Crossfire Christmas. Julie Miller
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a different kind of pain in Nash’s chest. He should have dragged the body to his truck, made sure Agent Delvecchio got the proper burial he deserved, instead of letting him lie alongside his own killers on a cold concrete floor. Losing Tommy had been like losing a kid brother. One by one, Graciela and his thugs were taking out the closest thing he had to family. There had to be justice. They had to pay.
Nah. He wouldn’t feel remorse about taking advantage of this woman’s nursing skills or scaring her into the no-questions-asked cooperation he needed. Even if he wound up dead at the end of all this, he was going to make sure the traitor was exposed and no one else on his team died.
“You gonna stop giving me trouble now, Peewee?” He looked down at her and saw the bravado or anger or whatever had fueled her defiance these past few minutes disappear. Now she was finally truly afraid of him. Ignoring a deep stab of guilt and reminding himself of the necessity for haste and maintaining anonymity—for her sake as well as his—he lowered himself into the seat of her midsize car. He pointed the gun over the crest of the hill. “Now the bag. Put it in the back.”
With a nod, she hurried to obey his orders. Fisting the gun in his lap, Nash risked tipping his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes for a few seconds. The heat inside the car was a drugging mix of pain and relief. The thawing nerve endings around his wounds and frozen toes stung like hundreds of needles piercing his skin. Yet drawing warm air into his lungs after so many hours exposed to the elements seemed to ease the constriction in his chest. Maybe it was the influx of oxygen into his system, or maybe these were the last moments of his life seeping away, and all he wanted to do was sleep.
This was humiliating, to be so helpless, so dependent on a frightened woman for survival. And while he might be more comfortable giving orders to his men or smack-talking his way with the bad guys, he’d sweet-talked a woman or two in his day. But that required a degree of thought and patience, and minding the words that came out of his mouth, that he didn’t possess the energy to stay on top of this evening. So he’d resorted to the bull-in-a-china-shop approach to gaining her cooperation.
Once he was in better shape, he’d let her go. She could report him to the local police after she’d gotten him off this exposed stretch of road, stitched him up and bought him a few hours of rest. Of course, by the time he released her and any cops got wind of his presence here in Kansas City, he intended to be long gone.
The car door slammed behind him, startling him from a dozing state, reminding him that he probably needed a good twelve hours of rest and recovery time before he could let his reluctant rescuer contact anyone. That meant he had to stay alert and he had to stay mean to maintain the upper hand and keep her from asking any questions or turning him in. If she never found out who he was or who was after him, the cartel wouldn’t be able to tie him to her. He needed her to believe he was a threat, but Nash intended to walk away without doing more than inconveniencing her for one night. Berto Graciela and Santiago Vargas and their selfish greed were real dangers he wouldn’t risk her life on by making her any kind of witness or information source.
When she opened the driver’s door and got in, the blast of cold air revived him further. “Let’s go.”
Instead of obeying, she cranked the heat, peeled off her remaining glove and rubbed her fingers in front of the heating vent. He could see her visibly shaking now, but he wondered how much of that was the cold and how much was fear. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“Nothing, if you do what I tell you.”
She slid him a sideways glance before focusing on bringing warmth back to her fingers again. “You owe me a new phone.”
The corner of his mouth wanted to crook with amusement at the woman’s refusal to say die. Ignoring his growing admiration for her spirit, though, he reached over and turned the heat back down to low—partly to keep his head clear and partly to remind her who was in charge. “Drive.”
“I’d like to wait until I can feel my toes first.”
He shifted the gun in his lap. “It wasn’t a request.”
She tucked a long strand of tangled hair behind her ear, peeking at him around her hand. Her gaze dropped to the Smith & Wesson pointed at her before she buckled herself in and shifted the car into gear. “You’re a bully, you know that?”
“I know,” he answered, surprised she hadn’t called him worse. Nash checked the mirrors right along with her, ensuring the road was clear in both directions before she pulled out. “Did you give 911 my license plate number?”
“No. I was more worried about your safety. Stupid me, huh?”
Good. That should buy them a few minutes. A police officer, ambulance and fire engine were most likely already en route to the scene. But if she hadn’t reported his truck, then the authorities wouldn’t be able to track him or put his name over the wires until they arrived on site. And he intended to be long gone by then.
She tapped on the brake, slowing their speed as they neared the bottom of the hill. “What are you, a hit man? Drug dealer? Is that what’s in that bag? Your payoff? Drugs and guns? Is there some innocent man somewhere I should have stopped to help instead of you?”
“Less talking, more driving.”
She nudged on the accelerator as they followed the dark ribbon of road up the next hill. “The moisture in the air is freezing on the pavement, so I don’t trust myself to turn around here. I’ll have to drive up to the next intersection or driveway to turn around and get you back to the med center.”
“We’re not going to the hospital.”
“Then where...?” She stomped on the brakes and they started to skid.
His instinctive reaction to reach for the wheel burned through his shoulder like a fresh gunshot. Nash swore as the edge of the road zoomed up to his window.
But she jerked the wheels into the skid, jerked them the other way. Leaving dirt and drift on the blacktop behind them, she steered them back to the middle of the road.
“Easy, Peewee.” Nash gritted his teeth as new waves of pain shot through him. “We need to get there in one piece.”
She slowed their speed and guided them back into the right lane. “Enough with the nicknames, okay?”
He nudged back the front of his jacket and pulled the blood-soaked bandanna from beneath his vest. His time was already limited—he didn’t need a panicked driver cutting it any shorter. “I thought you were a kid when you first walked up to my truck. What are you? Five foot nothin’?”
“I’m five-three. I’m not even the shortest one in my family, and I’m not going to have any personal conversation with you.” She glanced over at the bandanna dripping on his pant leg. “Here.” She released her death grip on the steering wheel to untie the pink scarf from her neck and pull it free. She tossed it across the seat into his lap. “Pack that against the wound. The cold temps have probably slowed the bleeding enough for you to survive this long. You need to see a doctor.”
“I’ve got a nurse.”
“A pediatric nurse,” she reminded him.
Bit by bit, he stuffed the scarf beneath his vest. “Can you stitch up a wound?”
“Yes, but you need antibiotics. Maybe even surgery. At the very least, you need an X-ray to find out what damage that bullet’s done inside you.”
“I’m not going to any damn hospital.”
“Then where am I taking you? The nearest cemetery?”
“That’s a sweet bedside manner you’ve got there, darlin’.” She reached over and shut off the heat. “Turn it back on. You’re shivering.”
“Like you care.” She shook her head. “The cold’s better for you. That’s probably the only reason why you haven’t bled to death yet.”
“You’re a smart girl.”
“I’m