CHAPTER 7
THE CAR’S AC didn’t work well, but it did use up gasoline, so Zach had turned it off. Now open windows offered the only relief from the scorching midday heat. It was like driving through a blast furnace.
It still beats being outside in eighty percent humidity.
Natalie wasn’t so sure she believed herself on that point. But then it had been a long time since she’d spent a summer in New Orleans.
Sweat trickled down the back of her neck and between her breasts, the discomfort making her cross. Or maybe that was lack of sleep. Or fear.
Somewhere out there, killers were hunting for them.
She drew up to a stop sign, the word “ALTO” spelled out in big white letters against a red background that had been bleached by the sun. She stopped, looked both ways, then pressed on the gas again, not another car in sight.
Beside her, Zach loaded bullets one by one into a magazine, his fingers moving with a speed that clearly came from experience, sweat beading on his temples.
A gun he’d said was an AK-47 rested between his legs, its business end pointing toward the floor.
As she watched him, she knew he’d been in situations like this before—up to his neck in trouble and ready to fight.
With his thick stubble, dirty, torn jeans, skintight marijuana T-shirt, and hardened physique, he certainly looked like a man who lived his life armed and dangerous.
Yet no matter how dangerous he might be, she couldn’t help but worry about him.
Given how tired she was, she knew he must be exhausted, not to mention in pain, the lines of strain on his face and the dark circles beneath his eyes more noticeable in naked daylight.
She’d half expected him to fall asleep the moment the car started moving, but he hadn’t closed his eyes once.
He was alert, his body radiating tension, his mind sharp.
Still, no man could hold out forever, no matter how strong or hardened he was.
“Your driver’s ed teacher would be proud. Not another car as far as the eye can see, but still you come to a complete stop.” His gaze met hers over the top of mirrored sunglasses, the glint of humor in his gray eyes making her pulse skip.
Oh, no, girl! You are not attracted to him.
“You told me not to draw people’s attention.”
How could she find him attractive? He was a crook, a criminal, a man who stole cocaine and shot people and ate dirty grapes off the floor of an arachnid-infested cell—not a gentleman like Beau.
The fact that he was also tall, strong, brave, and still had enough goodness left inside him to help her escape the Zetas didn’t matter.
“That was back on the highway. I didn’t want you to attract attention from the cops because some of them work for the Zetas.” He glanced around. “But I doubt you’ll find any cops lurking behind these old saguaros.”
And just like that, she felt like an idiot.
Her cheeks burned. “Sorry. I didn’t think . . . I’m not used to . . . I guess I’m just tired and not thinking clearly. I’m doing the best I can.”
“Do you know what happens if our best isn’t good enough?” His gaze met hers again, any hint of humor gone. “We die.”
Fear made her snap at him. “I know that!”
She hadn’t forgotten that they were running for their lives, but she hadn’t thought of it quite like that either, his stark words making her stomach knot.
“I’m not saying this to try to scare you, Natalie. We both need to do better than our best if we’re going to survive.”
If they were going to survive?
Natalie didn’t like the uncertainty of that. “Do you really think they’ll come after us with a helicopter?”
“Cárdenas is the ultimate narcissist. We escaped from him, killed five of his men, stole arms, ammunition, and a car from him. His ego won’t be able to stand it.
Hell, yeah, he’ll come after us with a helo.
He’ll send ground troops. He’ll alert the cops and federales who work for him.
By leaving the highway, we’ve bought ourselves some time.
But his men are out there, Natalie, and they’re hunting for us. ”
She pushed on the gas, nudging the needle past seventy.
Outside the window, drab, parched hills rose from drab, parched plains that stretched as far as the eye could see, stands of tall cactus and scraggly shrubs dotting a brown landscape that shimmered with heat.
Other than the occasional jackrabbit that darted across the road, Natalie hadn’t seen any sign of life.
It certainly didn’t seem possible that they were on the outskirts of a big city, but Zach insisted that Chihuahua wasn’t far ahead and that the only way to reach it safely was to take the back roads.
They’d been making good time on Mexico 45 when he pulled out one of the Zetas’ cell phones and called someone named Carlos, his Spanish sounding like gibberish to her—something about new houses, bridges, and goat horns.
All he’d told her afterward was that they needed to get off the highway and ditch this car.
Then he’d pulled out the phone’s SIM card, tossed the phone out the window, and told her to take the next exit.
Only later had it dawned on her that his phone call might have had less to do with getting her safely home and more to do with the stolen cocaine.
She’d been on the brink of asking him once or twice about the coke but had thought the better of it.
She couldn’t afford to have him dump her by the side of the road out here in the middle of the desert.
The landscape was every bit as deadly as the Zetas.
And with nothing stronger than a promise to keep him from abandoning her, she needed his goodwill. She wouldn’t say anything.
Not yet.
“THIS ISN’T WORKING!”
Zach raised his head and glanced up to where Natalie was bent over a mesquite branch, trying to rub out the car’s left tire tracks, her hair tied back, the AK she’d insisted on carrying slung over her shoulder like an ugly purse. “Put more muscle into it.”
“Easy . . . for you . . . to say.”
It was hard work, and he supposed having two X chromosomes made it tougher. Then again, none of this had been easy for her.
You’ve been hard on her, too, McBride.
Yeah, he had been.
He’d done well enough when he’d been in chains and needed her help, but for the past few hours all he’d done was issue orders.
But she wasn’t a SEAL. She wasn’t a deputy U.S.
marshal either. And she sure as hell wasn’t an enemy combatant or a fugitive.
She was an innocent civilian, a young woman who’d suffered more than her share of tragedy, who’d witnessed a massacre, who’d been kidnapped and assaulted, who’d been forced to kill.
She deserved his respect—and some damned human kindness, if he could manage it.
Yet his first priority was getting her safely home again. And that meant staying focused on the objectives, which, at the moment, were evasion and escape.
Driving the Tsuru down into the arroyo had been a bitch.
Zach had made Natalie get out of the car just to be safe, and for a few seconds he’d thought he was going to roll the damned thing or get stuck in the sandy, dry bottom.
But the vehicle was now concealed beneath a concrete bridge, hidden from anyone who might drive by or fly overhead.
Once its tire tracks were wiped out, it would take an expert in cutting sign to know they were there.
Or that was the theory, anyway.
He walked slowly backward, swishing the branch across the sandy soil as he went, careful not to fall down the steep bank as the ground became softer and less stable. He was about to warn Natalie to watch her step, when he heard her gasp. He looked up in time to see her tumbling toward him.
He reached out and stopped her fall. “You okay?”
She sat up, nodding. “I’m a little dizzy, but I’m fine.”
He took one look at her face and knew that wasn’t true. She was flushed, but she wasn’t sweating. “You’re dehydrated.”
She looked puzzled. “I’m not thirsty.”
Not good.
He’d seen men die from the heat in Afghanistan as medics struggled in vain to save their lives. He knew that dizziness and lack of thirst were not good signs.
“Let’s get you into the shade.” He drew her to her feet, slid an arm around her waist, and guided her over to the car and into the passenger seat, taking the AK from her.
He propped the rifle against the car, then reached into the backseat for a bottle of water, ripped off the cap, and pressed it into her hands.
Too bad there were no powdered electrolytes to go with it.
“Drink. A few gulps, then regular sips.”
While she drank, he touched his palm to her forehead, and was relieved to feel that her skin was neither clammy nor feverishly hot. She was definitely dehydrated and on her way to overheating, but she didn’t have heatstroke. Not yet.
You pushed her too hard, you dumb shit.
She looked up at him. “Were you a paramedic in your past life or something?”
“No.” He dug through the crap in the backseat for the first-aid kit, then pulled out a cotton washcloth. “But I do know a few things about first aid.”
“That’s a good skill for someone in your, um . . . line of work.”
“You got that right.” He would’ve loved to hear what line of work she thought he was in, but this wasn’t the time. “Quit talking, and keep drinking.”
You’re giving orders again.
He grabbed another bottle of water and dropped to his knees beside her, then poured out enough water to thoroughly wet the washcloth and pressed it against her forehead and cheeks, hoping to bring down her core temp.
She sighed, her eyes drifting shut. “Oh, that feels good.”
A bolt of heat shot through his belly straight to his groin.
His mind knew her response hadn’t been sexual, nothing seductive intended, but his body apparently didn’t. He drew his hand back, knowing he was in trouble. But then she turned her head, exposing the side of her throat, and he couldn’t resist.