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"Now!" I screamed, lurching upward, cane and arm flailing for a few seconds before the tip struck more solid ground.
Leaning on the stick, I sucked a ragged breath in and thought of Garnet. Then I thought of water. I needed it. Transportation, too. Not to mention a fucking cellphone signal. Without all three, I would probably die before the sun dropped below the horizon.
Squinting as sunlight pounded through my head, I scanned the area for anything useful.
Two dead bodies behind me. In front of me, a big, black Mercedes SUV with another dead bodyguard behind the wheel. Seeing the driver's expensive suit, I wanted to laugh. Gaetz was supposed to be the chapter president of a damn outlaw motorcycle club. He only ever looked the part when he showed up at the clubhouse.
With its front end wrapped around the trunk of a mahogany tree, the SUV was as useless as its owner. That left the blue rusted Ford truck half a football field away as the only way back to civilization and a hospital that could patch me up. Condor was sprawled face first on the ground in front of the truck.
Half a fucking football field.
Thought you were done, chico? Thought it was time to collect that Eagle, did you? No sirree. First you have to cross the Desert of Death.
"Bayhune." Saying his name out loud, I spat a mix of blood and dirt at the ground, the spasms in my lungs threatening to turn my legs to rubber once more. Closing my eyes, I could see the former drill instructor, or at least the ghost of that merciless, tough-as-nails son of a bitch. Bayhune was gone now. I had personally scraped what was left of him off the Dasht-i-Margo in Afghanistan. Escorting the remains had been my last act of service before leaving the Marines to join the DEA.
Opening my eyes, I fixed my gaze on the truck. Fifty yards, one-hundred-fifty feet, one foot after the other.
Cakewalk.
You want that Eagle, chico?
Eagle, globe, anchor—I wanted it all. I pushed the cane forward in the muck then drew my body after it. Slow, single-minded, the pattern of cane-foot-foot repeated.
Each step left me weaker, but I wasn't going to die in that spot. I was going to stay alive until I saw Garnet one last time.
Until I touched her.
Tasted her.
You want your Eagle, chico? It’s right fucking here. You just have to take it from me—if you're Marine enough.
Reaching Condor’s body, I rolled the dead man over. A delicate strand of silver at Condor’s throat led to a sparkling blue stone splattered with blood. I clutched it, jerked once and stumbled through the open truck door and into the cab’s interior.
CHAPTER 10
GARNET
My first month in exile, I kept thinking I would return to my new apartment from one of my two part-time jobs to find Ramirez sitting on my front step. Around the end of the third month, I realized that would never happen. Maybe one day in the far future for a few minutes at a court house right before or just after I testified about the murder I had walked in on, I would see Ramirez. That was all the hope or comfort I could look forward to.
It took me a week of crying myself to sleep after that epiphany to come to terms with the fact that, whatever feelings had been given birth to in that Miami clubhouse, they were mine alone. Those green eyes had never actually warmed. Ramirez had just been playing a part for two very different audiences—fucking us both at the same time, just in different ways. For Condor and the others, getting fucked by the man they knew as Highlander meant they would spend a very long portion of their lives in prison.
In some ways, I lived in a prison, too, one constructed of circumstance. I would never again be Garnet Williams, but at least my cell looked out onto Monterey Bay and I could fill it with books. Lots and lots of books. Weekends and Fridays I worked at the public library. Tuesday through Thursday, I worked at a small bookstore on Lighthouse Avenue. Altogether I managed about thirty-six hours a week, just a little more than I needed to cover my rent, groceries and utilities but nowhere near enough to consider getting a car.
It wasn’t bad, just lonely. And I’m not ashamed to confess I compensated by checking out a few romances each week from the library. I just wish I could say that the hero in each, no matter how the author described him, didn’t inevitably warp into Ramirez in my fantasies.
I was in the library's romance section re-shelving with a few titles tucked along one side of my cart for home when I heard a small clearing of someone’s throat and realized I was not alone in the aisle.
I turned to find Ramirez standing there with the same wild curls, just shorter, and the same green eyes, neither cold nor warm, only fiercely guarded. I didn’t gasp or shout. I merely started to faint.
His arms wrapped around me in an instant, supporting me as he steered me to rest against one of the bookshelves. He stepped back just as quickly once it was clear I wouldn't actually faint. Mute and staring, he shoved his hands in his jacket pockets.
Heart pounding in my chest, I stared back—and blinked first.
"How did you find me?" I turned to the cart as I asked the question, numbly picking up the next book to shelve. "Did Hollman tell you?"
That earned a slight chuckle. "I’m sure she’ll have my balls if she finds out I tracked you down."
Damn, hearing his voice felt good. Too good. Better than it had any right to feel. Focused on keeping my breathing even, I fought to ignore all the warm spikes of need hammering through me.
