Mission: Marriage. Karen Whiddon
over a back door, protected a bit by metal trash cans.
“Listen,” Sean said. They both heard the sharp click as the shooter reloaded. Any second now, he’d squeeze off another volley of shots.
Heart in his throat, Sean tensed. He’d been away from this game far too long.
“Is he following us?” Natalie whispered.
“You broke protocol,” Sean suddenly told her, fiercely. “I thought you were a professional.”
“I am. I—”
“Professionals don’t leave without telling their partner. You could have gotten us both killed.”
“Stop, Sean.” She glared at him. “I screwed up, true. I’m sorry. But this shooter was obviously heading for our B and B. I surprised him out in the open, before he was ready. He could have cut us down in our sleep. So part of this worked out for the good.”
Attempting a nod, he sucked in his breath instead. He didn’t know how much farther he could go. His strength ebbed out of him with every breath.
“How—” He couldn’t finish.
“How did he find us? I don’t know. Maybe we need to do a sweep for bugs.”
Another series of shots. Several rounds cut a wide swath through the metal trash bins.
“Too close. Run,” he gasped. “Go. Save yourself.”
“No.” She prodded him forward.
Assess. The. Situation. She wouldn’t leave him. Nor he her, he knew. Never. His life wouldn’t be worth living if he lost her again. Result. He had to save himself, and, in doing so, save her.
The sirens were nearly upon them. Somehow, he had to get them to safety. No way could they attempt to explain to local authorities what had happened here.
“Come on.” He made his voice harsh. Strong. Commanding. “Let me lean on you.”
Without hesitation, she moved her shoulder under his arm. Taking a deep breath, he lurched forward.
Chapter 5
Somehow they made it out from the porch and across the alley, moving through the neighboring yards, backtracking to their B and B.
The tourniquet held and he left no trail of blood to betray them.
Leaning on her heavily, Sean forced himself to shuffle his feet, step after step after painful, labored step. Grunting from the strain, Natalie kept her shoulder under him, staggering at times in her attempt to keep them moving.
Luckily, their room had French doors that led out to a small terrace. Privacy was always a good thing.
“Get me in that way. We need to avoid any questions from our hostess.”
“My thoughts exactly,” she huffed.
Shouts from the porch they’d recently vacated told them the police had arrived. Sweat rolling down his brow, Sean struggled futilely to increase his pace.
“Come on,” she urged. Together they shuffled forward as fast as they could. Sean kept his teeth clenched against the pain, forcing himself to move without uttering a sound of complaint.
Finally, they slipped through the metal garden gate. Natalie pulled it closed behind them, then quickly picked the lock on the French doors.
Pushing Sean inside, she slammed the door closed and drew the curtain shut. He staggered to the bed and dropped down on the mattress, breathing heavily.
They were safe. For the time being.
“What now?” he panted.
Licking her lips, she swallowed. “I have to see about getting that bullet out of your leg.” She rummaged around in the knapsack she’d carried with her all day, finally pulling out a small box. Then she grabbed the pillowcase off one of the pillows and tore it into strips, and some of the strips into pieces.
“No way.” He tried to rise, but couldn’t. Fighting against nausea and unconsciousness, he couldn’t even lift his leg to move it. “Damn thing burns like hell.”
“Hold still.” Her voice, still harsh and sounding completely unlike her, stopped him cold.
Through a haze of pain, he eyed her. “Like I can move,” he ground out, wondering if she’d ever been shot. He had, almost more times than he could count, though never seriously. No major organs or arteries. This was one aspect of his job he hadn’t missed over the last two years.
“You might be wanting to move in a minute.” Was that a warning? Without waiting for his response, she pushed him back and began unwrapping the makeshift tourniquet that had kept him from bleeding to death.
Each pass of the material hurt like hell.
Gritting his teeth, he bit back a few choice curse words. Instead, he managed to keep his voice relatively level. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’ve got to get the bullet out. And it’ll be painful.”
Her matter-of-fact tone told him she was cutting him no slack. Still, he’d done fieldwork for too long to argue with truth.
“How about whiskey? Do you have any?”
She barely even glanced at him. “No, of course not. Do you?”
He shook his head, wincing as a piece of fabric caught on the edge of his raw wound. The sharp bite of pain made everything spin, and he sucked in air, trying to stay conscious.
Wouldn’t do to show weakness before the woman he was supposed to protect. He bit back a groan.
“I’ll be as gentle as possible.” Was that a hint of concern in her voice? She began rummaging in the plastic box.
“I appreciate that,” he managed, the pain overwhelming. Worse, she hadn’t even started searching for the bullet. “Let’s get this over with.” He grabbed a piece of cloth from the small stack she had in front of her, twisted it and shoved it in his mouth.
“Wait a second.” She continued rummaging. “I think I saw some pain pills in here. Aha!” She held up a small, brown plastic bottle. “These might work.”
He took two and swallowed them dry.
“Ready?”
He nodded.
She gave him a sympathetic smile. “Go ahead and pass out if that will help.”
Pass out? Who did she think he was? “Hell no,” he growled, mumbling around the cloth. Finally, he yanked it out and glared at her. “I’ve had bullets removed in the field before. I want to make sure you do this right.”
In the act of disinfecting her hands with waterless cleanser, she paused. “I’m sure I can handle it.”
“Have you ever done this before?”
“No.”
At least she was honest. Still, her answer didn’t give him the confidence in her ability he’d hoped for.
“Have you?” she asked.
He jerked his chin in a brief nod. “Of course. Make sure you sterilize whatever you use to get the bullet out.”
Intent on separating the rest of the blood-soaked material from his skin, she didn’t respond. When she had the area clear, she sucked in her breath with an audible hiss.
The sound had him raising his head. “Are you gonna be okay doing this?”
Instead of answering, she bent over him and, setting her jaw in that intent way she had, picked up a pair of tweezers, coated them with waterless cleanser and held a match to them. “Sterilized,” she said, still focused on the bloody mess the bullet had made of his leg.
An