he had to do was pick off the last two of Aranza’s men and make it back to the house in one piece.
Wade braced the stock of the rifle against his shoulder and crouched low enough to avoid being seen over the shelves. The old woman peeked above the checkout counter, and, at the sight of him, made a high-pitched squeak and hid once again.
A noise the next aisle over froze him in his tracks. He tilted his head, ears straining. There it was again: the light crunch of somebody stepping on debris one aisle over. Wade swung the barrel toward the sound and laid out a quick burst of gunfire. But instead of a grunt of pain, all he heard was the screech of tires.
Wade spun around as a car plowed through the front of the building. The force of the impact sent a wall of shelves in his direction, throwing him back against the refrigerated coolers.
Buried in debris, he struggled to get up. His left arm ached and his right leg throbbed as he shoved a wire rack off his chest and pushed up to his feet. But even though his ears were ringing, he heard the unmistakable rack of a shotgun.
“Hands up, asshole!” a male voice shouted in Spanish.
Wade cursed under his breath. His gaze flicked up to find two men, their weapons leveled at him.
The tall guy had a pistol, the shorter one a shotgun. Both appeared young, early twenties at the most, with lean builds and lots of tattoos. There was a hardness in their eyes that let Wade know they’d killed before and wouldn’t think twice about doing it again.
Fight back, or play along? Quickly, he weighed his options and decided to play along for the time being. Slowly, he raised his hands.
“Where’s the woman?” the taller one demanded. He inched closer, his aim never wavering from Wade’s head.
So they hadn’t caught Hope. That nugget of information loosened the tension in Wade’s chest. He replied in Spanish, “She’s probably at the police station by now. You might want to leave before they arrive.”
The shorter thug scoffed. He walked behind Wade and slammed the butt of his gun against the back of his head. “You think we’re afraid of the police?”
Wade stumbled forward, going down on one knee. A second blow connected with the side of his jaw, and the coppery tang of blood filled his mouth. Another made his vision blur, and he fought to remain conscious.
“Knock it off,” the taller man snapped. “El Señor said he’ll give us a bonus if he’s alive when we deliver him. Cuff him; he’s coming with us.”
Ignoring the irate shouts of the barista, Hope cut through the café and hooked a right onto the street, her pulse racing, heart hammering against her ribs, as she second-guessed—for the hundredth time—her decision to follow Wade’s orders.
Damn it, she should have stayed, even if it ticked him off. It wasn’t as if she were worthless in a fight. But the instant he’d opened fire on those men, her survival instincts had kicked into gear and the next thing she knew, she was halfway down the alley.
Eyes squinted against the sun, she darted across the street without even looking. Her only hope was to get help for Wade before it was too late. She loved him more than she’d even realized, and if anything happened to him, she’d blame herself until the day she died.
As she rounded the corner, the house came into view, and she nearly wept with relief. Lungs burning, stitch in her side, she ran as fast as her legs could carry her, cutting across the yard to the front door. Breathless, she shoved her hand into the pocket of her shorts, and cursed when she remembered Wade had the key. So instead she pounded on the door until it opened.
Austin stared down at her, concern creasing his brow. “Fuck, what happened?”
“Wade,” she said between gulps of air. “Ambush…we’ve got…help him.”
The gap between Austin’s dark eyebrows disappeared as he gripped her upper arm and ushered her into the house. Once in the kitchen, he sat her on one of the black padded stools, and then grabbed the first glass he could find, filled it with water, and handed it to her. “Drink, and then tell me everything that happened.”
She gaped at him. “What the—are you nuts? We don’t have time for—”
“I need your head clear, Dr. Chandler. Now drink, and then you can talk.”
She wanted to argue but