In Plain Sight by Hope Anika

Chapter Twenty-Three

The world was explodingaround her.

The box truck Fiona had worked her butt off to purchase; her stock, her tools, her supplies. All of it turned into confetti courtesy of some jerk with an automatic weapon.

A frigging assault rifle in the middle of a midway filled with innocent people.

Rage burned in her chest, even as she closed her eyes and pressed her face into Rye’s hard chest, taking comfort from his strength and warmth and the solid weight of him on top of her.

In her deepest, darkest, most private musings, she’d wondered what it would be like to lie beneath him.

Butnot like this.

“Son of a bitch!” she snarled into his t-shirt, and the arms around her tightened. He’d rolled them beneath the bottom shelf that lined the wall of the truck, and dragged several stock boxes between them and the shooter. Turned out, five thousand pieces of vinyl inflatables all smashed together made for good cover.

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

Every bullet made her angrier. And more terrified.

Was this happening to Lena and Ares? Were they hurt?

Were they dead?

She wanted to shove Rye aside, kick the shooter in the face, and save them. No matter how foolish or illogical. No matter that when she’d tried, Rye had growled and refused to release her. That she couldn’t get away from him even if she wanted to.

Lightning flashed, and she thought she heard thunder, but the gunfire was so loud, she couldn’t tell. Rain slashed at them, and darkness surrounded them, and the bullets kept coming, a wild, savage spray that was turning her truck into scrap metal.

“He’s almost out of ammo.” Rye’s mouth touched her ear, his voice rough. “When he stops to change his magazine, I’m going to take him.”

“Take him?” she echoed.

“Down.”

Something dark, and vicious, and certain echoed in his voice. The fierce, feral thing that lived within him; the core of the man who’d survived the streets and the battlefield. She hugged him tight and silently threatened the universe with dire consequences if it didn’t take care of him.

Because she didn’t want to let him go, and she knew she must.

They had to get to Lena.

“My SIG is in my waistband,” he said. “Can you reach it?”

Bullets plowed into the walls around them as Fiona slid her hands down the plane of Rye’s back and tried to ignore the automatic, highly inappropriate response that flowed through her. The memory of what they’d been doing before the shooting had started slapped her—where his hands and mouth had been, how she’d been riding him like a PBR contender, how desperate and pissed off she’d been when he pulled away.

And saved their lives.

Somehow, while she’d been blind and deaf to everything but the glorious lust inside of her, he’d been alert and aware. She would’ve been insulted by that, but she was pretty sure there was a part of him that never slept.

She carefully removed the weapon from the narrow holster that sat at the small of his back. “Now what?”

“Do you know how to use it?”

“I run a .22 short range. What do you think?”

“I think you’re incredible. Now, get ready. Safety’s on, clip’s full. As soon as he’s out, I’m going to move. Ten seconds, and then you run.”

“I’m not running,” she protested. “I can—”

“No.”

She gripped his shirt with her free hand and tried in vain to shake him. “We’re in this together.”

His mouth was suddenly on hers, a hard, fierce, possessive kiss that was over far too soon. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“I mean it,” she told him, trying to catch her breath.

“Get to Lena,” he said. “Take the SIG, and go get our girl. I’ll deal with this asshole.”

Fiona wanted to argue. Stomp her feet, and swear, and snarl, but he was right. And because the thought of something happening to him sent such pure, cold terror through her, she suddenly understood that she was completely and irrevocably screwed.

She’d been contemplating trying.

When it was already a done deal.

Damn it!

The gunfire ceased abruptly, and the silence was unexpected and jarring, like a sudden, hard stop.

“Find Lena, baby,” Rye whispered. “And shoot anyone who gets in your way.”

Then he shoved aside the boxes and was gone.

Gone.

“Shit biscuits,” she growled. The fear inside of her stretched like wings and beat frantically, something she couldn’t contain, couldn’t catch. Couldn’t escape.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi…

Her ears were ringing; she could hear the rain pounding against the roof of the truck, but the absence of gunfire was almost dizzying. It was dark and wet, and lightning flashed without warning, blinding her. Shadows passed by the open door of the truck, and muted sounds floated toward her. A thud, a grunt; the truck swayed beneath her as something slammed into the side of it.

Someone?

Another thud. Her heart beat with painful intensity and she couldn’t stop thinking he’s out there, and damn him, he needed help, and—six Mississippi, seven Mississippi—

Screw it.

She pushed to her feet, disengaged the SIG’s safety, and ran toward the end of the truck. The wooden floor was slick with rain and she slid straight off, landing hard atop the wet grass. A heartbeat later, two large shapes rolled past her feet in a flurry of swinging fists.

Rye.

And someone else, a giant of a man who reared up and pounded Rye in the face. Rye just shook it off and slammed the guy onto his back, and then he was the one doing the pounding.

Frozen, Fiona watched them through the downpour, rain streaming into her eyes, her ears filled with the roar of her blood. Her hand tightened around the SIG.

Get to Lena.

But she couldn’t leave him—

“Run,” Rye ordered and hit his victim again.

Damn it.

Fiona turned, but before she could take a step, hard hands plucked her from her feet and threw her brutally to the ground. She hit the grass face-first and bounced; her breath whooshed out, and the SIG tumbled from her grip, lost. She rolled, but it was too late: a wall of muscle landed on top of her and ground her into the earth. Knees kicked her legs apart; a mountain settled on her chest, and those angry hands found her throat and squeezed. A face loomed above her, blunt and ugly.

All of the lessons on self-defense that Max and Mick and Hatchet had drilled into her came roaring to the surface, and with a choked cry, she jabbed her thumbs into the man’s eyes.

He reared back with a snarl and released her, and she smashed her palm into the vulnerable underside of his nose as hard as she could. Cartilage ruptured; blood fountained.

“Bitch,” he hissed and backhanded her.

Her lip split, and her mouth filled with blood. She spat it at him, and when he jerked in response, she balled her fist and slammed it into his throat.

He made a harsh, strangled sound and froze; she went to hit him again, but suddenly Rye was there, standing right behind him. Before she could even assimilate his abrupt appearance, he had his hands wrapped around the man’s head and was turning it, a swift, violent wrench, the sound of which wasn’t nearly as disturbing as the grim look of satisfaction he wore as he did it.

Then he tossed the man aside as if he weighed nothing and pulled Fiona to her feet.

She tried not the look at the man he’d just killed.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice harsh, her throat throbbing.

Another gunshot rang out. Blood blossomed at Rye’s temple.

“Shit,” he said.

And then he fell to his knees. Blood streamed down the side of his head, a thick, dark river that sent terror like none Fiona had ever known flooding through her.

No! He couldn’t die. He wasn’t allowed to die—

But as she reached for him, he toppled to the ground. Another gunshot rang out, but it barely registered. She sank to the grass beside him, a terrible, burning fury filling her veins.

The SIG lay beside him. His eyes were closed, and he wasn’t moving; she pressed her hands to his wound and tried to stench the flow of blood. His skin was too hot, the blood was too profuse, and the coppery scent made her stomach clench.

He was dying.

The rain pounded against her in an unending torrent.

Weight settled in her chest, cold and leaden. Tears slid down her cheeks. Fury built and hardened, and threatened to choke her.

A shadow moved in her peripheral vision. Tall, dark; it halted beside her.

“Stay there,” it said coldly. “And you can live. I’m not here for you.”

“And him?” she choked out. “Were you here for him?”

“He was here for me.”

She looked at the SIG.

“Don’t you fucking move.”

There was one benefit that came from running a .22 game, Fiona thought. You got used to handling and firing weapons.

And you spent a lot of time pretending you were a gunfighter.

The SIG was in her hand, aimed and firing before the man next to her even had a chance to regret not killing her. She put half a dozen shots into him, filled with grief, and rage, and such searing painthat she wanted to—

“He’s dead, honey,” Rye said. “You can stop shooting him now.”

A sob caught in her throat. She turned and looked at him. “You’re dead, too.”

“Not yet,” he said.

“Goddamn you,” she whispered.

“Don’t worry. I’m hard to kill.”

His smile was bloody; his right eye was swelling, and a thick stream of red continued to wash down the side of his head.

The sob escaped, harsh and painful, and tears blurred the sight of him.

“It’s just a graze.” His hand cupped her cheek. “I’m okay. I promise.” He paused. “Give me the SIG, baby.”

She looked down at it. Her hand tightened. “Are you sure you aren’t a ghost?”

Because so much blood.How was it possible he was even alive? Pooling in the grass, covering her hands, her clothes—

“I promise,” he said again, and his hand closed over hers, gently removing the SIG from her grip. “We need to find Lena.”

Lena.

The terror that had begun to ebb leaped through her.

“Lena!” she cried and scrambled to her feet. She lurched toward her Airstream, which wasn’t far, only fifteen feet away, parked on the other side of the stock truck, but Rye caught her leg and stopped her.

“Wait,” he growled.

The slashing rain, and wind, and permeating darkness made it impossible to see beyond a few feet, and pressure burst painfully in her chest, and she tried not to think about what she would do if Lena and Ares weren’t okay. If they were dead. Because if she and Rye—a man who was a soldier, who’d fought and survived a war—had barely made it, then—

“Easy,” Rye told her softly, holding tight when she fought his grip. “Give me your hand.”

Fiona thrust her hand at him and braced herself for his weight. “Hurry!”

“One step at a time,” he told her as he stood. “We rush in; we die.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her briefly into the hard, solid warmth of his body, and for a moment, she wanted to cry. To sit in the grass and wail like a baby.

Later.

“They’re smart kids,” he said, but he sounded grim. He leaned down carefully and picked up the gun that lay next to the man she’d shot. When he straightened, he swayed.

“Stars,” he muttered, and fresh blood streamed down his head, and Fiona said, “You need to sit back down.”

He only ignored her. “Here.” He shoved the gun into her hand. “Stay behind me and keep your eyes open.”

“Behind you?” She snorted. “You need to stay behind me.”

He opened his mouth—to argue, no doubt—but a scream sliced through the air, a sharp, blood-curdling cry that silenced them both. They looked at each other.

Then they turned and ran toward it.