Eric (In the Company of Snipers Book 15) Read online

  Finn did one better. He sucked in a big breath and submerged entirely without being told to. Right on. Must’ve been scared witless. The big guy couldn’t stay under for long, but it gave Eric one less thing to worry about.

  Finally, after what seemed like hours, one of the French fellows bellowed. “Merde! Va te faire foutre, trouduc!”

  Eric only recognized the one word. Merde. Shit. These guys were annoyed, just the way he liked them. Good enough. They ran back the way they came.

  Unfortunately, Jordan, if he was still alive, was now on his own.

  Easing to his feet, Eric cleared the mud out of his nostrils. Keeping an eye on the direction the enemy had gone, he reached under the surface and pulled Finn up by his collar. Leaning into his face, he murmured, “Time to go.”

  Finn snorted and shook his head. Mud flew from his drenched hair, spattering Eric in the face, not that it mattered. They were both covered. Adrenaline shakes set in. The chilly bog didn’t help. They needed to move quickly and without being seen. How the hell are you going to do that with a guy the size of Finn? Eric meant to find out.

  “We’re going back to Rosie’s,” he told his sputtering companion.

  Finn nodded, his lips pressed into thin lines and slime sliding out of his hair. It’d be harder to move as waterlogged as they both were. Boots would squish and might give them away. Running with any speed would be impossible. Eric had to give it to the guy, though. Finn had finally manned up.

  Eric took what he thought was the quickest way out of the meadow, along the far stone fence line. His boots squished all the way, and Finn’s carry-on streamed a trail of brownish slime. He followed so closely that he kept stepping on Eric’s boot heel.

  In another hundred yards, they’d reach the trees and shrubbery alongside the wall and they’d be out of sight. Rosie’s place wasn’t far. She hadn’t locked her doors when she’d left. He could stash Finn there and get back to Jordan and Rosie. Eric knew he could do it.

  “Stay low, Finn,” he cautioned as they rounded the end of the fence and headed into shadow. “How you doing?”

  “Good,” came back to him on a breathy, lighter than air, voice.

  Empathy crept into Eric’s mind. Finn was too heavy for all this running. He seemed able enough to keep up, but he was breathing hard and shaking. Yes, the poor guy needed exercise, but in a gym, not running for his life. There it was again, some indefinable need that tugged at Eric’s heartstrings to save this guy from himself.

  At last, the rear of Rosie’s home came into view. Everything appeared quiet and calm. Eric broke cover, waving Finn to keep up as he closed the distance to the picket fence. So far, so good.

  Finn crouched alongside Eric like a shadow. Still panting like a fish out of water, but alive. Now the hard part. They were almost home free. Eric needed to get Finn inside that house and locked up tight before he could accurately determine his next strategy, the one he was making up as he went. But almost only counted with horseshoes and hand grenades…

  “Stay here,” he ordered Finn.

  “Nah-ah, you’re not leaving me. I’m coming with you.”

  Eric lost it. “No. Do as you’re told and stop arguing!” He ended the discussion by slapping one palm to the top rail and jumping the pickets, a tricky maneuver with boots and pants that weighed a ton. Cautiously, he crept to the back window. A smart man didn’t take chances. Those French guys could’ve set up an ambush here as easily as back on the road.

  He sucked in a calming breath, then slowly, Eric lifted his head. What do you know? Aishling was sitting smack in the middle of Rosie’s kitchen table, licking her paws like a princess. The cat stopped long enough to look right at him, those curious blue eyes unblinking. Her whiskers twitched as if she recognized him. Easing lazily up off her hind end, the feline version of a drama queen strolled to the edge of the table, her long tail twitching over her head like a welcome home flag.

  Eric took her feline nonchalance as a good sign and waved Finn to come forward.

  Of course, Finn failed to obey. “I... I can’t,” he said, both shoulders raised and that soggy carry-on still tight against his chest.

  Eric waved him forward, emphatically this time. “Now, damn it. Get your ass over that fence before your buddies with ARs show up.”

  The man just stood there. What’d he want? A boost over? Oh, for crying out loud. That was exactly what Finn wanted. He couldn’t climb the fence because he was waterlogged and extra heavy now. “Use the gate then. Make it quick.”

  Finn’s head bobbed, but the sight of him when he cleared the gate startled Eric. The guy—shit, he sagged and his double chin drooped to his chest. Had to be all the mud. Couldn’t be skin, could it?

  What-the-hell-ever! Eric didn’t have time to worry about his clumsy client’s weight problem. He needed every last pound of this guy inside the house!

  At last! Finn clomped into Rosie’s, panting as if he’d run a mile. Eric slammed the door and locked it, lowering the shades at the windows, his heart pounding. Of course, Aishling jumped down to greet him with a noisy purr. What’d she have to worry about?

  With a grunt, he lowered his backpack, surprised he and Finn were still alive. While Finn stood there in a puddle on the polished floor, Eric proceeded to double check that all rooms were clear, upstairs and down. Finally satisfied, he headed back to the kitchen, slapping at his pockets, feeling for more ammo. He’d given Jordan his last loaded magazine, and there were only nine rounds in his pistol. He needed backup, ammo, and a cellphone.

  Rounding the corner, he came face to face with—

  Holy. Shit.

  There stood a half-naked woman in a puddle of muddy ooze, her elegant back turned to him, in Rosie’s kitchen.

  His heart leapt up his throat. More like burst. Exploded. He couldn’t breathe.

  Whoever she was, she’d stripped down to a black bra and bikini panties that were plastered nicely to her wet ass. A pile of sodden clothing lay in a muddy heap at her bare feet along with Finn’s boots. The bog-filled roller suitcase had been opened, and a laptop sat with its screen up where Aishling had been grooming herself only minutes earlier. The woman appeared to be peeling skin away from her face and neck. Thick, fluffy skin. And flesh.

  Prominent vertebrae punctuated her bare back, but what an ass. A guy knew fine when he saw it. Her cheeks were a little hollow, but still.

  Where had Finn gone? Now wasn’t the time for one of his feminine moments.

  Or maybe it was…

  The strange woman glanced over her shoulder. Chopped brown hair. Waifish. Eyes too big for her delicate face. A lot on the scrawny side. The unibrow from hell jutted off her forehead, evidence that a fine ass does not necessarily translate into Miss America. Her knees knocked together. The murky water had left trails of sediment in streaks down her bare body. Tears streamed down her sweet, sad face, but those eyes. Those big, sad turquoise eyes...

  Eric couldn’t breathe much less swallow. His heart screeched to a hard stop. It couldn’t be. And yet...

  It is. It’s her.

  His memory served him still. So did the single, dark black mole at the top of her left butt cheek just above the elastic of her panties. The rosy remnant of a birthmark on the back of her left calf. The gentle shell of her ears. Her neck.

  It’s her. My God, it’s Shea.

  She turned to face him then, scrubbing a hand over her short hair as if she didn’t know what to say.

  Relief flooded his gut. He tucked his pistol into its holster under his left arm and he had her in his arms without a second thought. Lifting her off the floor, he held her tight and prayed to God this wasn’t a concussion speaking.

  “Shea?” he asked because he needed her to answer in the affirmative that she was real this time. Seeing was believing, but hearing her speak and confirm it wouldn’t hurt.

  “Yes, Eric, it’s me.” She held back, her fingers tapping nervously on his chest.

  That one word was his undoing. The sorrow
of years choked him. His name had never sounded sweeter. Dearer. All he’d missed swelled up inside, flooding him with sad, bitter joy. Eric pulled her under his chin and held on tight to this woman who might have been a dream or his latest nightmare. But she felt real. Cold. Wet. Covered with goose bumps. Shaking like a reed in the wind, but real, damn it.

  His heart started beating again. Smoothing one hand over her sodden hair, he was mindful of the lack of curves on what had once been a voluptuous woman. God, she felt like an armful of sticks. So thin. His heart leaked out of his eyes. “You’re finally here. You’ve come back. Are you okay, baby?”

  Of all the damned things, his reason for living had returned. Nothing had ever felt better. Her body molded to his and he couldn’t let her go. Wouldn’t. Never again.

  She’d wrapped her arms around his neck, her slight frame shuddering. Her breasts pressed against his chest. Her ribs, too.

  For the first time in years, Eric breathed. Truly breathed. Oxygen filled every last starved-for-Shea cell in his body, his soul, and his brain. Miracles did happen. “It’s over, baby. I’m here, and I’m never letting you go again.”

  Gently, he pulled the awful unibrow away from off her own thinned brows. Why that made her tears fall faster was beyond him, but it didn’t matter. Together they could figure everything out. He knew it to the roots of his sad, sorry soul.

  It all made sense now. Those gentle eyes he thought he’d seen in the dark that first night Finn had all but run over him. The girly fluctuations in the big guy’s voice. That odd feeling of a connection with Finn Powers. Shea had always been Eric’s magnetic north. Pulling him. Drawing him into her orbit. Of course he’d been drawn to Finn.

  God, he wanted to eat her up. “You’re back, Shea. You’re finally back.”

  She choked, her face still pressed into his neck. “Not really.”

  “Yes, you are.” He squeezed his eyes shut and chose to believe. She was wrong. She was where she belonged, and whatever the problem was, he could fix it for her. He could! They would be a family once more. They could! All she had to do was believe.

  Shea lifted her face, her eyes seeking his. “We need to talk.”

  “Yes.” He agreed wholeheartedly, but he wouldn’t let go of her. Not even to talk. Her breasts had shrunk to nothingness. Hell, her entire body had shrunk, and his heart hurt for her. He needed to know what she’d lived through, but he couldn’t for the life of him make his fingers release her. Not after missing her for two years.

  His mouth rattled off the feelings of his swelling heart. “I love you, Shea. I’ve never stopped. Not for one single minute. I knew you’d come back to me.”

  That she didn’t answer with a like sentiment proved nothing. He could fix this. That was what he did. He fixed people’s bodies and sometimes their attitudes. By the time he handed them off to a surgeon or a chaplain, they lived, or at least they had a fighting chance.

  “You need to save Jordan and Rosie first,” she whispered.

  Eric jolted back to reality. He swallowed hard and set her feet to the floor, his heart banging against his ribs. He placed his index finger under her chin and tipped her pretty face upward. “Wait here.”

  She nodded, tears still brimming in the prettiest greenish-blue eyes in the world.

  “I’m just going to call the police. Get some help. Please be here when I get back.”

  She nodded, but damn it. With a rush, he pulled her back into his arms and she came willingly, daring his heart to hope. He dipped his head to her lips, needing a kiss to seal her to his heart again. Desperation clawed up from his gut. Lie to me, damn it. Lead me on. Tell me anything. Just don’t leave!

  Sad eyes peered up at him. Instead of offering the kiss he so desperately needed and wanted, she murmured against his mouth, “You have a job to do, Eric. Don’t let Jordan down.”

  A hard light glinted behind the greenish-blue. The woman he’d lost hadn’t returned. Not completely. This version of Shea was made of sharper corners and tired lines, something tougher than the woman who’d walked away from him. My sweet and lovely Shea is gone.

  A scary thought intruded. Maybe I can’t fix this.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  At last, she was herself.

  Shea toed the discarded fat suit she’d named Finn aside, thankful that part of her confession was behind her. It took everything not to kiss her ex-husband. To not give in to Eric’s thrill at seeing her and ride the crest of the passion they’d once shared. But after all she’d done to him, she couldn’t pretend nothing had changed these last two years. She couldn’t allow herself to be the welcomed prodigal, not when she was merely the opportunistic sinner who needed Eric’s unique brand of salvation.

  Yes, her mind and heart had been headed in his direction for the larger part of the past year, but it was the loss of her friends that had pushed her to make the call for help. Once he understood that, he’d forget his excitement at seeing her. He might even push her away and tell her to go sleep in the bed she’d made. Without him.

  Eric stood in the hallway at Rosie’s wall phone, his gaze still sweeping hungrily up her legs and over her stomach to her breasts, or lack thereof. What she’d lost in weight and curves, she’d gained in cynicism. He’d be glad to leave her once she told him the rest of her story. About Bagani. About that little girl on the shore. Eric might even run from her this time.

  So many lies.

  “The authorities are coming. They’ll be here within minutes,” he said as he hung the receiver back on its hook, his voice void of all that welcome-home feeling.

  “I have no clothes.”

  A stern gaze dipped over her, feature by feature, from her quivering lips to her neck to her scant cleavage. He’d been hurt in the collision, too. Trickles of blood streamed down the side of his face into his shirt collar. He wiped the back of his hand over the line of blood and glanced at it. His upper lip curled in annoyance at the sight right before he wiped the blood on his sodden pant leg. Of course. He never worried about himself. Only others.

  The silence stretched. Shea shivered at the awkwardness of their reunion. There was a time she’d been thrilled to stand naked in front of him. There were times she’d posed in all the erotic, naughty, suggestive ways of Playboy models, just because he enjoyed the show.

  Not now. She felt exposed to her soul. Cheap. Incredibly unworthy of this man.

  “Find something to wear,” he said before he pivoted on his heel and returned to the front window, his pistol once more in hand. “Hurry. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  His change in demeanor took her by surprise. “I have no clothes,” she repeated. How did he not understand?

  “So? Find some.” His gaze didn’t stray to hers this time.

  This is what rejection feels like.

  Shea couldn’t blame him. He’d had time to think and to remember.

  Scampering into Rosie’s bedroom, Shea located a faded-blue henley in the closet, its buttons missing, and a pair of navy-blue twill pants with frayed cuffs. The fit wasn’t perfect, but it was close enough. She dressed hurriedly, her pulse pounding in her ears. A heavy vehicle engine had just rumbled into the front yard of the ‘Edge of O’Banner’ and right up to Rosie’s front door.

  Eric shoved the bedroom door open as she zipped the pants. “We’ve got to go.”

  His gaze faltered at the sight of her trembling fingers on the zipper pull, but only for a fraction of a second. He’d turned from a loving ex-husband to an emotionally detached bodyguard. This was business. Nothing more. She was just the client he’d come to bail out of a tight spot. He waved her forward with the tip of his pistol, his mask in place, and his backpack once again on his shoulder.

  She followed him into the kitchen. There lay the soggy remnants of Finn on the floor. No longer needed, but more forensic evidence than Shea expected to leave behind. The fat suit held a wealth of skin cells and DNA in the now sodden folds of cotton and foam. She could be traced, only this time by murderers inst
ead of the man she loved, but who might not love me.

  Life had an awful sense of humor. Lose a child; lose your mind. Find your mind; lose everything else.

  Stepping over what was left of her alter ego, Shea shut Phoenix’s laptop, and hugged it to her chest. At least, the plastic bag she’d sealed it in had kept it safe and dry in that awful swamp. Everything else she’d traveled with was lost. Her pursuers could do what they wanted with Finn, but they couldn’t have what her friends had died to protect.

  “Keep moving,” Eric growled, his hand firm on the small of her back, steering her toward a door off the kitchen. “Rosie’s garage is out this way.”

  I didn’t know she had a garage.

  Always prepared, Eric pulled an LED penlight out of one of his pockets and lifted it to the side of his head, his weapon still in his other hand. Opening the door, he ushered Shea past him and into a dark, musty smell of motor oil and dirt.

  The flashlight’s bright, narrow beam caught the interior of an orderly, but small garage with a dirt floor. No car. A lump of something beneath a canvas tarp in the corner. A shovel and a rake leaned against the wall. Gas cans. Rags. Burlap sacks full of something or other. The usual clutter of all good garages.

  Aishling mewed at his feet. “You’re not coming,” he growled, easing her off his boot with a gentle nudge. He left Shea standing there while he secured the door with a length of rope he’d found on the floor. Winding two loops around the knob, he tied it off on a nail pounded into the adjoining wall.

  Shea headed toward whatever lay beneath the canvas, filled with the need to repent, to at least be helpful. What a surprise. A motorcycle. The orange and black Harley emblem she recognized, clear and crisp on the bike’s dusty, black tank. Sturdy leather saddlebags hung at the rear wheel. She secured the laptop in the right pocket, needing it out of sight.