No Lies in the Crosshairs

Chapter 1

Sean Clark

With my left hand on the wheel of the red Ferrari Portofino, and my right resting on my woman’s upper thigh, I let out a sigh. Best damn vacation ever.

My eyes flick off the road to catch Lillian’s stare. After six months, her seductive smile shouldn’t slay me. Even so, every goddamn time, my cock stirs.

Her fingertips walk up my leg, stopping at the painful bulge behind my fly. “What’s going on here?”

Chuckling, my beast raring to go, I shake my head. “You’re the one who insisted on driving home. I was willing to stay over.”

“And what? Call in sick? We promised to report back tomorrow.”

It’s a boner-killer, but she’s right. We need to find her father, send him to jail, and not get killed in the process.

Her tongue flicks over her lower lip as she unsnaps my top button. “I guess we could stop along the way… find a motel. Drive the rest in the morning.”

“Agreed… See what we did there?” My tanned hand dwarfs hers as I place mine on top. Softer, all female, it reminds me of everything I want in my life. “We compromised like an old married couple. Nothing to this relationship stuff. We should make it official.”

“Maybe… we’ll see.”

“Sweetheart, we’ve talked about this. I’m not going anywhere.” My stupid chest tightens at her far-off tone. Whatever is holding her back, I intend to erase it.

While my thoughts wander, she mutters into her phone, then holds it out. “There’s a motel about a mile down the road.”

Fast-approaching bright lights in the rearview mirror cut off my deliciously dirty retort. Foot on the clutch, my heart races as I change gears. “Shit. Brace.”

Pedal to the floor, all cylinders roaring, the dash gauges peg. Before our sports car can accelerate, a Ford F-150 pickup slams into our backside.

“What the fuck?” Lillian swivels in her seat as we fishtail on the slick road. “Was that on purpose?”

“Not sure.” Maneuvering the curves, we roar forward on the dark road. “Where’s the first turn?”

Eyes huge, face lit blue by her phone screen, Lil points out the front window. “Half mile. Sharp right.”

A glimpse of an angry young woman gripping her wheel flashes in my rearview mirror as our tail passes a lone streetlamp. What the hell is wrong with her?

Lightning streaks across the sky. Seconds later, we jump at the sudden clap of thunder. With the distance between us increasing, the few splashes of rain morph into a blinding downpour.

I flip the wipers to max.

Matching the beat of the blades, Lillian pokes the windshield. “There, turn now!”

“Hang on, sweetheart.” Jaw clenched, bent forward, I lift my foot off the gas and downshift.

Cranking the wheel, I barely miss a thick, ancient oak. As I swerve back onto the road, metal crunches with a tremendous bang behind us.

Fuck. The nutcase overshot the corner.

A quick K-turn later, facing the opposite direction, my headlamps expose the accident. The F-150 hit the tree, crumpling the whole front end.

Swallowing back anger, I regroup. Perhaps the young woman suffered some kind of mental breakdown. Regardless, she tried to run us off the road.

Glove compartment open, Lillian must agree because she hands me my Sig, followed by my Maglite. “Be careful.”

Ammo check complete, I click off the pistol’s safety. “Stay put. Call 911.”

A nod from Lillian, and I climb out into the frigid rain. Creeping forward, my left hand holds the flashlight while bracing the gun in my right.

When footsteps crunch the gravel behind me, I swivel for the ambush. Finger on the trigger, I turn, ready to fire.

“Jesus, Lillian.” My weapon lowers, heart racing. “I told you to stay put.”

“Someone needs to guard your sorry ass.” She scowls, her Beretta pointed at the puddle. “Let’s go. I’m freezing. Police are on the way.”

Argument tabled, we drop into the drainage ditch beside the road. While our sneakers squish in the ankle-deep, sewage-scented water, I aim at the truck’s back window. The driver doesn’t move. It’s possible the airbag knocked her out. Just as likely, she’s dead.

We inch past the pickup’s bed, inhaling fresh manure on our way to the door.

“She could be armed. Stay low.” Heart pounding, I shove Lillian behind me when the driver stirs.

“Help me.” The airbag muffles her cries.

No fool, I sweep the flashlight beam inside the cab. “Show me your hands.”

“I’m stuck.” Twentyish, dressed to party, bleeding from the mouth, she struggles to lift her arms above her head.

When I see her hands, I lower my weapon.

Lil does not.

“She moves, you shoot, babe.” I tug on the door handle. When that doesn’t work, I place one foot on the vehicle, yanking with all my might, but the crushed metal refuses to budge.

“I’m going back for a tire iron. You good?”

Lillian frowns, her Beretta steady. “Uh-huh. Who is she?”

“Damned if I know.” I race to the Ferrari, return with a lug wrench, and whack the window.

As the glass shatters, Lillian taps my shoulder. “Ambulance is ten minutes out.”

“She may not have that long.” Pocketknife in hand, I stab at the inflated canvas while the trapped woman coughs up blood.

“Sean?” Streaks of black mascara run down the driver’s attractive face. “Is it really you?”

“You know him?” My fiancée’s brows lift. Not at her. At me.

“You bitch.” Our attacker’s face skews. “He’s mine. I sold everything for him.”

When her bloody arm reaches through the crumbled glass, I step forward so her cold fingers clamp onto my forearm instead of Lil’s.

“I moved to the city like you asked.” Tears mix with blood as they run down her pretty face. “It was all a lie. How could you?”

She must’ve banged her head. Clearly, she’s delusional.

“Are you injured, miss?”

“I’m fine. And don’t shoot. I want to show you something. I’m going for my phone.” Turning, she reaches toward her purse, lodged between the front seats.

“Don’t pretend you don’t remember me,” she says. “Christmas? Brooklyn? Nondenominational Holiday Balls?”

My face heats. Not from guilt, but from what my fiancée must be thinking. “I’m sorry, Miss, you must have me mistaken for—”

“You fuck so many women, you can’t even remember? You bastard.” Face triumphant, she holds an old flip phone in the air, thumb over the enter button.

“Dammit!” My heart races as I recognize the eerily familiar body language.

Suicide bomber. Afghanistan.

Grabbing Lillian around the waist, I dive sideways into the ditch. We roll under the percussive heat wave and the eardrum-shattering explosion.

When I regain consciousness, I’m in the Kandahar desert where sand crams into every orifice in my body.

I shout out, “Medic!”

As adrenaline races through my veins, the ringing in my ears drowns out my voice. “Who’s with me? Call out.”

A sharp slap to my cheek sends Afghanistan back into the past, back into the mist.

Face hidden behind an inch of filth, my fiancée slips out from under me. Her lips move slowly, giving me time to read them.

“Sean? You there?”

Burnt rubber sears my lungs as I try to make sense of my surroundings. “Where’s my team? How long was I out?”

She grabs my hand and places it over my wounded thigh.

Right. Apply pressure.

“Can’t hear.” Head throbbing, I grab her wrist.

When she points her free hand to the edge of the ditch, I nod. She’s right. We need to get out of this water, but not until it's safe. Covered in sludge, she crawls through the black slime. A few feet later, she rises over the edge where an eerie orange-red glow dances across her pert features.

After she slides on her ass back to my side, her nails dig into my shoulders. “Are. You. With. Me?”

“Yeah. Mostly.” The explosion triggered my dammed PTSD, and it sucks. I thought I was done with that.

Eyes soft, her hands slip up my neck to cup my cheeks. “Can. You. Hear. Me?”

“A little.” Hopefully, the blast didn’t blow out my eardrums.

This time, she shouts, “The Ferrari’s toast. Dante’s going to be pissed.”

At the mention of our current employer, a bunch of memories slam into my brain at full speed.

Our vacation. The Ford. The crash. The manure. The stranger. A flip phone.

Leaning forward, I tug Lillian to my lips, devouring her like a man who just escaped death. When we break apart, I take a deep breath and stare into her eyes, wondering how the fuck I got so lucky.

“Babe?” My brows rise.

“Yeah?” she answers.

“The next time I suggest we stay one more night, no arguments. Okay?”

She grins, tugs my shirt collar, then yells close to my ear. “Depends. Exactly how many ex-girlfriends want you dead?”