Page 91 of Lock ’N’ Load

A stab of fear cut through Matt’s heart at the idea of Trista being hurt, in pain, or…worse. Dead. Taking a deep breath, he shoved his fears aside. “Let’s roll. I’ll update you over the radio.”

As the other men headed back to their SUVs, he caught sight of Fenway practically running toward him.

“Connors!” The agent grabbed him by the arm. “Let me send some of my team with you.”

“Your team?” He leaned down and got in the other man’s face. Beside him, Sheba growled deep in her throat, sensing his barely controlled anger. “If your agents hadn’t just made the ultimate sacrifice, I’d bring up the fact that I managed to kick one of your teams twice that size, and I did it single-handedly.” He pointed to the front door. “Those dead agents…that’s on you. Two clearly untrained agents were a cakewalk for a crew of Russian operatives who were probably all military-trained. So fuck you, Fenway. I’ll find her, and I’ll do it with my team.”

Fenway began sputtering, and Matt knew why. The man’s career was on the line. He’d let a key witness in the biggest case in decades get grabbed, and now he wanted to be part of the rescue team so he could at least save face.

Fuck. That. At this point, Matt wouldn’t even trust the man to safeguard the cat.

Ignoring the man’s protests, Matt punched the fob on his vest and the side door of the Explorer swung open, nearly whacking Fenway in the ass. Sheba gave the other man a parting growl, then leaped into the SUV.

When Matt pulled away from the curb, six other Explorers followed closely behind, red-and-blue strobes flashing. In the darkened interior, he glanced at the receiver, still getting nothing from the tracker.

Goddamn FBI. No offense to Dayne, who was FBI K-9. Dayne was a different breed than Fenway and his incompetent agents. If Dayne had been on the team guarding Trista, Matt had no doubt she would still be there.

Twenty minutes later, he hung a 180 and headed in the other direction. The handheld receiver alone without the satellite link wasn’t nearly as capable. Not quite a needle in a haystack, but driving around until he got a hit would take time, particularly since he didn’t know in which direction to head.

An hour later, there was still no blip on the screen. For the third time since they’d been driving around, he tried the satellite link, but it was still down. He pounded the steering wheel with his fist. “Damn.” They were wasting precious time.

Reacting to his outburst, Sheba stuck her head through the cage opening and rested her snout on his shoulder. Matt glanced at the floor in front of the passenger seat to gauge Poofy’s reaction, but the cat was nowhere in sight, having crawled somewhere underneath the seat.

Eric was right. If those Russian fuckers had hurt Trista, he’d do a helluva lot more than just pound their faces into the ground. He’d unleash a painful shit storm the likes of which they’d never seen. He’d make them wish they’d never been born. He’d—

His heart squeezed, and he sucked in an unsteady breath. I will find her. Then he’d do the right thing and let her go. I have to. Because I’m in love with her. Totally, absolutely, fucking in love with her.

A weak beep came from the receiver, and he jerked his attention back to the screen. The blinking blip flickered in and out, indicating it was at the very edge of the handheld’s range, but it was there.

His heart raced as he slammed his foot on the accelerator and prayed.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Trista’s head lolled from one side to the other. Not that she was sleepy, exactly, more like dopey or drunk. Having difficulty focusing, she squinted, then forced her eyes open wider.

“There you are.” Lukashin smiled.

“For a diabolical killer, you have a nice smile.” She grinned, somehow realizing that was the last thing she ought to be doing under the circumstances, but she couldn’t help it, and she just didn’t care. “I’m guessing that’s how nobody ever sees it coming.”

“You may very well be right.” He bestowed her with another charming smile. “What is your name?”

“Trista Gold.”

“Who do you work for?”

“The CIA. But you already know that, silly.” This time, she was the one to laugh, and somewhere in the back of her brain, she understood her reactions were inappropriate, given the situation. “Why am I saying such stupid things?”

“That’s the sodium pentothal I injected into your arm. In James Bond movies, it’s called truth serum. In reality, it shuts down the higher thinking parts of the brain. It’s more difficult to lie than it is to tell the truth, so people tend to be uninhibited, saying whatever pops into their brains.”

“Oh, okay.” She nodded absently. That makes sense, although he’s going to kill me, so why am I answering his questions? Because he’s right. I just don’t give a shit. Shit. Her favorite new word. “Shit, shit, shit.” Somehow that word seemed more appropriate, and yet she did care and vowed then and there not to tell him anything of importance. Fight it. Fight it! You can do it.

“Did you read the article Thomas George wrote about Senator Ashburn?” he asked.

“You betcha.” She nodded emphatically. “Quite a shocker, huh?” Oops. Had she admitted to reading the article already? I suck at this.

“Indeed.” He, too, nodded. “Where did you read the article?”

“M—” She clamped her mouth shut. She’d been about to say Matt’s house but caught herself at the last second. “My computer.” She smiled broadly, quite pleased with the quick recovery. See, it isn’t that hard fighting truth serum. I’m as good as James Bond. 007. “On the external hard drive I stole from Thomas George’s apartment.” Oops again. Didn’t mean for that to slip out. Shit, sodium pentothal really works!