Cannon. His nickname was Cannon, though, she couldn’t recall his real name. Did it start with an R?
Cannon’s eyes narrowed, his lips pursing into a thin line. He said something. Her name, maybe. But the sound got hijacked. Lost in the echo of her slowing heartbeat in her head. The peel of tires across the road.
The guy holding her gave her a shake. It took a few moments to move her head—lift it to meet his gaze. Those eyes. Deep blue with flecks of gold around the pupils. A mass of blond hair framing an oval face. The man’s features nothing short of beautiful.
Brett Sievers. The only man she’d ever loved, and her one true regret.
A laugh bubbled free.
She was dying. That was the only explanation. She hadn’t stumbled upon the one guy she longed to see. To touch and hold. This was her brain slowly shutting down. Playing out her deepest desires as the wiring crossed—sent signals out in every direction.
But damn, what a way to go. Staring up into Brett’s eyes. Feeling his fingers gripping her arms—holding her tight. She managed to lift one hand—place a bloody palm on his cheek. It was warm. Stubbled. Utterly perfect.
“Ellis?”
It even sounded like him. Like heaven.
She smiled, no longer fighting the pull of darkness around her. “Brett.”
CHAPTER THREE
He was dreaming. That had to be it. Somehow, he’d fallen asleep in Cannon’s living room. Beer in one hand. His feet kicked up on the recliner. It was the only explanation that made sense, because if this was real…
Colt had been watching the hockey game he’d bet fifty bucks on, urging his damn team to pull themselves together and score a freaking goal, when pounding had sounded downstairs. Cannon had frowned then gone over to the window. He’d opened it enough to yell out that they were closed, but the knocking hadn’t stopped. If anything, it had gotten louder. More urgent.
Colt had pushed to his feet—offered to see who was determined to break the damn door down—then had headed for the stairs. He’d barely rounded the corner when he’d caught sight of the black Suburban through the window. A guy hanging out of the passenger side. Gun drawn. Aimed their way.
Colt hadn’t really taken stock of the woman still hitting the glass. Just enough to see the blood. To know she was the target, before he’d reacted. Yelled for Cannon as he’d raced to the door. Two seconds and Colt had it open—catching the woman as she pitched forward. Body limp. Eyes squeezed shut. Another twoseconds, and she was braced in his arms, nothing but a dead weight as he twisted them out of the line of fire.
Bullets had started flying, then. Ricocheting off the walls. The door. A couple hitting the desk behind him. He’d gotten off a couple of rounds when Cannon had appeared. His M9 already aimed as he’d fired back—clipped the asshole shooting at them then landing a few in the radiator. Steam had poured out of the hood before the driver had veered away—limped the damn vehicle around the next corner and out of sight.
Cannon had stayed poised at the ready—his body braced against the wall. His gun nestled at his shoulder. He’d glanced at them, frowned, then said the one name Colt had never expected to hear, again.
Baker.
Of course, it could have been someone Cannon knew outside the Teams. Another Baker. But the name had all but stopped Colt’s heart cold. Had made him look down—give the woman in his arms a shake in order to get her to tilt her head up at him—open her eyes. She’d barely managed it, but it wouldn’t have mattered if her eyes had remained closed. Once her hair had fallen away from her face, he’d gotten a clear view of her. The shape of her jaw, the line of her brow. The pert little nose and full lips. Despite the bruising, he would have recognized her anywhere, even if he hadn’t stared into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. The ones that still haunted his dreams.
He hadn’t realized he’d said her name—had been able to get his tongue to work enough to form the two syllables—until she’d palmed his cheek with one sticky, bloody hand. Her fingers had pressed against his jaw as she’d laughed and said his name in return.
Then, she’d gone limp, and she hadn’t moved in the few seconds he’d been shaking her, since.
Jericho appeared beside him, with Six standing behind her. She glanced at Ellis, cursed, then had her phone in her hand. “Is this a 911 call or…”
The woman was smart. Had spent the past six months getting intimately familiar with their work. Their team. And she knew not all emergencies could go through the normal channels. She’d been one of those exceptions, when her prison transfer had gone sideways.
Cannon knelt beside Colt, brushing back Ellis’ blood-streaked hair. “I… Shit. I don’t even know what to say. What this is. Is it really her?”
It seemed insane. Hell, impossible. But it was Ellis Baker. Colt’s former lover, and the woman who’d crushed his heart. Left it shattered on the floor with little hope of ever being reassembled. The only person he’d broken his cardinal rule for, and the reason he’d never crossed that line, again, since.
“It’s really her.” He did a quick body scan, wincing at the obvious injuries. It didn’t take a doctor to know she’d been beaten. Shot. And the way she was dressed…
He shook his head. “She’s got marks on her wrists and ankles. A gunshot wound to her right side and multiple bruises and lacerations. The woman’s been held. Interrogated. She needs a fucking doctor, several units of blood, but if we take her to the hospital?—”
“They’ll notify the cops. Probably the feds. And seeing as armed men just tried to kill her—kill us for opening the door… Six, get the first aid kit. We’ll do what we can. Slow the bleeding.” Cannon nudged Jericho. “Call Ice. We can’t risk taking her anywhere until we have a better understanding of what’s going on. How deep she’s in. I just hope he can treat her.”
Jericho nodded, hit a button, then handed the cell to Cannon. The other man’s voice sounded after only two rings.
“I’m starting to think I might regret agreeing to move back to Seattle. That working for you is going to be way more involved than it was for Bishop.”
