“You saw the blood, right?” Lucky forced a chuckle. “I’m gut shot. I’ll bleed out long before you can do anything. If your hired gun only meant to wing me, I’d withhold his Christmas bonus this year.”
Silence, both from the man and O’Donoghue.
Shutting his mouth, Lucky eased more toward the right. The SNB should have a lock on the man by now, so carrying on the conversation only made tracking Lucky easier. Please let Bo not have heard his gut-shot comment and worry.
Did this place even have alarms and a sprinkler system? Not that it’d help much for a chemical fire.
“Agent Harrison?” The voice came closer. Lucky slid his butt cheeks faster across the floor. Ow! Fuck! He laid his gun down long enough to dig a tree branch-sized splinter out of his ass. Using the hand holding his gun and one ass cheek, he crab-crawled the way Salters had left.
Whoever was out there and knew who he was had to know he wasn’t unattended.
Boom! The whole fucking floor shook, debris raining down. Explosives? Really? Destroying evidence, killing an agent. These guys had to be out of their minds.
“Don’t expect help,” the man said, deep rumble in his laugh. “I brought friends. You should’ve minded your own business. Hector, Vinnie, time to leave.”
“You get that, O’Donoghue?” Nothing. Fuck. Lucky’s heart dropped to his stomach. Smoke began filling the room. If the heat didn’t get him, the smoke would. Both rose. Lucky crawled on the floor. The lights went out.
Blindly he groped in the dark, reaching a dead end of boxes and having to turn around. He never would have thought O’Donoghue’s voice would sound like an angel’s. “Harrison. What’s your situation?”
No need lying. “Pretty damn bad. He said he had friends taking care of my backup.”
“We didn’t come here to let them get away. Now. How far are you from the main entrance?”
“Too fucking far. Did Salters make it out?”
“Salters? No.”
Fuck! Lucky told him to get out, he shoulda fucking obeyed. But damn. Here he’d expected to die one day from a cartel’s bullet, and instead he’d be French fried redneck.
Bo. Charlotte. Ty.
Alejandro. Nope, no dying today. He had a family to take care of and many more years before he’d let his name grace the SNB memorial page.
Steeling his resolve, he crawled, inch by painful inch.
A shout came from behind him. Cursing. Quiet.
“Harrison?” A voice Lucky knew.
“Salters? I told you to get the hell out! Where are you?”
“Near the entrance. Follow the sound of my voice.”
Damn it! Lucky’d gotten turned around and went the wrong damned way. Fuck it all to hell! Hey, when had things gotten brighter? And hotter?
Lucky glanced up and wished he hadn’t. Fingers of flame licked at the ceiling, the building going up like kindling. Fear surged through him. He thought he’d known fear, but nothing like this. Please, Lord, don’t let him burn to death. No, no, no, no, no!
A picture of Bo filled his mind, sitting in a rocking chair, feeding a tiny baby from a bottle. Bo’s son. No, their son. Bo would kick his ass if he gave up.
He couldn’t cover his face; he’d already used his T-shirt for a bandage. Then again, leaving a blood trail now was the least of his worries. He wrapped the bloody shirt over his mouth and nose, lifting the edge to holler, “Keep talking!”
“Over here!”
Lucky course corrected a little to the left. Behind him something went Whoosh! He braced, but no explosion or wall of flame.
Keeping as low as he could, he crawled on his hands and knees.
“Sounds like you’re close. Keep coming.”
