“What if I’m in danger and can’t scream?”

  That would mean she was either comatose, or someone was preventing her from opening her mouth or using her throat. “Then the mission failed,” he said, not wanting to consider that option. “This isn’t Blue Larkspur, Theresa. You’re going to have to be aware every second...listen to every sound. Anything that doesn’t fit, a crack of a twig, or birds suddenly squawking all at once...you pay attention.” He handed her the gun, but she shook her head.

  “Someone would be more likely to get it from me before I got a shot off,” she said. “But I’ll take the knife, if you don’t mind. I’ve done a lot of carving of fowl in my lifetime. And right now, Eric and Jennifer are both about as foul as it gets.”

  If they hadn’t been fighting the clock and walking into way too much danger with no backup, Ezra might have kissed her right then.

  And regretted it later, too.

  Because the mission wasn’t going to fail.

  There would be a tomorrow.

  A next week.

  And the day after that, when he got his assignment and left Blue Larkspur for the life he needed to live.

  * * *

  Ezra walked and couldn’t be heard. Very quickly he taught her how. “We’re in a hurry, but to get in there without being discovered, we have to move slowly,” he said. “Keeping all of your weight on your left foot, knee bent, put your right foot down, pinkie toe first, then slowly roll to the ball of your foot. And repeat. You can’t walk standing upright or you’ll have less control of your balance, and it’s always weight on the standing foot while setting the walking foot down, pinkie toe, ball of foot.”

  She practiced once. “What do I do with my heel?”

  “Lower it as you roll to the ball of your foot.” She tried, and he tapped her knee and said, “Knees bent, Theresa. You lose your balance, you fall. That leaves you fallen prey.”

  His words struck her cold, and the skin of her thigh still burned from the touch of his strong, thick fingers through her pants.

  The man was going to drive her wild.

  But his weird magic over her was keeping her focused long enough to find her girls, and that meant more than life.

  By the time they’d reached the edge of the woods, completely without incident or any sound other than an occasional bird or quiet breeze in the trees, she was confident in her ability to move as he’d taught her. Had an idea of what he’d meant about paying attention to the sounds around her as well, to notice sudden change.

  Which, he’d told her, would denote foreign occupation. Could be the enemy, because she’d been discovered. Or it could be a bear or other wildlife.

  She had her knife. Was ready to use it.

  She was a bear. A mama bear protecting her cubs.

  The wildlife didn’t worry her nearly as much as the thought of an armed former father-in-law did.

  Ezra stood so close their bodies were touching as he used the last cluster of tree trunks for cover and surveyed the land before him. At first glance, she saw peaceful meadow.

  And then, off to the right, so far away she could barely make it out, she saw the van. An impeccably kept brown van. Nudging Ezra, with her elbow to his side, she pulled her forearm up to her chest and pointed, with one finger only. Big motion, just like big steps, could be more easily detected.

  He’d already seen the van. She got that when he nodded, leaned down, his head nestled into her neck, and gave her succinct, softly whispered instructions. “Do as I said. And don’t watch me. Watch your six.”

  Putting her lips to his neck, she replied, “There are two of them and two of us. We’ve got this.” After which she kissed him.

  Right there on the neck.

  A promise that she’d follow orders. A thank-you.

  And a sip at his well of strength, too.

  No matter what happened, the man was in her soul for keeps.

  Chapter 19

  Did she just kiss his neck? Ezra had no idea what to make of the possibility, and while the idea of it lingered, he couldn’t hang on to it right then. Moving stealthily, he headed to the front corner of the woods, leaving Theresa behind him, and didn’t look back. Not even once.

  A glance could cost him a missed detail, and one detail could be the difference between life and death.

  If he didn’t hear her scream, she didn’t need him.

  At the edge of the trees, he dropped to his stomach, arms stretched out in front of him, gun in his hand, with his head up only enough to be able to see his path. He’d chosen the shortest angle between him and the van, which was the only visible sign of human habitation. But as he lifted his head from the ground, looking upward, the view was different.

  He noticed the glint right off. A camera lens in a tree to the left of him, pointing toward the prairie land into which he was heading. Rolling over to his back, he studied the lens, and then returned to lying stomach side down. He’d detected three cameras on the front line of the trees, and could assume there were others, most likely on the ground, but all of them were facing approximately three feet aboveground. The cameras’ owners were interested in large intruders.

  Maybe bear or bobcats, but most likely those of the human variety.

  So he became a snake, slithering in the foot-high grasses slowly enough not to be obvious, gaze peeled to the point of dry eye. Every blink could come with a price.

  Oddly, as he moved, he came back home to himself. Was comfortable, at home, with the activity. And trusted his ability to complete the mission.

  Nostrils filling with the slightly sharp scent of grasses and plant life mixed with the sour smell of mildew, he moved along slowly and steadily, the van in sight at all times. Earth scraped against his stomach as his shirt pulled from the waistband of his jeans. He knew. Didn’t care.

  Blades of various straw-like growths tipped at his cheeks. His nose. Accepting the itch without scratching, he watched for any sign of movement. Burning with one need in those moments—to see Claire and Neve. Once he had them on his radar, he could formulate the exact rescue plan.

  They could be tied up. Or guarded by an armed grandparent.

  More likely, they would be safely down in the bunker, which was going to make Ezra’s job trickier. It wasn’t like he could just pull open the hatch and trot downstairs.

  Not if he wanted to make it without bullet holes in his legs and possibly torso.

  He was going to have to get Eric and Jennifer Fitzgerald to vacate the bunker. To join him on the surface. The guards had to be dealt with before he could free the prisoners.

  He’d looked the old man in the eye just four days before. Had seen the steely resentment at Ezra’s presence around Eric’s dead son’s family. At his dead son’s residence.

  The grandfather wasn’t going to give up.

  He’d have to be taken.

  Blue skies and sunshine shone a bright light over the land, and beat down on his neck, too. Gray and rainy would be better. Keep him in shadows rather than in a spotlight. And camouflage movement in the growth.

  Cool him down, too.

  And make sliding on his gut less onerous, as rain would make mud.

  Weather was always part of the battle challenge. He’d slugged through snow and ice, for an entire night, with exposed skin. And had survived twelve hours in one-hundred-fifteen-degree desert heat without water.

  Still several yards from the van, he popped his head up far enough to get a good look at his surroundings, another take on the same view he’d been studying throughout his half-hour trek. And...there it was. On the opposite side of the van from his approach, a piece of steel, set in a thick frame six inches off the ground, protruding with a locking handle on it.

  Holy crap. He had eyes on the bunker.

  His gaze shot sideways, first right, then left, looking for prickly pear, or any well-growing vegetation that would signify compost fertilization. Nothing stood out as any different from the rest of the landscape, but he didn’t have a full three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the seventy-five or so feet that the angle of his diagram had projected.

  Inching his way to the van, intending to use the vehicle for cover, allowing him a more thorough look around without alerting cameras to his presence, he contemplated various ways to get the Fitzgeralds out of the bunker, if this was theirs.

  Considering their irrational fear of blasts, he knew an explosion wouldn’t do it. A gunshot might not, either, as both were sign of attack, and the bunker was their protection from that. It would have to be a threat to the bunker itself.

  A threat to the entrance. No way he was equipped to drill down ten feet to reach the steel-enclosed mini home itself.

  Of course, someone, maybe even the girls, could be in the van. He checked, as he drew closer, to see if anyone was visible through the windshield from his position on the ground, and saw nothing, but maybe they were all in the back? Eating a late lunch?

  Not at all likely.

  If the girls were in that van, it was more likely that they were tied up. Pray to God not drugged. Didn’t make sense that the Fitzgeralds would hurt the twins. Eric and Jennifer’s goal was to save their granddaughters’ lives.

  But irrational people did irrational things...

  Crack! He saw the earth a foot to the right of him puff up in a cloud of dust a second before he heard the shot. Freezing in place, flat on the ground, he waited for a very brief breath, and then, moving sideways, he slowly inched his way closer to the van. Needing the metal for bullet protection while he assessed his enemy’s strengths against his own weaknesses.

  The one shot didn’t mean for sure that he’d been made. Could have just been reaction to the possibility of someone on the premises—maybe a movement in the grass that triggered suspicion. A flash of color.

  Could be someone thought his movement had been created by a rabbit, and the human was only seeking dinner.

  Could be that Theresa had heard the shot and was panicking, thinking her girls had been hurt. Or that he wasn’t coming back and she’d have to save her children on her own.

  If she came any closer, she’d likely be shot.

  No way for him to tell her that.

  Best-case scenario, she was already on her way back to the Jeep to drive to where there was cell service and get Dom’s butt in there to help Ezra get the girls to safety.

  A knife against a bullet, long-distance... The knife would lose every time. Didn’t matter how many turkeys she’d carved.

  Another shot fired. Also landing barely a foot to the right of him. And it hit him... There weren’t just cameras. There were motion detectors. Set within however many feet of the bunker he’d just reached.

  His best hope was that the van would block the sensors. So thinking, he sped his pace, figuring that if he’d been seen, he was already a sitting duck, and if he hadn’t been, his best chance at remaining undetected was the lone brown vehicle to which he’d been headed.

  A third shot fired, following his progress. If he continued on the same path, he was going to lead his attacker straight to the van. Which would most likely bring Eric out of the bunker, but he’d leave Jennifer down in safety with the girls.

  Should Ezra take out the grandfather?

  Was it his only hope of getting those kids safely home with their mother?

  Backtracking a bit, he rolled and slithered, rolled and slithered, on no sensible course, but inching his way closer to the back side of the van, the driver’s side, as it happened to be. If sensors were showing movement, it wasn’t going to look human. That was the best he could do in the moment.

  That and plan. His heart pounded, his body hurt, but he couldn’t waste thoughts on either situation. Feelings didn’t matter. Staying mentally alert and ahead of his enemy was the only way to stay alive.

  All three shots had come from the same spot. As though the gun were stationary, not being carried by someone on the move.

  And they’d been rifle blasts, not from a pistol or shotgun. He might not be able to distinguish one from the other in a battle of many shots—but one at a time, he’d get it right.

  The bullets had each been a single shot. Not with pellets, like a shotgun would emit.

  Scratched and sweaty, he made it to the van, taking cover behind the front wheel, surveying the area around the bunker door from beneath the vehicle.

  And saw the rifle. Attached to a telescoping apparatus coming up from underground. The shooter was down in the bunker. Aiming and firing from there.

  Fancy setup. Military style.

  Had Eric Fitzgerald served?

  Was he up against a brother in arms possibly suffering from PTSD?

  The thought came—and went. Two defenseless little girls made the point moot.

  Knowing the source of the gun, more particularly knowing that its location wasn’t going to change, made his job less harrowing for the moment. As long as he kept the van between him and the barrel, he’d stay alive.

  He had to stay alive. Theresa and her daughters were counting on him. There were no troops behind him, fighting beside him, no one else to back him up in that particular maneuver if he failed. And the Fitzgeralds would have time to move the girls, to sequester themselves and the twins, and they might never be found again.

  With a quick lift of his body, he glanced inside the driver’s-side window of the van, noting the mess on the floor—blankets, fast-food trash. And the lack of seats in the back.

  Shots were fired again. Straight at his head. From a handgun, not the rifle. And based on the trajectory, the shooter was traveling—and could be using children as cover. At that point, with the older couple feeling cornered, who knew what they’d do? Would they rather the girls die with them than have to live through a nuclear blast?

  Ezra couldn’t shoot back unless he could make certain the girls weren’t in the vicinity.

  His gaze fell to the van’s ignition. He knew how to hot-wire a vehicle, but couldn’t do so just by... The keys were in the ignition.

  Shots fired again, hitting the van’s passenger window, and Ezra jumped in. Head down by the console, he turned the key, threw the vehicle in gear and pressed the gas pedal.

  Another loud crack sounded, followed by a large thud to the van that shot him up in the air and back down. A tire had blown out. Sitting up enough to monitor his destination, Ezra kept going. Thumping over the ground, skidding and having to floor the gas when the blown tire got stuck in ruts, he continued toward the tracks leading back to the bunker, headed toward the road. There’d been no other vehicle in the area. His pursuer would be on foot.

  And he prayed to God that if Theresa was still on the premises, she’d made a run for the Jeep.

  If they were going to stay alive, they had to get the hell out of there.

  * * *

  Shaking, heart thumping so hard she wasn’t sure how long it would last before giving out, Theresa sat behind the wheel of the Jeep, watching for any sign of human activity. Ezra, the girls, coming at her from any direction—she was ready to get them to safety.

  She’d heard the first shot ring out, had never been able to figure out the source. Not even after the fifth had sounded. She’d seen a blur of movement by the far side of the van. Hoped it was Ezra, but didn’t know that it was.

  And she’d run for the Jeep.

  Was Ezra lying shot and bleeding?

  Would the Fitzgeralds be coming for her next?

  Were the girls hurt?

  Should she go for help or, if she left with the Jeep, would she be taking Ezra and Claire and Neve’s only chance at getting to safety?

  They could need emergency attention. Should she drive toward the main road until she got service, call Dom and then head back?

  If the Jeep was their only hope of safe refuge, and she took it, then what?

  Ezra was good at what he did, the best, but he’d never dealt with children before. Any children. Normal, happy children.

  He most certainly would be in over his head with a traumatized set of twin girls who’d already been through so much.

  If any of them were injured, they wouldn’t be able to travel far. Or quickly. Not on foot, at any rate.

  Biting her lip, blinking back tears, she sat with the Jeep in gear, worried about having enough gas, afraid to turn off the engine, as it was the only source of escape, and keeping her gaze focused on the landscape around her. Both sides. Front and back, too.

  Two days in a row of hearing shots fired had taught her quickly.

  She searched for clothing, movement, any sign of Ezra or the girls. And for Eric Fitzgerald, too. If he’d killed Ezra, and was coming for her, he wasn’t going to succeed. She’d gun the Jeep she’d already turned to face the way out, and get help back there, or die trying.

  The Jeep rocked, and she screamed as she realized the passenger door was opening. Mouth open to scream again, she had her foot on the gas, ready to floor it, sending whoever was there to the ground, when she recognized Ezra’s head as he catapulted in beside her.

  “Go!”

  One look at his dirty, disheveled body, and she asked no questions.

  She just went.

  Trembling with fear, nauseous, she sped up the dirt road, leaving a large cloud of dust behind them, afraid to death for her daughters.

  Afraid to ask questions.

  Afraid of the answers.

  Was Ezra hurt? Bleeding? She didn’t look. Didn’t dare take her gaze from the road. Half a mile passed, she rounded a corner, and he said, “Okay, you can stop. I’ll take over.”

  “But...”

  “We’re not being followed” was all he said, exiting as she pulled to a stop. He rushed around to the driver’s door. She didn’t want to get out or waste precious time. Climbing over the console, she dropped her butt in the passenger seat he’d just vacated, allowing him to shove in behind the wheel and get the Jeep back in motion.