“We need to move her. This is still a hot zone. Rabbit could double back. Or he wasn’t the only one out there.”
Allie chokes out a breath that sounds like a sob and a curse rolled together.
Inamorata steps forward, her hands visible, her voice even. “Allie. I’m Inamorata.”
“I know who you are.”
That’s not a friendly tone in Allie’s voice. And how the hell has she heard of Inamorata? Her name is legend in certain circles. Law enforcement respects the hell out of her. So does the entire Hawkeye team.
Criminals fear her.
As always, Inamorata is cool and unflappable, taking no offense. “Hawkeye’s right. We need to get you somewhere warm. Somewhere safe.”
Allie’s grip on me tightens, as if I’m the only thing standing between her and certain doom.
“She stays with me.” My voice is final and absolute.
Inamorata gives a sharp nod in Hawkeye’s direction.
“First bird takes Stryker, Allie, and the medic,” Hawkeye says. “Second bird is five minutes out for Bravo.”
Inamorata is staying behind. Cleanup is her specialty.
She’ll coordinate Bravo, secure the bodies, the snowmobiles, the black truck. She’ll sweep for secondary tracks, bury any trail pointing toward my cabin.
All bullets and shell casings will be recovered.
Scene sanitation.
Standard Hawkeye protocol.
When she’s done, there won’t be a trace this ambush ever happened.
Clean. Tactical. Efficient.
The medic approaches again, and she’s not at all afraid to confront Hawkeye. “Sir? If she’s losing blood, we need to get hands on her.”
Allie shakes her head violently.
“Hey.” I guide her chin up with my knuckle. “Look at me. Let her check the wound. Just check it. I won’t let anyone separate us.”
She nods. Barely.
The medic kneels beside us, careful not to crowd her. “Can you take off your jacket?”
“No.”
The medic looks at me, and I shrug. “You heard her.” But that’s interesting. What’s she protecting?
“I’ll lift the sleeve enough to see,” the medic tells Allie. “You’ll feel my hand—no surprises.”
When the woman peels back the fabric, Allie winces.
A primal, protective instinct snarls through my chest, and I want to punch something.
Hawkeye watches the forest line instead of her face—giving her privacy while scanning for threats.
“Move in sixty,” he calls. “Medic, you’re aboard. Stryker, you’re with the girl.”
