Page 129 of Bulletproof

While I was thanking the Creator, I included a plea for them to have not shot the love of my life before they came after me.

What would I do if they had just shot him? What would I … if he was dead or bleeding to death as I ran—what would I do?

We had been through so much together, so much time had passed, and we were still us, still amazingly in love, and still strong. If I lost him …

My feet got tangled because my brain had jumped ahead to funerals and a hole the size of Chicago in my heart, and how in the world could I still be me without knowing that Sam Kage was somewhere smiling, laughing, and breathing the same air I was? I stumbled because the pain threatened to devour me for a moment, but the running was important; the running was necessary. And really, on a two-lane highway, in the open, facing now a roll off a cliff to rocks below or an embankment drop to I didn’t know where, my options were dicey.

The squeal of tires was close behind me, the growl of a big engine, and then my shoulder suddenly stung before red-hot heat started to spread through it. I had no idea that I was being shot at with magic bullets that could actually find their target in the dark.

My foot caught, turned funny, and down I went, hard, and it hurt before I was back on my feet. But I felt the change, my balance off, the throb of pain.

There was a hairpin turn ahead. I heard the rev of the motor, turned, and was blinded by headlights. Then there was pressure everywhere, and I had no air as I went up and up, floating, flying, feeling wind, as everything turned upside down. I was tumbling, the car was close, and there were screams.

Please, God, let Sam be safe, I thought before there was nothing at all.

SEVENTEEN

It was cool, not cold, which was nice. It was soft, whatever I was on, but the sound, like a jackhammer or a sander, was loud and close. And I was drowning. Slowly, painfully, I was drowning. It was that throbbing where your lungs were going to burst because you couldn’t hold your breath for even one more minute. It was just the end because the buildup of adrenaline had come and gone with no relief, and I knew that because I had woken up at the last moment.

So close.

And then there were hands in my hair before I was stabbed in the side with a knife. Sharp, hot, driving ice pick punched through my side. I couldn’t even scream.

But suddenly, I could. I should have thanked someone for the relief of being out of the vise, but then my neck and head were held tight before I was lifted and there was rain. My face was battered with water, and I tried to turn away.

“Secure him to the board!”

“Hold on, ’kay? Don’t move!”

I didn’t struggle—couldn’t. There was no energy. The rain stopped trying to drown me again, and the time between the drops got longer until it was gone.

Bad guys knowing my name and me being clueless about theirs—that just bugged me so much. In high school, I’d had a job at a drive-in and had to wear a name tag. All kinds of people used my name who never asked me for it, and I knew it was stupid—it was part of the retail gig—but still, that added to my hatred of the job. When I changed jobs to a bookstore, I lied and told them I went by my middle name, Sven, so I had a name tag that basically said I was an exchange student from Sweden. Not that I ever had a middle name. My grandmother had never given me one. But being called by a different name had been okay as long as it wasn’t mine.

“I didn’t catch all that. Open your eyes and tell me again.”

Open my eyes?

“Please, baby.”

There was warm breath on my face, and I whimpered because the sound was a growl, deep and husky, and only one man could make it.

“Sam,” I murmured, but realized nothing had come out.

“Hello, sunshine,” he said, and soft, silky lips were pressed to my forehead.

My eyes fluttered open, and I saw him beside me. He looked terrible. There were dark circles under his eyes, his color was off, the stubble on his face was verging on actual beard—which made no sense—and he was trembling just a little.

“Sam,” I husked, but it came out as a whisper. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Sam.”

He closed his eyes for a minute, and I watched his jaw clench tight and the muscles in his neck cord.

I wanted to touch his face, but I was done. Opening my eyes had drained me. “Love you,” I said and closed them.

He was asleep in a chair beside my bed when I woke up again. As usual, he was on the side closest to the door. It was a protective thing. The long-sleeved button-down he was wearing was open, revealing the shoulder holster and his gun.

“Hey,” I called to him.

His eyes tried to open and slid shut. He tried again before realizing where he was, and he jolted awake. It was like he got hit by a bolt of electricity. His head snapped up, and he was looking at me.