath rasping.
The figure snorted, tilted its head, their face a wash of skin and hair. “If you pull the trigger, Colter, you’re gonna ruin one hell of a rescue.”
Nick inhaled, tripped onto one knee as everything slid out from beneath him. “Tierney?”
Tierney O’Rourke — former-Interpol and a ghost from Nick’s past. She’d been part of an incident response team assigned to Nick’s joint task force when she’d been ambushed — presumed dead until he’d come face-to-face with her when he’d helped out Bodie a couple months back.
The off-the-books mission that had swayed him to finally leave the CIA behind.
Tierney had carved out a new life for herself as a guide in the small, coastal town, though, she carried the scars of her experience beneath the surface like a festering wound. Had all but isolated herself from the rest of the world.
She stepped into the fading light, golden-brown hair tied into a high ponytail, her blue eyes drinking everything in. She darted over to him, crouched low. “Guess you’re not dead, yet, if you recognize me. Though, judging on how much blood you’re leaving behind, you’re not that far from the grave.”
She heaved him to his feet, bracing most of his weight. “Your buddies weren’t very friendly. Had to knock them out just to keep them from squealing.”
Nick snorted, the innocuous motion rolling his eyes. “You eliminated five guys?”
She looked at him as if he’d struck her. “Please, I was MI6 when I got shuffled off to Interpol for a three-year gig.”
“I know how Interpol works.”
“Then, your obvious lack of faith in my abilities hurts, Colter.”
“It’s not…” He grunted, sagging a bit before she adjusted her grip, shouldered more of his weight. “Did Bodie send you?”
A tentative smile curved her lips. “Buck. Sent me a nine-one-one text as soon as your consult went sideways. Claimed his favorite spook had gotten separated. Took heavy fire, and I needed to get my ass over here. Say hello.”
“I’m the only spook he knows.”
“Guess that’s why you’re his favorite, then. And luckily for you, I was only five miles away, scouting a new trail. Made good time.”
Nick arched a brow. “You always scout new terrain with a carbine?”
She scrunched up her face. “The real question is, why don’t you?”
“It was a consultation. Bodie prefers a calmer, less weaponized approach before we’re hired.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
He grinned. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed her sense of humor. “As you can see, I’ve got everything under control.”
“Right, except for where you’re about to pass out from blood loss. Guess your consult didn’t go as planned.”
“I’ve had better meetings. Worse, too. Though, right now, we need to get to Sloane. She was on her way here when she just stopped. Last time my phone worked, she was stuck at a logging spur junction a few miles north of here.”
“Pretty sure I know the place, but there’s no way you’re walking all that way. In fact, my truck’s only a couple klicks south, and you’d be lucky to make it halfway.”
“I’m not giving up on Sloane—”
“Relax, jackass, I didn’t say we weren’t going after her.” She motioned down the path he’d started on. “These boys have a Silverado parked at the head of this trail. Close enough even you should be able to drag your ass there before passing out.”
“Like you said. I’m not dead, yet.”
“Another thirty minutes with you bleeding the way you are…”
He huffed, started shuffling, each step an exercise in willpower.
In forcing his feet forward, not falling face-first into the mud.
Tierney guided him along, gaze constantly searching the forest, rifle at a low ready.
It seemed to take forever to cover the short distance down the trail, emerge onto an overgrown logging road, pockets of broom and salal choking the two-track.
A dark-gray, heavy-duty Chevy pickup sat angled across the dirt, mud sprayed up the sides. Tierney arched her brow, silently asking if he could balance on his own for a moment before she folded back into the trees, reappearing a minute later on his other side.
She looped his arm around her shoulders, again, got them moving. “Area’s clear. Hopefully, it stays that way.”