This is an unedited excerpt from Chapter 14
Arturo
We’ve just made a turn onto a wider road when the car jerks violently to the side and tires screech as Riggo slams in the breaks. The sharp movements send Tara careening straight toward me. I catch her in time to prevent her from smashing her head into the window or being tossed toward the privacy partition between us and the front row of seats.
Sliding the screen down, Riggo glances at me over his shoulder. “Apologies, Mr. DeVille,” he says. “That vehicle in front of us fishtailed and then made a sudden stop. They might have had a tire blowout. Should I get out and see if they need help?”
I peer ahead, checking out the road conditions through the windshield. A guy in jeans and a black hoodie is crouched down next to the driver-side tire of his full-size black pickup. This might be an infrequently used side road, at least at this time of year, but the asphalt is new. No potholes or anything else that might cause sudden damage to a heavy-duty tire like the one on the guy’s rig. Especially where an abrupt stop would be needed. He didn’t even bother pulling over to the shoulder of the road.
The man rises and kicks the tire with his boot, then turns toward us. With a casual shrug, he beckons Riggo to come over, as if he does need help. I keep my eyes on the nimrod as I reach inside my jacket and pull out my gun.
“Really?” Tara grumbles next to my ear. I didn’t realize that I was still holding her tightly pressed to my side. “Are you seriously going to get out, guns blazing, because some poor guy got a flat tire?”
“Riggo. When I tell you to, hit the gas.” I turn to face my stubborn wife, bumping my nose with hers in the process. “Get down to the floor.”
“Why?”
“Because the doors can block more bullets than the windows. Down. Now!”
“Bullets?” She blinks at me twice in confusion, then quickly untangles her legs from mine and crouches on the floor between the seats. “Fucking great.”
Considering she experienced a panic attack during the exchange of our wedding vows, I’m expecting her to start losing her shit any second. In fact, I kinda expected she’d be halfway there by now, right after the gunfire was mentioned. But instead of drowning in hysterics, my wife simply adjusts her skirt and flashes me an angry scowl. Unbelievable.
I cock my gun. “Floor it, Riggo.”
The car launches forward.
The poor guy with a flat tire reaches behind his back, pulling out a weapon. At the same time, the passenger door as well as two back doors fly open, and three other guys leap out of the pickup just as our car rushes past them.
Rhythmic pings pepper the back of the car as the shooters litter us with gunfire. One of the rounds ricochets off the rear windshield, leaving an indent in the bulletproof glass. The bastards are using armor-piercing shit. I lower my side window and return fire.
“I should have married Conrad,” Tara grumbles from her spot on the floor. “I could be having a great time somewhere in Europe, enjoying a shrimp cocktail right now. Not getting shot at in the middle of nowhere.”
“Who the fuck is Conrad?” I bark while aiming at the attackers in the pursuing truck. A couple of guys have stuck their heads out of side windows, while another popped up through the sunroof. Maybe I should be thankful their driver is too busy to also shoot at us right now.
“He’s the son of an oil tycoon. Someone I dated in college. We were such a good match. But I panicked when he proposed after such a short time of us seeing each other, so I broke up with him. He still calls me occasionally, though.”
I grit my teeth and send another round at the pickup that’s dogging our every move. “Well, tell your oil tycoon brat that if he calls my wife again, the next call you’ll be getting is an invite to his funeral.”
“You can’t forbid me from speaking with my friends!”
My head snaps toward her. “Of course, I—”
A bullet whizzes past my face, missing by mere inches. This damn woman will get me killed! I return my attention to the assholes chasing us, but the pickup has steered toward the middle of the road, escaping my line of fire. Shit. I change the gun’s magazine, then slide to the opposite window, opening it to resume shooting.
“I thought you’re left-handed,” Tara continues mumbling. “It fits with your personality. Left-handed people are known to be domineering.”
“Will. You. Stop. Talking?!”
“And easily distracted. Looks like the bad guys are gaining on us. You’re not doing a very good job here, you know?”
“There are three of them and”—out of the corner of my eye I notice her peeking over the edge of the back seat—“GET THE FUCK DOWN!”
I grab the back of her dress, pulling her away just as the BMW careens to the left. The force of the motion sends us both sprawling on the floor of the car, with me landing over her.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, woman?” I bark. “Want to get your pretty head blown off?”
“I’m worried about our situation!”
More bullets bombard us as Riggo changes lanes, trying to shake off the gunmen. I need to get back to laying the cover fire, but I can’t look away from Tara’s pouting lips. They are luring me again.
“Our situation is quite fine,” I grit out.
“No shit?” she bites back, her eyes glinting with defiance.
She’s so fucking sexy when she’s angry. I sweep away a strand of her hair that fell across her face, internally fighting this gravitational pull toward her. That resistance lasts two heartbeats before I surrender to the urge.
I slam my mouth to hers, seizing her tempting lips. Maybe it’s our ordeal, or it could be just the taste of her, but my mind takes an unexpected trip off a cliff. Nothing else seems to matter except having my wife pinned under me as she kisses me back. The sounds of gunfire, the screech of tires, Riggo’s worried shouts… Everything gets drowned out by Tara’s soft moans.
A piercing crack explodes above us. I immediately wrap my arms around Tara’s head as pieces of shattered rear glass rain down on us. The BMW swerves to the left, sending us both bumping into the seats.
“We’re hit. Lost the driver-side back tire,” Riggo shouts. “I need to pull over before we spin out.”
Fucking great.
Sliding the screen down, Riggo glances at me over his shoulder. “Apologies, Mr. DeVille,” he says. “That vehicle in front of us fishtailed and then made a sudden stop. They might have had a tire blowout. Should I get out and see if they need help?”
I peer ahead, checking out the road conditions through the windshield. A guy in jeans and a black hoodie is crouched down next to the driver-side tire of his full-size black pickup. This might be an infrequently used side road, at least at this time of year, but the asphalt is new. No potholes or anything else that might cause sudden damage to a heavy-duty tire like the one on the guy’s rig. Especially where an abrupt stop would be needed. He didn’t even bother pulling over to the shoulder of the road.
The man rises and kicks the tire with his boot, then turns toward us. With a casual shrug, he beckons Riggo to come over, as if he does need help. I keep my eyes on the nimrod as I reach inside my jacket and pull out my gun.
“Really?” Tara grumbles next to my ear. I didn’t realize that I was still holding her tightly pressed to my side. “Are you seriously going to get out, guns blazing, because some poor guy got a flat tire?”
“Riggo. When I tell you to, hit the gas.” I turn to face my stubborn wife, bumping my nose with hers in the process. “Get down to the floor.”
“Why?”
“Because the doors can block more bullets than the windows. Down. Now!”
“Bullets?” She blinks at me twice in confusion, then quickly untangles her legs from mine and crouches on the floor between the seats. “Fucking great.”
Considering she experienced a panic attack during the exchange of our wedding vows, I’m expecting her to start losing her shit any second. In fact, I kinda expected she’d be halfway there by now, right after the gunfire was mentioned. But instead of drowning in hysterics, my wife simply adjusts her skirt and flashes me an angry scowl. Unbelievable.
I cock my gun. “Floor it, Riggo.”
The car launches forward.
The poor guy with a flat tire reaches behind his back, pulling out a weapon. At the same time, the passenger door as well as two back doors fly open, and three other guys leap out of the pickup just as our car rushes past them.
Rhythmic pings pepper the back of the car as the shooters litter us with gunfire. One of the rounds ricochets off the rear windshield, leaving an indent in the bulletproof glass. The bastards are using armor-piercing shit. I lower my side window and return fire.
“I should have married Conrad,” Tara grumbles from her spot on the floor. “I could be having a great time somewhere in Europe, enjoying a shrimp cocktail right now. Not getting shot at in the middle of nowhere.”
“Who the fuck is Conrad?” I bark while aiming at the attackers in the pursuing truck. A couple of guys have stuck their heads out of side windows, while another popped up through the sunroof. Maybe I should be thankful their driver is too busy to also shoot at us right now.
“He’s the son of an oil tycoon. Someone I dated in college. We were such a good match. But I panicked when he proposed after such a short time of us seeing each other, so I broke up with him. He still calls me occasionally, though.”
I grit my teeth and send another round at the pickup that’s dogging our every move. “Well, tell your oil tycoon brat that if he calls my wife again, the next call you’ll be getting is an invite to his funeral.”
“You can’t forbid me from speaking with my friends!”
My head snaps toward her. “Of course, I—”
A bullet whizzes past my face, missing by mere inches. This damn woman will get me killed! I return my attention to the assholes chasing us, but the pickup has steered toward the middle of the road, escaping my line of fire. Shit. I change the gun’s magazine, then slide to the opposite window, opening it to resume shooting.
“I thought you’re left-handed,” Tara continues mumbling. “It fits with your personality. Left-handed people are known to be domineering.”
“Will. You. Stop. Talking?!”
“And easily distracted. Looks like the bad guys are gaining on us. You’re not doing a very good job here, you know?”
“There are three of them and”—out of the corner of my eye I notice her peeking over the edge of the back seat—“GET THE FUCK DOWN!”
I grab the back of her dress, pulling her away just as the BMW careens to the left. The force of the motion sends us both sprawling on the floor of the car, with me landing over her.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, woman?” I bark. “Want to get your pretty head blown off?”
“I’m worried about our situation!”
More bullets bombard us as Riggo changes lanes, trying to shake off the gunmen. I need to get back to laying the cover fire, but I can’t look away from Tara’s pouting lips. They are luring me again.
“Our situation is quite fine,” I grit out.
“No shit?” she bites back, her eyes glinting with defiance.
She’s so fucking sexy when she’s angry. I sweep away a strand of her hair that fell across her face, internally fighting this gravitational pull toward her. That resistance lasts two heartbeats before I surrender to the urge.
I slam my mouth to hers, seizing her tempting lips. Maybe it’s our ordeal, or it could be just the taste of her, but my mind takes an unexpected trip off a cliff. Nothing else seems to matter except having my wife pinned under me as she kisses me back. The sounds of gunfire, the screech of tires, Riggo’s worried shouts… Everything gets drowned out by Tara’s soft moans.
A piercing crack explodes above us. I immediately wrap my arms around Tara’s head as pieces of shattered rear glass rain down on us. The BMW swerves to the left, sending us both bumping into the seats.
“We’re hit. Lost the driver-side back tire,” Riggo shouts. “I need to pull over before we spin out.”
Fucking great.
