It looked like they were at the end of their journey. Scott had picked out another cluster of flowering brush, much like the one they were currently in, nearer the road as their final destination. From there, they’d pick the vehicle that would, in all likelihood, get them back to their teams. And then home.

  She wanted that. So badly. Home. For all three of them.

  But she didn’t want to never see Scott Michaels again. And with him in Vegas, and her in Phoenix, that likelihood loomed.

  The baby’s discomfort seemed to have passed. His eyes closed, he gave an occasional dry sob in his sleep.

  Another second or two and Scott would be announcing that it was time to head out.

  As he studied the landscape, she studied him. She might not get another chance. Was incredibly saddened by that thought. “Why not you?” The words pushed up out of her.

  He turned. Met her gaze for maybe a second before returning toward the road. “Why not me what?”

  She had a feeling he knew. And knew to leave it at that.

  Pressure built in her. “Why any man, but not you?”

  “It’s time to head out.”

  Dorian put a hand on Scott’s arm. “Not you because you couldn’t love me? Or not you because you could, but think you’re not good enough?”

  He turned to her then, his gaze professional. Sharp. “Really, Doc? Now?”

  His demeanor changed hers. Made her more determined. “Can you think of a better time?”

  Moving slowly, carefully, Scott resumed his crawling position, the satchel balanced in the middle of his back, instead of swinging under his stomach as he sometimes wore it. And Dorian slid into acceptance mode. Blinking. Refusing to allow tears to flood her eyes, as she, too, got back up on hands and knees.

  Scott glanced back, checking to see that she was ready, she knew, as he always did. “I personally can’t imagine any man that had your love, not loving you back,” he said, and then, without waiting for a response, turned around and started to move.

  “Just for the record, I can’t imagine any woman who loved you ever thinking you weren’t good enough.”

  Had they just issued declarations of love?

  For a second, Dorian got all giddy and shaky. Open to the possibility that her life choices could change. But the larger part of her, the woman who knew all the things that she knew, figured there’d been no intent to admit to loving each other. Whether emotions had grown between them or not.

  They’d been thrown together, with a bit of past connection between them, and were merely clinging to each other because of circumstances.

  They were simply two like-minded, savvy, independent professionals who’d just issued their parting shots.

  And her heart was going to have to accept that.

  Chapter 24

  The second he saw the police car, with the familiar emblem on the side, Scott’s adrenaline surged with such force he said, “That’s the one,” and went immediately into action.

  He’d worked with Creekville law enforcement on a case a couple of years ago. A larger municipality in the Phoenix valley, Creekville had a thriving diverse population with a low crime rate.

  “Why would someone from Creekville be up here?” Dorian’s question reached him as she followed him into the culvert at the side of the road, staying by the drainage ditch as he’d instructed while they’d been waiting for what he’d determined as the best vehicle.

  “Best guess, looking for us,” Scott said, and stepped out of the culvert and up to the road. Raising his hand with his official ID wallet displayed across the palm.

  Police would likely stop for anyone flagging down help. He was hoping his insignia would give the officer some warning that, with an agent in trouble, there could be imminent gunfire.

  As he’d expected, the car, still an eighth of a mile away, slowed and pulled to the shoulder of the road.

  The officer, Sharon Luthrie, her name badge read, was already out of her car, and reaching to help, as Dorian stepped up to the road with the baby.

  “Let me take him for you,” the dark-haired, slim woman said.

  Scott had already pulled open the back door of the car. “That’s okay,” Dorian smiled at the officer as she quickly ducked under the roof. “He’s asleep,” she added, sliding over so Scott could jump in beside her.

  With an intent, assessing look, the officer shut the door behind Scott, climbed back into the driver’s seat and sped off, sending an alert of their rescue out over her radio. Seemed to be listening to a reply through an earbud. Gave a response.

  And Scott’s entire system froze. Recalibrated. Shifted to a higher gear than he’d ever known before.

  Looking at Scott in the mirror, the young officer, clearly unaware of what she’d just revealed, said, “Agents and officers all over the state have been looking for you two. I can’t believe I just drove right up to you.”

  She signaled a turn with confidence. As though she knew exactly where she was going.

  “I’ve been on vacation out of state. Was just called back this morning to help with the search.”

  Scott felt Dorian’s fingers touch his arm behind the sling.

  He’d captured a Creekville car via his phone just after dawn. When he’d seen the road. Large ID number clearly on the roof—462. Luthrie, as an obvious reply to a question on the earbud, had just identified her vehicle as 462.

  Keeping his expression bland and facing the officer, Scott pushed against Dorian’s knee. From the rearview mirror things had to appear as though he was exhausted and relieved.

  The woman had just signaled a southeast turn. Not north, or west. Either of which would have taken them away from the compound. To a city and safety.

  “I’m assuming there’s some kind of substation set up?” Scott asked, sounding as friendly as he could get under the circumstances, keeping his knee pressed against Dorian’s.

  Knowing in his gut that something was horribly wrong.

  She hadn’t been called in until that morning?

  “There is,” she said. Making the turn, still on blacktop. But Scott had a sick feeling they’d just turned onto the blacktop toward which he’d originally been headed. The road that connected with the dirt road out of the compound. The direction fit.

  “Any sign of McKellips or his crew?” he asked, purposely letting her know he had some information about the case. Whether Scott died in the next minutes or not, the jig was up. His agents, Dorian’s partners, were not going to just let them disappear.

  He had no immediate plan, except to keep Sharon talking. Unaware that he was onto her.

  What he needed was a miracle.

  “McKellips?” the woman asked, shaking her head. “I just know about some guy named Conrad Boring. The kidnapper who had Dr. Lowell. Until now, no one even knows for sure you two are together, or if either of you is still alive. But like I said, I just called in this morning. Am just arriving in the area. I’m not even officially on duty yet. I was just heading to temporary mountain headquarters when I saw you. That’s where we’re heading now.”

  She sounded friendly. Reassuring. Calm. Professional, even.

  She knew facts about the case. Was, in all likelihood, a working officer in good standing.

  Completely unaware that she’d just cooked herself. Car 462 had been the zoomed, very blurred photo he’d shot that morning.

  He had to stop the car. Get them out of it. Killing the young woman seemed like the only way. But he risked the car wrecking and killing them all.

  A glint in the distance, half a mile or so up the long straight road, caught his attention. A bumper. High up.

  On a dark vehicle.

  The black truck? Filled with McKellips and his six goons?

  Scott had no time left.

  * * *

  Dorian hadn’t been sure she’d made out the 462 on the photo that morning. She’d thought 482. And had known that was too close for comfort.

  Scott’s pressure against her knee confirmed her fears. And sent alarm shooting through her in waves too sharp for her to calm.

  She had to think. To do. Holding Michael close, her heart was breaking. For him. For all three of them. Their little family.

  Scott was going into battle against those killers...fear engulfed her.

  She started to shake. Couldn’t figure out a plan. Or how she could help. She focused on Scott. Afraid he was going to jump into action at any second.

  Tried to be aware.

  To catch any clues he sent her.

  To help him.

  He tapped her arm. And then pointed to the floor. Still looking straight ahead. He held three fingers out, down low. Pretending to check on the baby, she watched them count down. Three. Then only two.

  Then one.

  Shielding Michael, Dorian dove for the floor as Scott, reaching for his knife, slid forward in a one-second, fluid motion.

  “We all die here and now, or you have a chance to live.” She knew she was listening to Scott. But could hardly recognize the steady, menacing, determined tone of voice. Glancing up, she caught a glimpse of his arm reaching around the driver’s headrest.

  Around the officer’s neck? Had to be the knife in that hand, because the hand she could see had a gun buried in the dark hair that was all that was visible to Dorian.

  “You’re going to stop this car, open the back door, and then, with hands up by your head, lie flat and kiss the ground, or you’re dead,” Scott said then. “Reach for your gun and you’re dead. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Please... I didn’t mean to... I fell in love. Was used. And then threatened...”

  “Now!” Scott hollered the word so loud that Michael jumped. Started to cry.

  Before Dorian even had a chance to kiss the baby, to try to soothe him, the car jerked to a halt. The door opened next to her head; Scott slid out. She felt the car dip slightly, heard a door slam and with a sharp turn—to avoid a body?—the vehicle sped out so fast her scalp slammed into the door.

  “Scott?”

  Was she with him? Or had the cop managed to cut him off somehow? Was she about to be turned over to killers?

  Michael’s cries grew. But she couldn’t help him.

  Not until she knew...she leaned forward, had to get at least a glimpse.

  “Stay low.” The command was loud. But no longer filled with death threats. And all Scott. Dorian’s eyes flooded with tears. She let them.

  Didn’t know how to stop them.

  “If you can, slide up and buckle in, but keep your head below the window.” He was yelling, over the sound of the baby’s frantic cries. The car bumped and hurtled. As though Scott had gone off road.

  Before he’d even finished talking, Dorian, with one arm propped on the seat, was sliding her butt and the baby up to the fabric of the front seat. Lay there for a second, with backside up against the satchel Scott had left on the seat. And very clearly, knew one thing she could do to help him. Pulling the last bottle of formula out of the satchel, she quickly affixed the attached nipple and quieted the infant.

  * * *

  Scott drove like a bat out of hell. The words of a song flashed along with the cactus he barely missed as he turned yet again, keeping the car behind trees and tall brush as much as possible. Knowing his chances of escape, of getting out of the day alive, were growing slimmer by the second.

  His only hope was to find a spot to stash Dorian and the baby, without McKellips knowing that they were no longer in the car with him.

  And to drive long enough, keep McKellips and his men on his tail long enough, that Dorian got herself to a hiding spot. And eventually to the road.

  To flag down a car that fit the parameters he’d already given her.

  A bullet sounded in the distance. He didn’t bother shooting back. Not until someone was close enough to him that he could actually take out a windshield.

  Or more.

  There was a chance, depending on how many were after him, that he could take them down one by one. He had five bullets in his gun.

  Last he knew, there were seven of them.

  As the baby’s cries quieted, and an eerie silence seemed louder than the road noise in the car, Scott stabbed his blade into the headrest next to him.

  “Take the blade,” he told Dorian.

  And in his peripheral vision, saw the blade disappear.

  The woman was a godsend. Followed all instructions. Kept her cool. Did all anyone could ever expect of her and then some.

  She’d be alright. A sense of peace infiltrated the tension pushing through his skin.

  He’d taught her all he knew, and she had a mind that would not only remember every bit of it, but one that could figure out how to adapt, to adjust, as she used the information. If it was possible for anyone to get that baby safely home, she was the one who could do so.

  He was nearing the mountain, but the trucks—he’d counted at least three—were gaining on him. He had to get around a couple of peaks at least to be out of sight long enough to dump Dorian.

  The car’s undercarriage hit an object. He was pretty sure he’d put a hole in something. Could be draining fluid that, when gone, would stall the car.

  He swerved. Scraped the side of the car against rock.

  Swerved again, sliding in the dust, and saw a six-foot rock abutment.

  “On the count of three, open the door, and run as fast you can. Behind the rock. You know what to do from there.”

  Scott’s throat thickened. So much he couldn’t say other things.

  “One. Two... Three.” Stabbing his foot on the brake, he heard the door open, then close, and shoved his foot to the gas, getting the hell out of there before anyone knew he’d driven into the range.

  As he peeled out from behind the peak, Scott knew he’d just committed suicide. His detour had given McKellips time to catch up to him enough that the truck, with its four-wheel drive and bigger wheels, was going to overtake him sooner rather than later. But Scott didn’t give up.

  He wasn’t going down a loser.

  With his foot pressed to the floor, and sweating two ton, he turned, and swerved, turned and peeled out straight ahead.

  For ten minutes.

  Twenty.

  Watched his mirrors as he careened over rocky desert ground. Saw the convoy getting closer.

  Within shooting range.

  Heard the shot. Glass breaking.

  Felt fire in his left shoulder.

  Kept driving.

  Thought he heard sirens. Knew he was hallucinating. That he’d likely triggered the police car’s warning sounds. Was blaring his whereabouts...

  And just kept driving.

  * * *

  Trembling, hunched over the baby, Dorian sat in a small indenture in the mountain, just beyond the six-foot boulder where Scott had dropped her. Knife at the ready. She’d only ever cut a person for surgical purposes, to save lives, but sat there reminding herself that she knew exactly where to slice to do the opposite.

  As minutes ticked by, her own life didn’t matter. She wasn’t sure she could take another life to preserve her own. But for tiny Michael...

  The silence became a roar in her ears, as she wiped away tears she couldn’t afford to shed. They’d lead to dehydration in the ninety-degree temperature. Sounds of the police car’s engine had long since faded into the distance. And then, the louder roar of multiple engines had, too.

  Dare she venture out?

  Aim for the culvert by the road where she and Scott had hidden to watch for vehicles? Did she trust herself to choose one that wouldn’t get her and the baby killed?

  Or that would return the baby to hands of traffickers?

  It’s what Scott would advise. She had one dry diaper. No formula. And a horde of men who’d be hunting her when they didn’t find the baby with Scott. Her options were to try to get back over the mountain—with the baby at least a two-day hike—and then out of it along a miles-long stretch of dirt road. Or flag down a car for help.

  He’d told her what to look for.

  First responders were off the list.

  She had to get to that culvert. The choice was clear.

  And so, after a quick meal of cactus, cut from a plant at her foot, and filling a second bottle with juice, she held the newborn close to her chest with one arm, settled the satchel in the middle of her back and set off on a three limbed crawl. No reason she couldn’t use her fourth. She’d been doing so while wearing the sling for days. It would make balancing the satchel easier.

  But holding on to that warm little body gave her a strength beyond anything physical. Or logical. And so she drew on it. Filling herself even while she further depleted what energy she had left.

  She would get to the culvert. One bush, one cluster of bushes, one bruised knee at a time. Scraping her already raw palm. Switching hands, and doing it some more. She didn’t rest much. She couldn’t bear to sit out there alone, without Scott. Was afraid that if she stopped, panic would take over and she wouldn’t start up again.

  And then, reaching the last cluster of six-foot-tall flowering plants, Dorian crawled inside, huddled in the branches Scott had broken to fit them earlier, closed her eyes and breathed. Shaking, she held Michael, felt him stir. Knew that he’d be waking soon.

  Knew, too, that she needed to have a bottle ready to put in his mouth, to keep him quiet, when he awoke. It was a given, already established routine. She knew what to do and she did it.

  Do, don’t be done to. Act so you aren’t acted upon. Act rather than react.

  Her parents’ words were like a litany to her as she sat there with branches poking at her hair, her back, feeding the baby. Trying to decide if she should change his diaper or save the last one in case of a cactus juice stool situation.

  She could fashion diapers out of the scrubs she’d stashed at the bottom of the satchel the day Scott had brought her pants and a shirt to change into. Out of her underwear, even.