CHAPTER 11 Maeve
The sharp, terrifying sound of Richard Evans’s wet cough completely shatters the fragile, heated bubble inside the front seat of the SUV.
The ghost of Declan’s mouth is still burning against mine.
My fingers are still curled into the cold leather of the center console, my pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
But the adrenaline of the kiss vanishes instantly, replaced by a cold, absolute dread that settles in the pit of my stomach like a stone.
I stare over the backseat.
Richard is slumped against the side panel of the cargo area. His expensive gray suit jacket is ruined, soaked through with dark blood spreading from a gunshot wound low on his abdomen. He looks pathetic. He looks dying.
But the smile twisting his pale lips is pure malice.
"I have to admit," Richard wheezes, his head lolling back against the glass of the rear window. "I didn't peg you for the type to sleep with the hired help, Maeve. Although, considering he just shot up my lobby for you, I suppose the service is excellent."
Declan doesn't react to the taunt. He doesn't shift his posture. He sits completely still in the driver's seat, his bare chest rising and falling evenly, the Glock pointed squarely at the center of Richard’s forehead.
"You triggered a failsafe," Declan says. It isn't a question. It’s a demand for operational intelligence.
"I'm an accountant, Vance. We always have backups," Richard spits, wincing as a fresh wave of pain hits him.
He presses his bloody hand harder against his stomach.
"When the alarm went off in the server room, the system automatically compiled the security footage from the hallway. It packaged your face, Maeve’s face, and the GPS ping from my phone, and sent it directly to the local distribution head. "
My breath catches. The air in the car suddenly feels too thin to breathe.
"They know you burned them," Richard continues, his eyes locking onto Declan. "They know you took the girl. And they know exactly where this car is."
I look at Declan. I expect him to look panicked. I expect him to start the car and floor the gas pedal.
Instead, he slowly lowers the weapon by two inches. He doesn't look at Richard. He looks at me.
"Check his pockets," Declan orders quietly.
"What?" I blink, my brain struggling to process the command. "Declan, he just said they're tracking us."
"They are tracking his phone. Check his pockets, Maeve."
I swallow hard. I unbuckle my seatbelt, my hands shaking so badly the metal clasp clatters against the plastic console. I climb awkwardly over the center divider, my knees sinking into the soft leather of the backseat.
The smell of blood is overwhelming back here. It smells like copper and fear.
I crawl toward the cargo area. Richard watches me approach, his eyes glazed with pain but still sharp with hatred.
"You ruined my life," I whisper, my voice trembling as I reach toward his ruined suit jacket. "You framed me for forty million dollars."
"You poked your nose where it didn't belong," Richard sneers, his breath rattling in his chest. "You were a junior auditor. You were supposed to check the boxes and go home to your sad little apartment. But you had to be smart."
I ignore the insult. I plunge my hand into the inside pocket of his jacket. My fingers brush against the warm, sticky wetness of his blood, and a wave of nausea hits the back of my throat. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from gagging.
I find the heavy, rectangular shape of a smartphone. I pull it out. The screen is cracked, but the GPS icon in the corner is glowing a steady, bright white.
"I have it," I say, holding the phone up so Declan can see it in the rearview mirror.
"Drop it on the floorboard," Declan says. "Get back in the front seat."
I don't hesitate. I toss the bloody phone onto the carpet and scramble back over the console, dropping heavily into the passenger seat. I pull my knees up, trying to make myself as small as possible.
Declan finally turns his head, looking back at Richard.
"The cartel doesn't reward failure, Evans," Declan says, his voice devoid of any emotion. "You lost their money. You lost their ledger. They aren't tracking this phone to save you. They are tracking it to silence you."
Richard’s malicious smile falters. The reality of his situation—bleeding out in the back of a stolen car, hunted by the very people he tried to appease—finally seems to penetrate the shock.
"Take me to a hospital," Richard demands, his voice cracking. "I can pay you. I have offshore accounts the feds don't know about. I can double whatever the cartel was paying you."
Declan stares at him for three long seconds.
"I don't work for the cartel anymore," Declan says softly.
He shifts the SUV into drive. He doesn't turn the headlights back on. He hits the gas, the tires spinning on the icy gravel before catching traction.
We pull back onto the dark, empty county road.
"Where are we going?" I ask, my voice barely audible over the sound of the engine.
"We are abandoning the vehicle," Declan replies, his eyes scanning the dark tree line. "The GPS ping gives them a radius, not an exact coordinate. We have approximately twelve minutes before the first pursuit vehicles arrive in this sector."
"What about him?" I gesture toward the backseat.
Richard is groaning now, the pain clearly overriding his bravado. "You can't leave me here. I'll bleed to death."
"That is the most probable outcome, yes," Declan agrees, his tone entirely conversational.
I stare at Declan’s profile. The sharp angle of his jaw, the cold, calculating focus in his eyes. Ten minutes ago, this man was kissing me like the world was ending. Now, he is casually discussing the logistics of letting a man bleed to death in the back of a stolen car.
It is terrifying. And God help me, it is the only reason I am still alive.
Declan takes a sharp left turn down a narrow, unpaved logging road. The SUV bounces violently over deep ruts hidden by the snow. Branches scrape against the sides of the vehicle, the sound like fingernails on a chalkboard.
He drives for two miles deep into the woods, the darkness absolute.
Finally, he slams on the brakes. The SUV slides sideways in the mud before coming to a heavy stop against a thick embankment of snow.
"Out," Declan says.
He kills the engine. The sudden silence is oppressive.
I grab the door handle and push it open. The freezing Illinois air hits me like a physical blow. I stumble out of the car, my boots sinking ankle-deep into the freezing slush.
Declan is already out. He grabs his ruined black henley from the backseat and pulls it over his head, wincing slightly as the fabric drags across the fresh bandage I applied to his shoulder. He grabs a heavy tactical duffel bag from the floorboards and swings it over his uninjured shoulder.
"Vance!" Richard yells from the back of the car. The panic in his voice is absolute now. "You can't do this! I'll tell them everything! I'll tell them you took her!"
Declan walks around to the back of the SUV. He doesn't open the tailgate. He just stands there, looking at Richard through the tinted glass.
"They already know I took her," Declan says quietly. "And when they find you bleeding out in this car, they will know exactly what happens to people who put a target on her back."
He turns away from the car, walking toward me.
"Let's go," he says, grabbing my elbow.
"We're just leaving him?" I ask, my feet feeling glued to the mud. I hate Richard Evans. I want him to rot in a federal prison. But leaving a man to die alone in the freezing dark feels like crossing a line I can't uncross.
"If I shoot him, the acoustic signature will give away our position," Declan explains, his grip on my arm tightening. "If we take him, he slows us down and bleeds out on the trail. We leave him."
He doesn't wait for me to process the brutal logic. He pulls me away from the SUV, forcing me to walk into the dense, dark tree line.
The woods are freezing. The sleet cuts through the thin fabric of my tactical jacket, stinging my cheeks and making my eyes water. I stumble over a hidden root, my knee hitting the frozen ground hard.
Declan catches me before I can fall completely. His arm wraps around my waist, hauling me upright.
"Keep moving," he orders, his breath pluming in the cold air.
"I can't see anything," I gasp, my lungs burning.
"You don't need to see. You just need to follow me."
We walk for what feels like hours, but is probably only twenty minutes. The terrain is brutal. Every step requires effort. My legs are shaking, the adrenaline from the server room completely depleted.
Finally, the trees break.
We step out onto a narrow, two-lane asphalt road. Parked on the shoulder, completely dark and covered in a thin layer of ice, is a nondescript gray sedan.
Declan walks up to the driver's side door. He reaches under the wheel well, pulls out a magnetic hide-a-key, and unlocks the car.
"Get in," he says, pulling the passenger door open for me.
I practically fall into the seat. The interior is freezing, smelling faintly of stale coffee and old upholstery, but it is dry. I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs, my teeth chattering uncontrollably.
Declan throws the duffel bag into the back and gets into the driver's seat. He starts the engine. The heater kicks on immediately, blowing cold air that slowly turns lukewarm.
He doesn't turn on the headlights. He shifts the car into drive and pulls onto the empty road, navigating purely by the ambient moonlight reflecting off the snow.
I sit in the passenger seat, staring at the dark silhouette of the trees passing by.
My brain is a chaotic mess of conflicting data. I am a fugitive. My boss is bleeding to death in the woods. The cartel is hunting us.
And the man driving this car kissed me like he wanted to devour me.
I turn my head, looking at Declan. His profile is harsh, illuminated only by the faint glow of the dashboard. He looks completely focused on the road. The moment of vulnerability in the SUV feels like it happened in a different lifetime.
"You didn't answer my question earlier," I say. My voice is raspy, exhausted.
Declan glances at me, his dark eyes unreadable. "Which question?"
"In the car. Before Richard... interrupted." I swallow hard, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "I asked you why you took a bullet for me."
"I answered you."
"You said I was the only thing you couldn't afford to lose." I pull my jacket tighter around myself. "That isn't an answer, Declan. That's a possessive statement. It doesn't explain why."
He tightens his grip on the steering wheel. The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable. I think he is going to ignore me. I think he is going to retreat back behind his professional walls and pretend the kiss never happened.
"I have spent my entire life controlling variables," Declan says finally, his voice low and rough. "I don't take risks. I don't make mistakes. I don't let people close enough to become liabilities."
He hits the blinker, turning onto the ramp for the interstate heading west. Away from Chicago. Away from the mess we left behind.
"And then I watched you," he continues, staring straight ahead. "I watched you live your chaotic, messy, entirely unprotected life. And I realized that my control meant absolutely nothing if I couldn't use it to keep you safe."
He exhales a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders visible even in the dark.
"I didn't take a bullet for you because it was my job, Maeve," he murmurs. "I took it because the thought of you bleeding on that floor was the only thing in this world that actually terrifies me."
I stare at him. The confession is brutal. It isn't romantic. It is an admission of a psychological weakness he hates himself for having.
I should be terrified of the depth of his obsession. I should be planning a way to escape him the second we get back to Colorado.
But I look at his hands gripping the steering wheel. I look at the torn shoulder of his shirt.
I reach across the center console. I don't ask for permission. I place my hand over his on the steering wheel.
Declan freezes. He doesn't look at me, but I can feel the sudden, sharp intake of his breath.
I don't say anything. I just leave my hand resting over his, my fingers lightly tracing the faint scar on his knuckle.
For the first time since my apartment door was kicked in, I don't feel like I am running.
I feel like I am exactly where I am supposed to be.