Future Under Fire - Trish McCallan Page 0,93

did exactly what you had to do to survive. And got yourself shot in the process. If you hadn’t taken him out first, he would have killed you. Even if we’d traded the disk for you like Tag insisted, Mitch would have killed you before letting you go. You know that, right?”

Sarah’s mouth dropped open in surprise. She barely heard the rest of his words. Only that one sentence mattered. “Brett asked you to trade the memory chip for me?”

Lucas’s lip quirked. “He didn’t ask. It was more of a demand.”

Sarah grimaced. “I bet that didn’t go over well with your boss.”

His mouth suddenly tight, Lucas leaned forward again, right up against her bed rails. “Dev would have done it. We all would have done it. We would have done whatever it took to get you back, Sarah. Whatever it took.” He paused. Studied her face. “How do you feel about Mitch?”

You mean how do I feel about killing Mitch?

Because that’s what he was really asking. They both understood that.

She frowned, looked away from his concerned gaze. Mitch made the second man she’d killed in forty-eight hours. The first one? Porter Hayes? Yeah, he still haunted her. She had regrets about that. But Mitch?

She frowned again and shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t feel anything.”

No horror. No shock. No rage. Or fear. No sadness. Nothing.

She’d taken a man’s life and felt nothing. Somehow that seemed almost worse.

“He shot Tag. Just left him there to die,” Lucas stressed, as though justifying her own actions to her.

“I know.”

A scowl twisted his forehead, as though he thought she were second guessing that crucial decision. “He would have killed you too, once you were of no use to him.”

“I know that too.” Sensing he wasn’t going to let it go, she tried to explain. “Under the same circumstances, I would do the same thing. There was no other choice. I did what I had to.” She paused, sighed. “I guess I just thought I’d feel regret, or sorrow, or something. I took a man’s life, after all.”

Grim knowledge hardened his face. “The regrets will come soon enough, no need to usher them in sooner.”

“I guess.” Her voice trailed off. He was probably right. She had one dead man haunting her already. No need to add a second one.

“Did you guys figure out what’s on the disk?” Which led to another question. “How long was I unconscious?”

“No on the disk. I haven’t made it back to Best Buy to pick up the laptops.” Lucas lifted his wrist and consulted his watch. “And you were out for two hours, give or take.”

Two hours? “How long has Brett been in surgery?”

“About the same.” Lucas frowned, hovering beside the bed.

He obviously wanted to go check with Devlin, see if there was any news from the surgeon, which sounded like a fine idea to her.

“Go,” she urged him. “Find out if Devlin’s heard anything.”

He looked torn, but finally turned toward the door. “Don’t go anywhere.” He flashed her a rugged smile. “I’ll be right back.”

As she settled back against the hard pillow, Lucas’s words echoed through her mind.

Even if we’d traded the disk for you—like Tag insisted…

Brett had been willing to give up the memory card for her? He’d been willing to let Mitch off the hook, let the gunrunners go free? For her?

For a second, hope unfurled. She ruthlessly strangled it. This information changed nothing. It didn’t mean he’d forgiven her. It didn’t mean he still loved her. No doubt he’d make the same sacrifice for anyone if it would save their life.

Lucas’s admission changed nothing.

Brett had made it crystal clear that he no longer loved her.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Shot!?” Tag rocked up in bed, his voice rising to a roar, until it filled every corner of the hospital room. “She was shot? What the hell?” He’d been conscious now for four fucking days and nobody had bothered to fill him in on that disturbing piece of news? “What the hell’s wrong with you?” He glared at Tram. “You should have told me.”

“Why?” Tram asked with an unconcerned shrug, unrepentance alive and unwelcome on his face. “Nothing you could do about it.” He paused to lift his eyebrows and stared pointedly at Tag’s chest. “Except get all worked up and pull your damn stitches out—again.”

Which was when Tag noticed that familiar irate burning beneath the medical dressings taped to his back and chest. Fuuuuck. He gingerly settled back against the pillow. He better not have pulled those damn

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