Crossfire Christmas. Julie Miller
his elbow to his side, Nash collapsed into the steering wheel, hugging his right arm around it—regaining control of the truck and making himself a smaller target. He was close enough to see the yellowed teeth of Thug Three’s smile as the man steadied the gun and took aim at Nash’s head.
But what good ol’ Texas boy didn’t know how to play chicken?
“For Tommy,” Nash wheezed, stomping on the accelerator. Before Thug Three could pull off the kill shot or dive out of the way, Nash plowed into him.
With a sickening double jolt, the truck bounced over the body and burst into the sunshine of the clear December afternoon. Nash raced away from the warehouse, clipping a couple of junker cars and jumping the curb out of the back alley before pulling onto the street.
“Brilliant plan, Nash,” he muttered through gritted teeth as he slowed to merge with a line of cars. His entire left side was on fire and the pain doubled every time he tried to catch a deep breath. No way to tell yet if the bullet had gone through or had clipped a lung and was bouncing around inside him. But he knew from the light-headed haze he had to shake off that he was losing a lot of blood. Delvecchio was dead and, like him, any hope that Nash had escaped to Kansas City undetected had literally been shot to hell. He was no closer to finding out the identity of the traitor who had exposed his men as undercover cops and marked them, and now him, for death.
Worse, he was on his own. He’d better report in to Captain Puente and tell him he was going off the grid until further notice. No more help from the remnants of his team. No more deaths on his conscience. He wasn’t putting any more of his people in the line of fire until he could figure this thing out.
Nash slowed to a stop at a traffic light and unsnapped the cell phone on his belt. After wiping away the clammy sweat that dotted his forehead, he searched the screen for Jesse Puente’s office line, punched it in and tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder so he could twist around and untie the blood-soaked bandanna on his thigh.
The light turned green before the number picked up.
“Captain?” Nash dropped the bandanna in his lap and gripped the wheel again as he pressed on the accelerator. The responding silence raised every suspicious hackle Nash possessed. Puente liked the sound of his own voice too much for him not to start talking. “Who’s this?”
“Agent Cruz Moreno, Drug Enforcement Agency, Houston office.” Like Nash, the officer spoke with a hint of suspicion coloring his tone. “Who is this? How did you get this number?”
A quick grunt of relief clouded the cold air leaching in through the truck’s shattered window. Cruz Moreno was the newest man Puente had recruited. He’d transferred over from the San Antonio office and was being trained to replace the slain officers working in the Graciela organization. Thank God Nash had convinced Captain Puente to hold off sending Moreno into the field. Although not as green as Tommy had been, he wasn’t up to speed yet on the intricacies of their long-term investigation. “This is Nash. Put the captain on.”
“Puente isn’t here right now.” Urgency replaced the caution in Moreno’s tone. “Where are you, man? The captain booked it out of here as soon as we lost contact with Delvecchio’s phone. Tommy missed his call-in time. Did you two meet up?”
Nash pulsed his grip on the wheel, his body feeling hot and chilled at the same time. And it wasn’t just his injuries messing with his ability to focus right now. “Tommy’s dead.”
“Dead? I knew that kid couldn’t—” Moreno’s bilingual curses pretty much summed up the grief and rage Nash felt. “I’m calling Puente on the other line. You need backup? An extraction?”
“No. I need to disappear. I need time to find this guy before he finds me. I’m gonna put a stop to this.” Nash released the steering wheel at the next stop and wadded up the bandanna to stuff it beneath his vest to stanch the wound. Pain knifed through him at the added pressure and he swore. “Tell Puente he can claim Tommy’s body in Kansas City.”
“Is that where you are?”
The agonizing jolt cleared his head for a split second, and Nash got the feeling he’d already said too much. Someone had leaked his name, along with Torres’s, Richter’s and Delvecchio’s, to Graciela’s or Vargas’s men. That someone could be listening in on the line right now. And even though Cruz wore the same badge Nash did, trusting anyone—even a fellow agent—just wasn’t going to happen. “Not anymore, Moreno. I’m halfway to Chicago,” Nash lied, wondering how far away he could get before another thug or the hole in his chest stopped him. “I’ll call again when it’s safe. Until then, I’m going off the grid.”
“What about backup?”
No. Solo was the only way to go until he knew who was killing his team. “If I’m as good at this job as I hope I am, I won’t need it.”
Bold words for a man whose left hand was going numb inside his glove and whose sheer will was keeping him upright.
“We’ve got no idea who’s behind this yet, so watch your back, Nash.”
“You, too.”
He could hear Captain Puente’s voice in the background, grousing on the other line as Moreno gave him a brief sit rep. Then Cruz was back, no doubt relaying a message. “Is this phone clean?”
“What?”
“Are you using the burner phone Tommy brought you? If Graciela’s men could track Tommy, then chances are they can locate you, too.”
Nash cursed. Rookie mistake. “I’m done.”
“Wait. The captain wants to know where in Chicago—?”
But Nash had already disconnected the call. He raised his aching leg to guide the wheel on the straight stretch of road, freeing his good hand to turn off the phone and raise it to his teeth to pry open the back. He pulled out the battery and GPS chip and spit them out on the seat beside him, going dark on any kind of satellite trace. Unfortunately, though, that meant he had no means of communication on him, either, until he could find a spot to stop where a bleeding man in a broken truck wouldn’t draw attention, and he could unpack the new phone in his go bag.
And since he was clearly off his game, Nash had driven into the heart of downtown instead of catching one of the highways and had the dumb luck to be caught in the heart of rush-hour traffic. Until he could get his bearings, until he could think this whole mess through and decide where he needed to go, he’d just keep driving.
He’d come to K.C. to hook up with an old friend, Jake Lonergan, a former agent who’d gotten out of the business. He’d hoped for a spare bed or sofa to bunk on for a night or two until he could make some inquiries and form a new plan of action. But Jake had a family now, complete with a wife and little girl, and another baby on the way. Nash seriously doubted his old friend would appreciate him bringing a drug war to his front doorstep.
He’d met a couple of guys at KCPD a little over a year ago, working on another case. But they weren’t the kind of buddies a desperate man called on for off-the-record help. He’d trusted every man on his team—would have called Torres or Richter in a heartbeat. But now they were gone. Besides, he didn’t want to be responsible for the deaths of any more cops. Whether the Graciela-Vargas war had extended its reach to Kansas City or they’d come here just for him, he could imagine they wouldn’t take too kindly to interference from anyone else who wore a badge.
Nash slowed his truck and followed the flow of traffic through a fancy shopping district decorated with more lights than he could count and window displays for the upcoming holiday. He hadn’t even thought about Christmas. Besides the fact his parents were gone and he had no siblings and was married to his work, he’d been too busy trying to stop the drugs and save his team these past few months. Celebrating the holidays was for men with families and kids who still believed in the kind of magic and hope he’d stopped believing in long ago.
Right now he just had to live long enough to ID a traitor and exact a little revenge on the man who’d sentenced his