Blush(96)

This hit is mine.

This hit is mine.

This. Hit. Is. Mine.

A muggy breeze tinged with the musty odors of swamp and rotting things ruffled her hair, and she shivered as if cold, dead fingers stroked her cheek. Crap. She wished she hadn’t put that image into her mind. There was enough non-woo-woo shit going on to freak her out without thinking about ghostly skeletal fingers touching her.

Hit. Mine.

It was downright fucking unnerving. She wanted to run. Run out of this haunted graveyard, run from the gunfight with what might be an army of assassins trying to kill her. . . .

And leave Cruz to fight her battle for her? Hell no.

She’d identified Cruz by his long hair and the shape of his darker shadow on the shadowy wall behind him and, after getting confirmation by the sound of his voice, kept him in sight.

Her eyes narrowed. Shit shit shit. There was a shadowy figure sneaking up behind him. Her gun felt heavy and unwieldy in her tense grip, but she tightened her fingers and slowly—very, very slowly—raised the barrel, training the muzzle on the man’s thick silhouette. Her hand trembled from the weight and the gnaw of fear and indecision.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

This hit is mine.

Was it possible? Was Cruz the hit man? Dear God. She didn’t want to believe it.

The tableau across from her had Mia riveted, dry-eyed, as she followed the man’s stealthy approach. Didn’t Cruz hear him? Sense the killer was there? In the time they’d spent together, she had learned that he had the hearing and instincts of a panther. He had to know, she reasoned. So, was Cruz fucking insane standing there, just waiting for the man following him to shoot him? Damn it. Maybe he wasn’t aware this one time when he most needed to be. The guy was less than twenty feet from him with a gun pointed at his head.

Her racing heartbeat made her dizzy with fear. Sweat itched a path down her temple and made her fingers, clamped around the grip of the Beretta, slick. Dear God, the man lifted his arm and out of the shadows and the moonlight caught the blue-gray metal of his gun.

He was going to shoot Cruz. The moon and all of the ghosts now shoving their dead, stubby cold hands on her back urged her to do something.

Flicking on the laser pointer she used in presentations that she’d grabbed at the last second as she was running from the house, she shined it between the two crypts.

The small red dot gave Cruz’s stalker a laser-bright bindi right between his eyes.





Chapter Eighteen

This is the police,” Mia shouted with authority, holding the dot steady between his eyes. He wouldn’t see the dot, but he’d see the beam and think it was a laser gun sight. If nothing else, her action would warn Cruz and give him time to protect himself.

“We have you surrounded. Drop your weapon and come out into the ope—”

Her foot came down on a loose stone as she shifted her weight to adjust her weakening gun hand. The incredibly loud blast of the bullet exploding into the cement door inches from her head almost gave her a coronary.

Stone and concrete flew off the wall behind her in a stinging shrapnel of sharp fragments and dust.

The first shot was instantly followed by another blast, which added another tone of ringing to the first high-pitched whine in her ears. Staggering backward, she stepped farther into the pitch-dark crypt, pressing herself against the mossy door. She froze. Not breathing. Not blinking.

“Mia!” The voice sounded muted and far away.

Her lips moved, but no sound came out. A black streak moved swiftly, seen out of the corner of her eye. Mia cowered back as Cruz grabbed her, wrapping his strong arms around her and almost squeezing the breath out of her.

“Jesus, woman—what the fuck were you thinking? Are you hurt? Did he get you?” He carried her out from behind the door into the moonlight, then set her on her feet to run his hands from her head over her shoulders, and over her breasts.

“You think he aimed for my boobs, Barcelona?”

“This isn’t a fucking joke. You could’ve been killed.” His voice was rough, and furious. He gave her a hard shake for good measure. “You could be dead because you didn’t do what you were told. These guys were professionals.”

“Go to hell, Barcelona. I came to help you.” She stopped abruptly when her bravado leaked out, and she pressed her face against his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist.

His arms came back around her and he held her tightly against him, his fingers tangled in her hair. “I could’ve lost you tonight.”

“I could’ve lost you tonight,” she countered, tightening her arms around him. Inhaling the scent of his skin steadied her. But her heart still beat too hard and too fast, and her knees felt rubbery, as if they might give out at any moment.