Harlequin Intrigue June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Navy SEAL Newlywed\The Guardian\Security Breach (48 page)

“You are not,” Sandy said, lifting her head enough that he could slide his arm out. She laid her head back down on the pillow. “You're injured. You've hardly had time to recover. That's not a wimp. That's a very brave man.” She stretched and yawned, feeling tiny aftershocks of her climaxes. She moaned in languid pleasure.

Tristan stretched, too. Sandy watched him, admiring his lean torso and smooth golden skin. She reached out to touch his chest, but he suddenly froze for an instant, then jackknifed, uttering a cry of pain as he reached for his right leg.

“Tris? What's wrong?” she asked, sitting up to see what he was doing.

His fingers were gingerly massaging the muscle that was left on the inside of his calf. His face was distorted into a mask of pain. Sandy reached for him, but he shrugged away. He was breathing between clenched teeth and every so often another groan would escape his lips.

She saw the knotted muscles on the inside of his calf. They were bulging and twisted. This was the first time she'd seen the damage the sharks had done. The outside of his calf was horribly disfigured. There was nothing on there but skin pulled over bone and the scars of ugly, uneven stitches.

She pressed her lips together to hold back a moan at what she saw. The muscle that ran along the outside of his right calf had been ripped away by a shark's sharp teeth. There was no imagining the kind of pain he'd endured, and the physical agony had only been part of his suffering. He'd been plunged into dark, murky water filled with sharks. He'd been lucky not to have been sliced in two by the fish's sharp teeth.

“Oh, Tris, how did you stand it?”

He didn't answer her. But she felt a lessening of the tension in his body. The cramps were easing. His fingers relaxed and he leaned back against the pillows. When she dared to peer at his face, it appeared almost relaxed, as well.

“It's stopped hurting?”

He blew out a breath. “It stopped cramping. That's a big deal.” He let his head fall back against the pillow. His face was pale, but it was no longer a mask of pain. Within seconds, he was breathing softly and evenly. He was asleep.

Sandy smiled and touched the tip of her finger to the lines in the middle of his forehead. She smoothed them out as lightly and carefully as she could, then she leaned over and kissed him just at the corner of his mouth. He didn't seem to wake up.

She sank down into the bed and settled her head on the pillow. Now that he was no longer in pain, she felt comfortable going to sleep herself.

Tristan was here. She was safe.

Until all hell broke loose.

Chapter Eleven

“What the hell?” Tristan cried, his head filled with what sounded like the howling of the hounds of hell.

“Smoke alarm,” she muttered, groaning as she pushed the covers away. “I'll reset it.”

“No!” he yelled as he vaulted out of the bed, straightening his right leg carefully. He couldn't have it cramping again. Not now.

“Sandy!” he shouted to be heard over the siren. “Sandy! Get dressed. The house is on fire!”

“What?” She sat up and squinted.

“There.” He pointed toward the open door to the hall. Eerie orange and yellow reflections danced on the walls.

She got up and grabbed her jeans. “Oh, my God. I didn't leave the portable stove on, did I?”

“Hurry!” He had his jeans and tennis shoes on. He grabbed his shirt. “Lee did this.”

“Lee?” Sandy repeated as she pulled on her jeans and stepped into her Skechers flats.

“The man who tried to have me killed. Stay here. I'm going to see how bad the fire is. And stay away from the windows.”

“They're still out there?”

Just as she spoke, a very loud crack split the air, easy to hear above the blaring siren. She screamed.

“Get down!” Tristan yelled.

Sandy immediately dropped to the floor. “Was that a gunshot?” she asked incredulously. “They set fire to the house and now they're
shooting
at us?”

Tristan looked up. The bullet had come in high. It hit just under the crown molding. “Maybe not. That came in really high. Lee may have told them not to kill us.”

“Thoughtful of him,” Sandy said archly.

Tristan smiled. “I think we'll be okay. The alarm is hooked up to the fire department now, right?”

“No,” she said.

“Damn it, I told you to call them and—”

“I did. They couldn't get it to work this far out.”

Tristan cursed. “Okay. No problem.
Those guys
don't know it's not hooked up. They're not going to stay around long with the siren blaring like that,
and
I'll bet you Boudreau will open fire any second now.”

He heard something, a lower-pitched blast, still loud enough to overcome the siren. “There he is.” He walked over to the window.

“Tris? What are you doing? Get away from there.”

He didn't answer. He crouched down in front of the window and pulled the automatic pistol out of his jeans. He'd taken off the specially made magazine, so he couldn't use it on automatic, but he could let them know he was armed and dangerous.

He opened fire before he could identify anything to aim at. He aimed low, hoping not to kill anyone. The only person he'd ever killed was the unfortunate roughneck he'd dragged with him into the water on the oil rig. And that had been mostly accidental.

A bullet shattered the upper part of the window and slammed into the wall behind him about a foot above their heads. Maybe they weren't trying to miss them.

“Sandy, lie down on the floor. All the way down.” He didn't hear her if she answered him because at that instant a reverberating boom split the air.

It was Boudreau's shotgun. The Cajun had let loose with both barrels. The 12 gauge was an impressive weapon. It's only disadvantages were its weight and how few rounds it held.

Behind him, he heard Sandy say something, but she wasn't talking loud enough.

“What?” he shouted as another slug hit the wall barely a foot above his head. He fired back, still unable to see anything except the darkness and an ever-growing cloud of smoke from the fire. He could smell it now.

“Sandy?” he yelled. “Stay put. Boudreau's out there. This will be over in no time.”

She didn't answer.

“San?” he called, just as a slug whistled close to his ear. “Damn it! They are shooting to kill. San? Where are you?”

“I'm right here,” she said.

He glanced around and saw her crawling toward the closet.

“Get back behind the bed,” he yelled. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I need to get the box with all our photos,” she rasped, then coughed. “And all our papers.”

“No! You're going to get shot.”

“But all our papers will burn up. Our marriage license.”

Another slug whizzed past his ear, too close for comfort. “Damn it, Sandy. Get. Down!”

Boudreau's shotgun roared again, its low-pitched boom echoing through the air underneath the squeal of the siren.

Tristan ducked below the edge of the window and looked toward Sandy. She was on the floor, crawling back toward the far side of the bed.

At that instant a barrage of gunfire hit the window, sending shattered glass everywhere.

“Cover your head!” he yelled as he closed his eyes and did the same. Once the gunfire ceased, he eased his head up so he could see out. He saw something fiery red, lighting an arc in the darkness. A flare gun.
God bless Boudreau.

Tristan heard more gunfire, but it wasn't aimed toward the house this time. They were shooting at Boudreau. Another flare erupted and lit up in the dark.

In the red light, Tristan saw two moving shadows. He opened fire, forgetting his plan to try to avoid killing anyone. These people were shooting at them. They deserved what they got.

He saw the flare stop suddenly and heard a man scream. The flare had hit him square in the torso.

He fired again. “Shoot another one, Boudreau,” he muttered. “I need to see.” As if he'd heard him, Boudreau fired another flare that lit up the area with eerie red light. Tristan saw a moving shadow bending over, probably checking on his buddy. He aimed and fired and the shadow went down.

Tristan realized he was holding his breath. He blew it out and took a deep breath to replace it. But instead of clean, refreshing air, harsh smoke filled his lungs, throwing him into a painful coughing fit.

By the time he caught his breath, he heard the crunch of footsteps outside the window. He stiffened and aimed his weapon, wondering why he could suddenly hear. Then he realized the siren had stopped. The battery must have run down.

“Tristan!”

It was Boudreau, standing at the window. “Boudreau!” he yelled, triggering another coughing fit. He heard Sandy coughing behind him, too. “Are they down?”

Boudreau nodded. “One dead. One wounded. One running for the truck they came in. Let's go. The house is going up.”

“What?”

“You got to get out of there. You're inhaling smoke. Where's your wife?”

“Behind the bed. Sandy?” he called.

“Get her. That fire's out of control.”

Tristan turned away from the window. “Sandy, let's go. We've got to climb out the window. Boudreau will help you.” He backed toward the door to the hall.

“Where are you going?” Sandy asked.

“Go to the window, San. I'll be right behind you.”

He ran out of the bedroom and saw exactly what Boudreau was talking about. The whole front of the house was painted with an odd red-yellow color, swirled about with black.
Fire and smoke.

He'd been absolutely right when he'd told Sandy there was no time to save belongings. But he had to grab one thing. The flash drive that held the incriminating satellite phone conversations. That was why Lee had resorted to fire. He was determined to destroy any evidence of his involvement.

Shoving the nursery door open, he jerked the blue mobile down from over the bed. As he hurried back to the master bedroom, he felt around on the plastic decoration until he found what he was looking for. A blue rhinestone-studded flash drive in the shape of a baseball glove. He tossed the plastic mobile onto the floor and put the flash drive in his pocket.

Back in the bedroom, Sandy had barely moved. She was trying to get her feet under her, hanging on to a bedpost for balance.

He held out his hand. “Come on. We've got to get out of here. Boudreau's taken care of the bad guys.”

She didn't answer. She was almost passed out from the smoke. He pulled her to her feet. “Okay,” she wheezed. “I'm fine now.” But she was panting for air.

He held out his hand and Sandy took it, squeezing tightly. “Don't be afraid,” he said. “I'm right here.”

The shallow breaths became coughs. Once she started coughing she couldn't stop, not even long enough to catch her breath.

“Tristan, let's go.” Boudreau's head was turned, checking out the area around them. “You got to get her out of there. She's got too much smoke in her lungs.”

Tristan took a breath to answer, but all he breathed in was smoke. He started coughing, too.

“
Maintenant.
You both got to be breathing clean air—now!”

Sandy had quit trying. Her limbs were limp. She was exhausted from coughing and from lack of oxygen. He wrapped his arm around her waist to guide her.

“Try to climb up on the windowsill, San. Boudreau, help me. My leg's about to give out on me.”

“Sit her up on the sill,” Boudreau said.

Tristan managed to lift her by balancing most of his weight on his left leg.

“Do it...myself,” she muttered between coughs.

“Okay, Boudreau. Pull her out. She's exhausted.”

Boudreau's large hands caught her by the waist and lifted her out through the window.

“Got her!” he called.

Tristan managed to climb through the window, but when he let go and landed on the ground his leg gave way and he fell. His calf muscle cramped and he could do nothing but roll on the grass and massage the knots until the pain eased up.

“Get up, you,” Boudreau whispered. “The guy who ran for the truck's coming back. And there's a second man coming behind him.”

“Take Sandy and run to my Jeep,” Tristan said, massaging the muscle.

“
Non! C'est impossible.
They shot out your tires first thing.

“Sandy's car, then.” Tristan pushed himself to his feet.

“They're between us and her car. We'd have a shoot-out in the open and she's in no shape to run.” Boudreau kept an eye out for anyone approaching as he talked. “Now get up!” he snapped.

“And do what?” Tristan shot back. “Sounds to me like we're trapped here.”

“We've got to find cover. Somebody's gonna notice the smoke and the fire department will come. Meanwhile, we got to hide. Head for the cabin.”

Tristan helped Sandy to her feet and held on to her as she had another coughing fit.

“That's a surefire trap. They'll follow us and block the path.”

“
Oui
, but,
cher
, we know the swamp. They don't.”

A spate of gunfire sounded. Boudreau looked at Tristan and nodded toward the path to the dock, then he headed for the corner of the building. He planned to draw the pursuers' fire while Tristan and Sandy made it into the vines and branches that would hide them from view.

Tristan felt like a coward and a failure, leaving Boudreau to fight alone. But at the same time, his primary goal was to keep Sandy and the baby safe. So he guided her toward the path as quickly as he could, cringing every time he heard a gunshot.

Sandy had finally quit coughing, but fighting the smoke in her lungs had exhausted her. She had more trouble navigating the path than he did. He tried letting go of her, but they were more stable together than apart.

Before they'd been on the path one minute, he heard rifle fire, followed by two shotgun blasts. He stopped, so suddenly that Sandy stumbled. He couldn't bear the thought that he'd left Boudreau back there by himself, fighting men who were probably trained soldiers and who likely had some of the best weaponry available.

But getting Sandy to safety was the most important thing. Wincing at the gunfire, Tristan pulled Sandy close again and headed up the path to Boudreau's house.

“Just a little farther, San.”

She nodded doggedly, obviously concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other for long enough to get to the cabin.

He turned her face to his and studied it. Were her lips turning blue, or was he seeing the combination of soot and the dancing reflections of the fire and smoke? He ran his thumb across her lips, then looked at it. Sure enough, his thumb came away stained with soot.

But the blue tint was still there. Was she that oxygen-deprived? There was no doubt that she was struggling to breathe. If he didn't get some clean air into her lungs and some fresh water for her to drink to wash out the toxins, her lack of oxygen could not only hurt her, it could harm the baby.

He cursed his leg. They should have gotten to the cabin by now. He set his jaw against the pain and tried to increase his speed, hoping Sandy could keep up.

He heard a rustling of the vines and leaves lining the path behind them. He immediately dropped to the ground behind a tree and pulled Sandy down beside him. Retrieving his gun, he waited.

Beside him, Sandy made a small, distressed sound. “Tris, I'm tired—” A strangled cough erupted from her throat. She covered her mouth with both hands, but it didn't help. The coughs kept coming.

“Hang in there, hon,” Tristan muttered, wincing at the noise she was making and wondering who—or what—he'd heard moving through the underbrush. “We'll be at Boudreau's in no time. Can you try not to cough?”

She made a guttural sound, a laugh or a groan.

At that instant, the leaves and vines started shaking and someone stepped into the path. Tristan stiffened and tightened his hand on the gun's trigger, but it was Boudreau.

He breathed a sigh of relief and stood. Boudreau looked startled to see them.

“I'm sorry. We're going as fast as we can.”

Boudreau's mouth tightened. “Just keep going. I'll stay here, hold 'em back.”

“We'll make it. Come on, Sandy.” He helped her to her feet and put his arm around her again. He turned them toward Boudreau's house and started walking.