The tango repositioned, submachine gun trained on their safe house.For all Callum knew, the other man had called in the cavalry and was awaiting his backup to smoke out Callum and Grace.They needed to get the hell out before the guy’s buddies showed up.
“He’s waiting you out for a reason,” Gage said what Callum was thinking.“Do something about it.”
Callum had crap on a good angle.He blasted the front door with the twelve-gauge to entice his target to move.No dice.Only a spray of bullets responded.He was holed up and waiting Callum out.That meant problems.
“He’s using a comm system,” Dean reported.“Not able to patch in yet.Give me a minute.”
“He doesn’t have a minute,” Gage growled.“Hale, get out of there.No telling who he’s calling in.”
“I’m in their transmissions—” Dean cursed.“You’ve got less than two minutes.They’re bringing in air support.”
Fucking air support?What was this?A goddamn cartel hit?
“Take down the shooter,” Gage commanded.
Callum caressed the trigger.“Got shit for angles.”He chewed the inside of his cheek.“What the fuck does air support mean?”They might be in the mountains, but this was Virginia, not a war zone.
“Got the helo.AH-6 Little Bird.”
“Fuck.”Those bad boys were equipped with Hellfire missiles.
“Sixty seconds and closing.”
Callum checked his pockets for the truck keys, then he lined up his shot.“Cover your ears.”
His index finger caressed the trigger, needing another moment.
“Go, goddamn it,” Gage barked.
Callum took the shot and turned to Grace.“Get on your feet, babe.Let’s roll.”
Tears streaked her face.He snagged their bags and his woman and hauled ass toward the truck.“Head down.”
She stumbled but kept up and didn’t complain when he tossed her into the cab of his truck.He threw their bags and weapons into the backseat, then Callum wasted half a second and snapped a picture of the man on the ground by his tire, pulled the balaclava back, snapped another picture, and jumped behind the wheel.As soon as Dean identified the shooter, they’d have more information.
He turned the key in the ignition and roared off.Gravel spit.Brush smacked the undercarriage.
“Five seconds,” Dean reported.
Callum mashed the gas pedal.They flew toward the tree line—and the house exploded.Grace screamed.The reverb rolled over them.The truck skittered into the brush.Callum fought for control.
“Keep your head down.”They rumbled over the grass.Ascending the driveway hadn’t been smooth, but this was rough.
Callum made a sharp overcorrection, righted it, and gunned down the driveway.They bumped and jostled and jerked.Branches and brush scraped the truck.The high-pitch scratch of brush and sticks tore over the truck’s finish.He didn’t take his foot off the gas.
They came out of the woods.Tall grass whipped against their sides and undercarriage as they rolled down the mountain.No shots sounded.No aerial assault.Nothing hit them.The main road waited for them dead ahead.Callum didn’t bother with anything more than a cursory look before he blasted out of the driveway, fishtailing onto the paved road, and righted himself behind the steering wheel.His adrenaline pumped.Heart racing, he double-checked his mirrors, saw nothing, and took a deep breath.“You okay?”
“Do I look okay?”she screamed.
“You look alive.That was my goal.”
“Oh, my God.Why is this happening?”
He checked her over again.“We’re okay.Everything is okay.”
“Okay?”Grace threw her hands out and gaped.“Define okay.Because this is not my okay.”
“Are you bleeding?”
