Logan knew it, but he still wanted to hunt the gunmen down.
He holstered his gun and stepped into the trees, the sound of the car thumping along the gravel road ringing through the early morning.
Sunlight streamed in through the tree canopy, glinting off leaves still wet from the previous night’s rain. He’d stayed in a tiny bed-and-breakfast at the edge of a national park, waiting for sunrise to come. He hadn’t wanted to drive out to Harper’s place in the middle of the night. If he’d known he had a tail, he wouldn’t have driven out at all.
He scowled, moving down a steep embankment, following a trail of footprints in the damp earth. He could hear a creek babbling, the quiet melody belying the violence that had just occurred.
The car engine died, the thump of tires ceasing.
A door opened. Closed.
Was the gunman pursuing them?
He lost the trail of footprints at a creek that tripped along the base of a deep embankment. A bucket was there, sitting near the water, half filled with red mud.
Clay, Harper had said.
He didn’t think it would matter much if they were both dead.
He wanted to call to her, draw her out of her hiding place, but the forest had gone dead silent. Years of working in some of the most dangerous places in Afghanistan had honed his senses. Even now, years after he’d left the military to raise his younger siblings, he knew when trouble was lurking nearby.
He moved cautiously, keeping low as he crossed the creek and searched for footprints in the mucky earth. The scent of dead leaves filled his nose, the late November air slicing through his jacket. He ignored the cold. Ignored everything but his mission—finding Harper Shelby and keeping her alive.
He moved up the embankment, dropping to the ground as leaves crackled behind him. Whoever was coming wasn’t being quiet about it. Not Harper. She’d moved like a wraith, disappearing into the forest with barely a sound.
He eased behind a thick oak, adrenaline pumping through him as he waited for his quarry. It didn’t take long. A few more loud snaps of branches and crackles of leaves and the bald man appeared, inching his way down toward the creek, his belly hanging over a belt that was cinched so tight, Logan was surprised the guy could breathe.
He could have taken him out then, fired one shot that would bring the guy down for good, but he was more interested in hearing what he had to say and knowing why he was trying to kill Harper.
He waited, counting footsteps as the guy drew closer.
Another few yards and he’d be within reach. Another few feet. The guy moved past the tree where Logan was hiding, completely oblivious to the danger he was in. Not a professional hired gun, that was for sure. Logan had run into his fair share of those during the years he’d been working for HEART. They weren’t this careless, and they were never easy to take down.
He waited another heartbeat.
That was all it took. Just that second of waiting, and calm became chaos. The bushes beside the guy moved and Harper’s dog burst out, snarling and barking as he tried to bite the bald guy.
The man cursed, raising his weapon, aiming at the dog’s head, and then Harper was there, a shovel in hand. She swung hard, the metal end of the tool smacking into the guy’s wrist as Logan pulled his weapon and fired.
The bald guy looked dead. His eyes were closed and blood was seeping from a wound in his shoulder. He was breathing, though, his barrel chest rising and falling.
Harper dropped the shovel and leaned over him. She would have touched the pulse point in his neck, but Logan edged in beside her and nudged her away.
He lifted the man’s gun from the ground, unloaded it, then shoved the cartridge in his pocket.
“He needs first aid,” she murmured, trying to move closer again.
He blocked her way, frisking the guy, pulling a knife from the sheath strapped to his calf.
“First things first, Harper,” Logan muttered. “We secure the weapons. Then we provide first aid. It’s in the rule book.”
“What rule book is that?” she asked, shrugging out of her jacket and using it to staunch the blood flowing from the bald guy’s shoulder.
He moaned. Not dead after all.
“The one called How to Keep Alive in Dangerous Situations,” Logan responded drily. “Did you call the police?”
“Yes.” As soon as she’d cleared the tree line, she’d called 911. The dispatcher had assured her help was on the way.
Good thing she hadn’t had to depend on that.
She’d be dead now.
She pressed harder on the bleeding wound. The guy had been shooting at her, but that didn’t mean she wanted him dead.
“Get off me!” he growled, rolling onto his side and struggling to his feet. His wrist was broken from the force of her blow, his face ashen, but he looked more angry than anything.
“How about you mind your manners, buddy?” Logan said calmly, holstering his weapon.
“How about you shut up?” the guy spit out, his voice a little slurred, his gaze darting back the way they’d come. No one was there, but Harper thought he must be hoping for help.
“Fine by me.” Logan pulled a cell phone from his pocket, typed something into it and snapped a picture of the man.
“Hey! What’s that about?” the guy snarled.
“Just sending your mug shot to a friend who can find out who you are and whether or not you have any warrants out for your arrest.”
“You got nothing on me.”
“You tried to shoot us,” Harper responded, and the guy grinned.
“Thought you were deer. Hard to see people out in woods like this.”
“No one is going to believe that,” she said, and Logan touched her shoulder, his fingers warm through her T-shirt.
“Don’t engage him, Harper. He’s got his story. It’s what he’ll tell the police. He’ll still end up in jail.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” the guy responded, his gaze darting toward the creek.
“You think your friend is coming for you?” Logan asked, brushing dirt from his jeans, his expression unreadable. He had dark eyes. Not brown. Not black. Midnight blue. They remained fixed on the gunman, no hint of emotion in them. “Because he’s not.”
“We’re a team—”
“A
