Potter in charge, the Red Tides’s pipeline of drugs from Mexico to New York was about to hit a major roadblock.
Potter crossed the space between them and held out his hand, a wide grin splitting his face. “Casimiro! ’Bout time you got here.” He nodded toward the jet. “Nice ride, too!”
“Let’s save the greetings for later, gentlemen.” Lena glanced in Potter’s direction, then spoke quickly, her eyes studying the area around them as she motioned Scott to the other side of the car. “I need to get Mr. Casimiro inside, please….”
“Of course, of course!” Potter smiled again then stepped aside to let Andres pass. Lena stood at the door of the truck waiting for him.
He reached her side, threw his briefcase onto the seat, then turned to look at her. Just as in the plane, they were inches apart, her slim form backed up against the open car door, his body poised to get inside. Her gaze was serene and composed, the stone color of her eyes even more intense now that they were outside in the sunshine. It was crazy, but he had to try—and he wasn’t even sure for what—one more time.
“Lena…querida…”
Again the Spanish. Lena couldn’t believe it, but something curled inside her, a warm yearning for a time that was far behind them. The depth of pain that accompanied the craving surprised her, but she stiffened against it. She wasn’t his sweetheart and hadn’t been for a long time. How dare he use that word and that tone of voice? How was she supposed to deal with that?
Before she could form her angry reply, she caught an unexpected movement in her peripheral vision, a sudden motion that made her snap to, almost as if waking up from a dream. She glanced toward the area, already cursing herself for letting down her guard. Her profanity had barely cleared the air when the first bullet slammed into the Suburban.
A moment later, the second one came.
Beside them, Zack Potter collapsed onto the asphalt, his scream dying as the bullet ripped into his neck. Lena stared at his still-jerking body, then she yanked her head up and cried into her headset for backup. As she spoke, she whirled and Andres’s shocked eyes met hers. Grabbing his arms instinctively, she did what she was trained to do—she pushed him straight into the truck.
But he resisted her, and for one single second, they held on to each other, each trying their best to protect the other one first. Lena won—not by strength—but by doing the only thing she could. She went limp. Caught off guard by her action, Andres hesitated and that was all she needed. With a violent shove, she forced him down, then turned, thrusting herself in front of him.
The final shot was a direct hit. Lena crumpled without a word.
CHAPTER THREE
ANDRES REACTED instantly, old habits taking over as adrenaline kicked in. He grabbed Lena by the collar of her jacket and yanked her to him. Still trying to draw her weapon, she fought him futilely. “No,” she gasped. “You go! Get in the car and leave!”
“Not without you!” They wasted a few more precious moments, then too weak to do anything else, she gave in to Andres and allowed him to pull her into the truck. Before he tumbled inside the vehicle with her, Andres sent a quick glance in Zack Potter’s direction. The time to help his friend had passed. “Get us out of here,” he roared to the driver. “Now! Let’s go!”
The man needed no urging. The black SUV sprang forward, the tires squealing as he drove it down the sidewalk and straight toward a set of double gates. Only when she spoke again did Andres realize Lena had never released her grip of his arm. She pulled at him weakly, her voice fading but still urgent. “Stay down. We don’t know where the shots came from.”
Andres turned, but it was too late for her to hear his reply. Her eyes rolled back and she fainted without a sound. Her limp body started to pitch off the seat, but he threw himself on top of her and stopped her fall at the very last minute. Bracing himself, he fought the violent rocking of the truck and prepared for the crash of the vehicle as it went through the metal frame of the gate.
When it didn’t happen, he lifted his head and took a quick glance. A figure in black, one of Lena’s men, had swung back the iron grilles. The driver deftly maneuvered through the narrow opening, then bumped the speeding vehicle over the grooved tracks to a grassy swell just at the left of the runway. With the tires screaming even louder than before, the Suburban hit the pavement outside the terminal then turned right on two wheels. Within seconds they were on the main road into town, two black and whites escorting them, one front, one rear.
In the back of his mind, Andres realized what he had just witnessed. Lena had planned for this. She’d had a man stationed at the exit and an escape route in place.
The man behind the wheel said something about alerting the hospital, then spoke into a headset. “Let them know we’re bringing someone in,” he said shakily. His voice thickened as he answered an obvious question. “No, it’s not the package. It’s Lieutenant McKinney. She’s been hit.”
Beneath Andres, Lena groaned. He slid to the floorboard of the vehicle to give her more room, then he took a good look at her injury for the first time. The bullet had managed to go beneath her vest. It didn’t look good. His mouth went dry.
“Where’s the first aid—”
Before he could finish, the driver thrust a white metal box over the front seat. “There’s bandages and tape inside,” he said. “We’ll be at the hospital in five minutes.”
Andres ripped open the case and grabbed a roll of white gauze, but the material was woefully inadequate. It seemed as if blood was pouring from Lena. Yanking off his coat, he pressed it against the wound but the fabric was immediately soaked. He’d seen plenty of men shot, had even done the shooting himself more than once, but this was Lena, for God’s sake. She groaned and a sick feeling rose up in his chest to block his breathing.
He slipped a hand beneath her head. She was going into shock, her skin pale and clammy, her body shaking on the leather cushions that were already slick with her blood. Her eyes fluttered open, and suddenly she looked smaller and more frail.
“Hang on, querida, hang on.” His endearment slipped out naturally, just as it had earlier in the plane. “We’ll be at the hospital any minute. You can do it.”
She spoke with great difficulty. “You…okay? Not hit?”
“Don’t talk,” he said automatically. “You’ll lose more blood.”
She ignored him completely. “Are you…okay?”
“Sí, sí. I am fine, now por favor—no more talking!”
She nodded weakly, her eyes closing once more, only to blink open again. “W-what about…Potter?”
“Don’t worry about him. The others will take care of him. You just lie there and be quiet.”
They bounced around a curve. She tried to bite back a cry but failed, her agony apparent. Helpless to do anything else, Andres screamed at the driver. “Take it easy up there, goddammit! You’re hurting her!”
The man didn’t respond; he simply added more gas, the black Suburban barreling down the highway, passing everything else in a blur.
“Andres…” She spoke
