Page 41 of Lock ’N’ Load

“I’ll be back,” she muttered. Is that his Terminator line?

The doctor pressed the stethoscope against her chest, and she flinched as the cool metal touched her skin.

“Breathe normally,” he said, moving the instrument around to different locations on her chest, then to her back.

She breathed several times until he said, “Excellent. Other than some smoke inhalation, your X-rays are clear and your breathing is good. No carbon monoxide poisoning, and your abrasions are minor. We just need you to fill out a few forms, and you’ll be all set.”

He picked up her chart to jot something down, then opened a cabinet drawer and pulled out a pair of slippers and surgical pants that he set beside her on the bed. “I understand you lost everything in a fire. These will at least give you something to wear tonight.”

Fear and a sense of isolation crashed down on her. She wanted to cry, or scream, or throw something. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees. Her home was burned. Probably her car, too. She’d been banned from her job, and her parents were on the other side of the world.

“Get some rest,” the doctor said. “Drink plenty of fluids, and if you have any trouble breathing during the night, don’t hesitate to come back to the hospital.”

“Thank you,” she said before he left the room.

The AC kicked on again, and she tucked her legs closer against her body and began rocking back and forth. Someone was trying to kill her. Viktor Solonik. A Russian thug who wanted her dead for reasons unknown. To her, anyway. Wayne and Genevieve knew, and the more she thought about it, the faster she rocked.

Sitting around doing nothing to save her own ass wasn’t working for her. They might have banned her from Langley, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t do a little discreet investigating on her own. Under the radar.

The question was how to do it without a computer, and while under the watchful, sexy eye of Sgt. Matt Connors.

…

Somewhere outside Washington, D.C.

Present day

Forty years ago, she’d been young, naive, and married to a horrible man who’d beaten her to within an inch of her life. Somehow, she and her son had survived and escaped a virtual hell. She had no regrets about what she’d done, except for what little Billy had been forced to endure.

Despite the tears trickling down her aging face, she smiled. Against all odds, her son had grown up to be a good man, honest and kind. Now, he had everything she could have wished for him. A beautiful wife, three adorable children, and an incredible future.

Who could have guessed that he would rise from the swamp of horrors in which he was born and become what he was today? I’m so, so proud of him.

She reached for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. Sadly, their past had finally caught up to them. She didn’t fear for herself, but for her son. She didn’t know how, but after four decades of hiding, they’d been discovered.

The Russians had stumbled onto the truth. And it could ruin everything.

Chapter Twelve

Matt sat in the truck next to Trista and started the engine. When he gripped the wheel, his hands stung in protest from several shallow cuts dotting his skin, but he didn’t give a shit. Trista was alive, and that was all that mattered.

She still wore that sexy cotton camisole that was slowly but surely driving him insane, a pair of scrub pants she’d rolled up to just below her knees, and one of his CIA windbreakers. On her lap was the not-so-fluffy-now Angora.

Until five minutes ago, he hadn’t known where he’d be taking Trista, squirreling her away someplace safe. Now that he’d made the decision, he didn’t relish breaking the bad news. But her eyes were closed, and the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath his windbreaker told him she was out like a light. It was just as well. When she realized where she’d be spending the next thirty days or so, she’d have a conniption. So would Poofy. Understatement. But by his reckoning, it was the safest option.

As he pulled out of the ER parking lot, he continually checked his rearview mirror for a tail. He hadn’t even wanted Jake or the uniforms following him. The agency would eventually figure out where he was stashing Trista, but since they insisted on keeping him in the dark, let ’em work for it.

Stifling a yawn, he headed onto the road, thankful for the darkness enshrouding them.

He couldn’t decipher the twisted mix of emotions messing with his head. When Buck had given him his assignment—protecting Trista twenty-four seven—he’d nearly blown a gasket. The last thing he wanted was to be a bodyguard. But the more he learned about her predicament, the more he realized just how vulnerable she was. He wanted to be the one to keep her safe. Not because she looked hot as hell in that camisole, and definitely not because he’d caught every man in the room—including his friend, Jake—staring at her breasts. Fuck, no.

Something about her stirred the most basic, primal instincts within him. Even though she’d exhibited more guts than most women he knew, and her IQ probably topped the charts, she was so small and seemed so alone. Yeah, that’s why he wanted to keep her safe. After the situation was resolved, they’d go their separate ways and things would return to normal.

I’ll go back to living my solitary life.

Turning onto the highway, he yawned again. He was beat. It was nearly four a.m., and the sun hadn’t quite begun to peek out over the horizon. Everyone else would probably be bunked out for the night. Good thing. All he wanted was to get Trista and Poofy settled, then fall into bed himself.

Thirty minutes later, after making several countersurveillance turns, he rolled into his driveway, past his friends’ vehicles, and parked near the front door. Trista was still asleep, with her head lolled against the window and one arm tucked around her soot-stained, formerly white cat. He shut the engine off and the cat stared at him, as if he was suspicious already. Matt had no idea how he’d get through the next month. How any of them would survive.