CHAPTER NINETEEN
QUINN
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Noah!
All my training slams to the prefrontal cortex of my brain as Noah collapses to the ground with two beefy men standing over him. They wear black masks and caps so I can’t see their faces, and they’re carrying machine guns.
I crouch down in the shadows, clenching my fists as my anger boils up. I consider my best course of action. Do I run back and get someone?
Yell out?
I don’t have any phone numbers for the BHS crew, and my phone will light up if I use it.
Shit.
I can’t make out what they’re saying, but Noah isn’t moving, and I doubt they’ll have long before he wakes up. A minute or two at most.
Unless they shoot him.
In the distance, I hear voices. Over here, over here! I say in my head, but they can’t hear my mental pleas, and I start to panic.
Oh my god, Noah.
What if they shoot him?
Nausea rises up, forcing me to swallow as my eyes dart around the scene, trying to think of a way out of this.
Goddamn it, I wish I were armed.
I freeze when they begin to drag him along the ground.
The hell are they doing?
I quietly slip behind a tree as they pass me, grateful they haven’t put a hole in his head or chest. Darting from one tree to another, I follow until they reach the Humvee Noah was driving.
I saw Noah’s outline in the dark when he jumped out—I would know his body anywhere—and then quietly called out his name.
God, was I responsible for drawing attention to him?
I should know better.
Fuck!
Who are these men? Are they the cartel that Noah mentioned, the same ones who rigged the rope?
It must be them. I have no idea why they would want to interfere with our training. Well, aside from the fact that we fuck with their illegal activities.
They did all this for that reason?
We don’t have intensive training on gangs and cartels.
There is gang awareness among troops and dependents focusing on tattoos, symbols and hand signs, for example.
This is to prevent the infiltration or recruitment of them into the armed forces.
They try to join for weapons training, although from what I understand it’s not a huge problem.
Usually, so I understand, significant training is done by the National Guard and special forces such as the SEALs, Rangers and Marines. I guess these guys know what they are doing.
Unfortunately, cartels have adopted many of our tactics, so staying on top of that level of training is key. I haven’t reached that level yet.
What if I were pregnant?
Or married.
Knowing they have Noah is blurring my thinking. We’re trained to stay clearheaded, not let emotions interfere, but this is Noah! Noah!
My Noah!
Staying behind the last tree, I watch as the two men lift his huge two-hundred-and-fifty pounds into the Hummer.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” one of the men with a Spanish accent says, leaping into the driver’s seat and firing it up.
Shit.
They are cartel.
Then it hits me. Where do they think they’re going? The compound is alert and awake with BHS special forces armed and looking for them.
As the vehicle spins in the dirt and turns, I don’t think, I just run. I run and latch onto the back of the Humvee, clinging to it, grateful I’m wearing black sneakers and a hoodie.
I should have pulled on my camo pants, but I wasn’t expecting to be hitching a ride with the Mexican cartel in the middle of the damn night.
So hopefully my pink sleep shorts will stay put.
My hands burn as sections of the barely familiar compound pass me by. How the hell do they think they’ll get past the guards at the gate?
With their machine guns, of course.
Shit, this is going to get dangerous. I need to jump off.
Noah.
What if they get out of the compound and...kill him. Oh God. I can’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen. I’ll...I’ll...I’m not going anywhere.
I tighten my grip as we pass through a dark area, and then they slow for a corner. I consider climbing over the tailgate and into the cab where Noah lies, but I can’t be sure they won’t see me.
I’m winging it by the minute, risking both our lives.
I lift my head a few inches and spot a black sheet folded on the floor and decide to go for it. After a huge bump, I scramble into the cab and slip under the sheet, grateful for my small frame.
I did it.
Noah is lying beside me, exposed. Hidden, I reach out and squeeze his arm.
He doesn’t wake.
I feel myself trembling, wondering how injured he is as the vehicle bumps aggressively on the path as we speed through the compound.
“Noah.” I slap his face, lifting an inch of the black sheet as much as I can risk.
Nothing.
Oh, my God.
Panic starts to sink in. This man I lo...like, care for, l...he could die if I don’t do something.
Suddenly voices outside the vehicle get my attention. I glance out of my hidden spot a little higher and see the lights coming from the main buildings.
Please, God.
Please let the BHS guys stop us so we can get Noah the medical help he needs.