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Nothing happens.
I try again. No explosions.
“Shit,” I hiss.
“What’s going on?” Willow asks, alarmed.
“One of the connections might be faulty. I can’t trigger the bombs at this distance. We’re going to have to get closer.”
Willow’s eyes widen. “Closer to the explosions?”
“It’s the only way.”
Arturo and Esteban are in deep conversation, gesturing toward the warehouse they stole from the Marrones. Probably discussing business, distribution strategies. For now, they’re none the wiser of our presence.
“We move to plan B,” I say, grabbing my rifle. “If we can’t blow them up, we’ll do this the old-fashioned way.” I signal to one of our lieutenants, who promptly nods and grabs his own gun. It’s a game of telephone, my silent command passing through our men swiftly and effectively.
“Shit, they’re getting back in their car,” Willow grumbles.
“Let’s move!”
We rush in, guns blazing and bullets firing. It’s chaotic and dangerous, but it has to be done. Is it honorable for us to sneak up on them like this? Of course not. But they didn’t seem to have any qualms when they did the same to us at the hacienda. War is dirty and vile and unfair. At the end of the day, all that matters is coming out alive.
In the darkness, I see Arturo and Esteban hurry back to their car. I aim for them, but the bullets hardly make a dent. The vehicle’s frame is reinforced, as are the windows. Beside me, Willow aims for the tires. She’s already figured it out. They may have the advantage of cover, but they’re sitting ducks if rendered immobile.
She manages to take out one of the front tires. We’re about to take out the other three when the window rolls down. From out the small gap, Esteban shoves the point of his gun out and starts firing right at us.
“Look out!” I shout at her, shoving her out of the way.
There’s no time to get to her. I don’t see the bullet so much as hear it, the wet thud of something grazing her side. Willow doesn’t fall, but it’s clear she’s hurt. Red soaks into her shirt, her body hunched over in pain. She keeps firing until she runs out of bullets.
I need to get her out of here.
I place my body between her and Esteban’s line of fire. A bullet whizzes past my ear, but I don’t let that frighten me. My training kicks in. I’m grace under pressure. My mission has changed from destroying the warehouse to getting my woman to safety. I pick her up in my arms and retreat behind the safety of a large concrete barrier, setting her down on the grass to inspect her wounds. Our men continue to fight, determined to see this through.
Willow groans in agony. “I’m fine!”
“The fuck you are,” I snap, swiftly lifting her shirt up to inspect the damage.
The bullet’s gone straight through her, piercing her side just below her lowest rib. There’s blood everywhere, but I don’t think it hit anything vital.
“Don’t stop fighting!” she insists. “I’ll be okay. Don’t let them get away!”
I ignore her. She’s hopped up on adrenaline and numb with shock. I know from experience that she’s really going to feel it in a few minutes. I’m quick to rip up the base of my shirt to press against her wound, staunching the bleeding.
Behind us, the squeal of tires. I don’t have to look to know that Arturo and Esteban are making their escape.
Willow whines, sweat dripping from her brow. “Zane, please! They’re leaving! Just—”
“You’re more important,” I tell her firmly.
“I fucked up again,” she says, choking on a sob. “I should have shot out all their tires.”
I press my forehead to hers, looking deeply into her eyes. “You’re being too hard on yourself, Willow. You did great.”
“I got shot.”
“But you were brave.”
