The Guardian's Mission. Shirlee McCoy
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pivoted away, the picture of an irritated woman, and Tristan started to believe they’d won this round. She’d return to civilization, report what had happened to the authorities. By that time, the raid would be over and the police would be able to tell her what she’d walked into and how close to death she’d been. Maybe she’d think twice the next time she went hiking through the Blue Ridge Mountains alone.
He should have known things wouldn’t be so easy.
“You’re not going nowhere. You wanted to come along. You’re coming.” Johnson moved in close, pulling a gun and pointing it at the woman, then Tristan. He’d use it, too. Kill them both the same way another person might swat a fly.
In other circumstances, Tristan would have tried to disarm him, but these weren’t other circumstances. There was an innocent civilian to worry about, and he couldn’t take chances with her life. “Cool it with the gun, man. You keep swinging it like that and someone could get hurt.”
“Your lady friend keeps causing trouble and someone will.”
“I’m not causing trouble. I’m saying I want to go home, but if you’re going to get hot about it, I’ll tag along with you two instead.” She shrugged as if she really didn’t care, her movements confident and easy as they started moving again.
Who was she? Not your typical civilian, that was for sure. No panic. No begging or pleading. If Tristan hadn’t known better, he would have thought she was a fellow agent. He took a harder look. Short. Pretty. Athletic build. Dressed in jeans, a nylon jacket and hiking boots, she looked like any other weekend camper, but most normal people were tucked inside cozy houses sitting beside blazing fires, not traipsing through the mountains in frigid rain.
Normal?
As if he knew what that was anymore.
Living undercover didn’t leave room for normal. It only left room for the job. And right now the job suddenly included the woman trudging along beside him. He kept a firm grip on her arm as they walked. No way could he let her go running off again. Not when he knew Johnson was just waiting for an opportunity to get rid of her. Permanently.
She slipped and nearly went down on her knees, but he managed to tug her up before she landed. “Careful. The leaves are making things dangerous.”
She laughed, the sound choking out and cutting off almost before it had begun.
Surprised, Tristan scanned her face. Rainwater slid down smooth cheeks, freckles dotted her pale cheeks, gold and green mixed in the depth of her eyes, soft lips pressed together.
Lips he’d kissed.
Lips that had been softer and warmer than he’d expected.
Whoa! That wasn’t the direction his thoughts should be heading. He forced his attention back to the moment, to the mission, to his role. “I’m glad you’re keeping your sense of humor, Sunshine. It makes life a lot easier.”
“I wouldn’t call it humor.”
“No?”
“No. I’d call it hysteria, and if I wasn’t afraid your friend would pull out his gun and shoot me dead for it, I’d probably be laughing uncontrollably right now.”
“You’re right to be worried about that. Johnson isn’t known for his self-control.”
“Maybe if you’d tell me what’s going on—”
He pressed a finger to her lips, cutting off her words before she could say something that would get them both in trouble. Johnson might seem oblivious to the conversation, but Tristan knew him well enough to know he didn’t miss much. Not when it had to do with the business he was in. The business of death. “Nothing is going on that we haven’t already discussed. You need to relax and enjoy the experience.”
“Right. Sure. Enjoy it.” She wiped rain from her eyes, or maybe those were tears. It was hard to tell with so much water pouring from the sky.
Up ahead, Johnson was shoving through more brush, leading them northwest toward the abandoned logging camp that served as meeting place and auction house for Johnson’s boss Buddy Nichols’s gunrunning activities. There’d been other auctions before today, other buyers leaving with weapons meant to kill and maim, weapons that even the most sophisticated armor couldn’t stop.
Today, though, was going to be different. Johnson might think Tristan was clueless about their destination, but informants had been willing to leak the auction’s location to the ATF for a price. A few hours. That’s all that stood between the men who were dealing in illegal weapons and justice.
Tristan smiled with grim satisfaction, holding a thorny branch back and motioning for the woman to step past. One gunrunner, one gang leader, one weapon at a time, he was doing what he’d pledged to do after his brother had been shot and almost killed—evening the odds, adding one more good guy to the fight against the bad guys. Now, though, he had something else to think about. Someone else. An unknown player in an unpredictable game.
As if she sensed his thoughts, the woman glanced his way, her expression hiding whatever she felt. “How much farther?”
“Not much.”
“Which could mean anything.” She frowned, wiping at her face again. Rain. Not tears. Tristan was pretty sure of that.
“Which means we’ll be there soon. Then this will be over and we’ll be out of here.” Anything else was unacceptable. Anything else could leave one or both of them dead. “Just keep your head together, Sunshine, and everything will be fine.”
“Hurry it up, you two. We’ve got places to be.” Johnson shot a look over his shoulder, his flat eyes settling on the woman.
Tristan didn’t like the surge of interest that blazed in his eyes, the flash of heat that brought the only hint of life he’d ever seen into Johnson’s gaze.
He dropped his arm across Sunshine’s shoulder, praying she wouldn’t jerk away and give Johnson something else to speculate on. “Pick up the pace then. We’ll keep up.”
As Johnson turned away again, Tristan let his arm slip from Sunshine’s shoulders, grabbing her hand instead, squeezing gently and silently sealing their partnership. Whether she liked it or not, they were in this together. Lord willing, they’d make it out together, too.
THREE
Martha told herself she shouldn’t be comforted by the warm, callused palm pressing against hers, or by the well-muscled arm brushing her shoulder. Somehow though, she was. Which proved just how scared she was. She didn’t know Sky, and she didn’t trust him.
What she did trust were her instincts, and right now they were telling her that flat-eyed, freckle-faced Johnson was a killer. The gun he’d pulled had been a Glock 22, a weapon so powerful that the bullet would kill her before she had time to realize she was dying.
The thought made her shiver.
She didn’t want to die today. She wasn’t going to die. She had too many things she still wanted to accomplish. That cross-stitch project she’d planned to make for Dad and Sue’s anniversary but had never finished. The missions trip to Mexico. The vacation to Australia she’d been dreaming about since she was old enough to have dreams. The ten pounds she wanted to lose so she could fit into flirty little summer dresses.
Not that her size was going to matter when she was lying inside a coffin.
Don’t even go there, Marti.
You are not going to die.
At least, she hoped she wasn’t going to die. Who knew what God’s plans were? She sure didn’t. Every time she thought she had a handle on what He wanted for her life, He spun her around and started her in a new direction. Case in point—Brian. She’d been so sure he was the one, so certain God had brought them together. Funny how easy it was to believe something was right when you wanted it badly enough. Even funnier