She took the slip of paper from him, numbers scrawled in a list with the team members’ nicknames beside each one. Brick, Cuervo, Data, Bubbles, Fang, and Slow Hand, the guy who’d transferred out of the team to teach. A lot of people to count on. A lot of support. He’d made some deep connections. “Liam, do you really think—?”
“Put the numbers somewhere safe. There are two prepaid cell phones in my duffel. If you use one, toss it away. Don’t use it twice. I also have a weapon for you. Have you ever shot a gun like this before?”
“I’ve never even seen one like this. Honestly, all I know is what I learned in a basic handgun safety course I took for traveling to some sketchier places for rescues.”
“Okay, I’ll give you a shooting lesson with this one when we stop. Mostly you just need to get the feel for the kick so you don’t jerk when you shoot.”
She looked at the numbers, thought about the gun.
The possibility of having to call on any of these people—to reach for that gun—draped her with dread. “Liam, I can’t face that something might happen to you because of me.”
“Rachel, no. Don’t think that way.” He scooped up her hand and kissed her wrist. “None of this is your fault. The people who’ve threatened you and Harris, they’re the ones to blame. And we will find them. They will be stopped, that much I can promise you.”
He skimmed another kiss along her racing pulse before releasing her. She pressed her wrist to her stomach, holding on to the searing sensation of his kiss a while longer. If only she could hold on to him and keep him safe.
Safe from what? Someone who wasn’t afraid to run people off the road or blow up buildings. She thought of her lonely town house. There was no one in her life other than her dogs, but still so much lost. All the photos of her SAR success stories. The diaries she’d kept. Sure, some of the photos could be recaptured from other sources, but not everything was replaceable. Like the thank-you note from parents whose two-year-old had wandered out during the night. Or the model clay black Labrador retriever made by the tiny hands of the seven-year-old girl who’d gotten separated from her parents on a camping trip.
That and so much else had been lost forever. And why? For what? She needed answers. “This is all insane, everything that’s happened.”
“No shit.” He turned the steering wheel, veering off the rural highway into a small diner and gas station. “It’s also been a long time since we’ve eaten, and I’m starved. Let’s fuel up—Jeep and stomachs.”
Guilt sideswiped her again. He hadn’t slept last night either—dark circles under his eyes, the stubbly beard, which should have made him appear haggard.
But he just looked even more determined. Right now, he was the Liam McCabe she’d met in the Bahamas, the man who’d worked eighteen hours straight to save lives. He was pouring that determination into helping her, saving Brandon, even stopping whatever traitorous crap was going down on base.
He was all in.
For the first time in two weeks, in years actually, she was no longer alone. And there was something deeply empowering about that. Something she’d envied in Sunny Rocha. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You could go in and order food.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled five twenties from his wallet. “Be sure to pay for the gas while you’re inside. Cash for everything from now on. I’ll hang out here with Disco, give him a walk around.”
His thoughtfulness and the whole domesticity of the exchange tap-danced all over her already-exposed emotions. She hopped out of the Jeep and walked to him, stopping close enough to touch, to feel the heat of his strength, so much more tangible than even the steam coming off the asphalt.
“Thank you.” She touched his chest lightly.
His words from the day before came rolling through her mind, about how they couldn’t go back to pretending they weren’t affected by each other. And he was right. This attraction between them only increased. His hand enfolded hers.
“Stop thanking me,” he said gruffly. “What can you do? I need… food.”
She laughed. He was such a man. “Anything in particular you want?”
“Want?” His eyes flamed for an instant, before he squeezed her hand once and let go. “You choose. Just be sure to keep a low profile.”
He leaped from the Jeep by the gas pump.
Low profile. Okay. She could do that.
She plucked at her shirt, the heat of the day sticking her clothes to her back. She’d gotten a fresh change from Sunny—a tee and jean shorts. Generous and definitely welcome, although the shirt was a little snugger than the looser clothes she wore for comfort when working—not to mention, it was hot pink. Not exactly a blend-in color.
Low profile, low key, she chanted mentally with each step. Easier said than done, when she was used to charging through life rather than fading into the walls. At least the place was pretty much deserted, other than an older couple parked in a corner booth and another guy outside walking his boxer.
Stopping in front of the cashier, she peeled off enough twenties so the guy with a Miami Dolphins shirt would turn on the pump. He flipped the switch, collected the cash, and passed her a laminated menu without pulling his attention off the game on television.
She eyed Liam, who was still filling the Jeep, Disco’s leash securely in his other hand. Of course he could handle taking care of her dog. She was acting like a nervous mom, for Pete’s sake.
Still, as she placed her order for three shrimp po’ boys and two orders of fries, she studied the trees and marsh around the diner, wondering where he would choose to walk Disco. The parking lot only had a few cars—an old Cadillac, a Land Cruiser with surf boards on top, and a truck with fishing poles across the back window. Not many vehicles overall, but that area still might invite traffic—and attention.
The campground was deserted, other than a Porta-Potty. Lots of grass, but someone else had the same idea about using it for a dog walk.
Would Liam know to keep her Lab away from the other dog, a boxer puppy—maybe seven or eight months old—walking over by the creek? The pup seemed more interested in pawing at a rotting log than taking a bathroom break, to the frustration of his owner, a young man who appeared to be around twenty or so. The dog was painfully thin. Probably looking for something to eat, poor pup.
Judging by the owner’s loud board shorts and the cut-off sleeves of his shirt, he was probably on his way to the Florida Keys. And he was likely driving the Land Rover in the lot with surfboards strapped to the roof. Definitely on vacation.
Liam replaced the gas nozzle and she paid the rest of the tab to the indifferent cashier. She pivoted back to get her food…
Her eyes snagged on the picture window view of the guy with his boxer. Tugging his boxer, who very definitely didn’t want to leave. Shouting at the dog until even the cashier glanced up briefly.Her stomach lurched at the escalation. She could already predict where this was going even as she hoped otherwise.
Low profile. Low key. Low profile…
She paid the cashier, reached for her bag of food, and tucked it to her chest. Her lips pressed tight as she shouldered through the door.
Just as the shouting jerk kicked his dog right in the head.
***
Shit.
Keeping Disco on a short leash, Liam ran full out toward the jackass kicking his puppy. Rachel was nearer and closing in fast, with steam coming out of her ears. He was twice as far away.
Still, he pumped harder, faster, racing to close the gap and make it there before Rachel. He needed to stop the jackass, while defusing the situation before anyone got hurt—or drew undue attention to themselves. His pulse hammered in his ears. Hell, his heart was in his throat.
Yeah, he would have said something to the jerk even if Rachel hadn’t been around. But he suspected if she got to the guy ahead of him, this wasn’t going to shake down peacefully.
“Rachel!” Liam shouted, batting at a low-hanging pine branch, needles showering free. Disco raced alongside in step.
The college-aged guy looked over sharply, his eyes visibly bloodshot even from a distance. He stumbled drunkenly. Intoxicated and violent? It wasn’t much of a leap to think the guy would turn that rage from an animal onto a woman.
Onto Rachel.
“Hey!” Rachel shouted. “Wanna lay off your dog there, dude? He’s just a curious—hungry—puppy.”
The guy pivoted, staggering in the sparse grass. Definitely drunk even this early in the day. His dog cowered closer to the ground, whimpering. “Wanna mind your own business, bitch?”
“That’s no way to treat your pet. If you need help, I’ll be happy to lend a hand—”
“Get the f**k out of my face.” He jabbed a finger in the middle of her chest. Then hesitated. Eying her br**sts in the tight pink shirt. Twisting his finger in the fabric.
She didn’t back down even a step. Just held a hand up behind her, stopping Liam in his tracks. For now.
Disco crouched low to the ground, snarling. Liam echoed the sentiment. Completely.
Grasping the Lab’s collar, Liam paused about five feet away. He held back the dog, respecting Rachel’s request. But he stayed close enough to end this in a heartbeat. The guy was too wasted even to see Liam standing on the perimeter, ready to pound this dipshit loser into the ground if the bastard dared hurt Rachel.
Her eyes narrowed. “Move your hand. Now.”
The bastard just sneered and poked her chest again. “How about you move your sweet little ass, lady.”
Liam growled. Rachel smiled.
“I warned you.” She moved in a flash, whipping her hand around his wrist. Her other hand bent back his pinky back until he dropped to his knees, shrieking.
“What the fuck? You’re breaking my finger. Let go!”
“Does that hurt a little bit?” She pushed harder on his finger and leaned right into his face. “Lay off the dog, you psychopath.”
She was frickin’ magnificent.
Her confidence, her strength of will and passion, radiated off her in tangible waves. She didn’t need to glam up or plaster on makeup. Pure, undiluted Rachel was absolute perfection.
Liam couldn’t pull his eyes away.
A second lanky guy in board shorts shouted from the doorway of the Porta-Potty before he jogged toward them. “Hey, Chaz, dude, chill out. You’re gonna make them call the cops and they’ll find the weed in our—Just lay off.”
Snapping into action, Liam put himself between Rachel and the second approaching guy—who appeared sober enough to grasp the wisdom of staying back from Liam and the tensed black Lab.
The sober guy raised his hands. “No harm, no foul, old man. We’re outta here as soon as she lets go of my buddy.”
Slowly, Rachel released his hand, but her guard was clearly still in place. The way she kept her arm extended protectively in front of the leggy puppy, she wasn’t as ready to let this guy off the hook.
Shaking his hand, Chaz stumbled to his feet again. He dropped the leash and staggered away mumbling, “Worthless chickenshit dog… You want it? You take it.”
His sober pal hauled him toward the Land Rover, mumbling warnings to shut the hell up as he stuffed him into the passenger side. Once they’d roared out of the parking lot, Rachel knelt in front of the puppy, extending her hand for the cowering pup to sniff.
“It’s okay, little one. I won’t hurt you.” Carefully, she stroked her hands over the dog’s sleek brown fur, checking the legs and paws for injury. “Want something to eat?”
She fished into the paper bag she’d dropped to the ground. She dug out… a po’ boy. Their supper. Of course. She tore off pieces of their food and fed it to the puppy one bit at a time, making fast friends.
Watching the way she’d pulled the dog away from its abusive owner told him that while she might be taking a break from her profession, she would never be able to turn off that need to rescue. She might not know it yet, but she would be back one day, sifting through the rubble, willing the survivors to hang on until she could find them.