His to Take (Wicked Lovers 9)

into his chest and rattled around his rib cage. Blood spurted from his wound as he toppled to the ground.

Not wasting a second, Joaquin raced over the man’s limp form, toward McKeevy, now darting fifty feet ahead of him for the red truck. Bailey’s limp body hung over his shoulder, her torso flopping along his back. He’d run too far for Joaquin to get in a clean shot without risking her, especially with dwindling sunlight, but if the crazy separatist got her in the truck and left, Joaquin doubted he’d ever see her alive again.

Planting his feet, he tried to steady his shaking hands. Calm. Focus. Breathe. He lined up his shot and fired—once, twice. From this growing distance, he hit just wide of the moving target.

Thoughts raced. Options dwindled. He’d been tentative with McKeevy to protect Bailey. He had no problem shooting the asshole’s tires.

Altering his aim slightly, Joaquin pointed the gun and fired again. The first shot pinged off the rim. The second seemed to hit its target. McKeevy would make it out of the parking lot, but he wouldn’t get too far without stopping for air or a patch job. Just for good measure, Joaquin fired at the tire again, hitting it. Then he balanced once more, waiting for the moment the asshole would throw Bailey in the truck, then try to climb in himself, leaving his back vulnerable.

Three, two, one . . . As his finger tightened around the trigger of his P229 and he squeezed, the bastard he’d previously shot jumped on his back and wrestled him for the gun. Joaquin fought back with an elbow to the gut and a right hook to the jaw, followed by another shot between the eyes. The hoodied goon fell to the ground, finally dead.

By then, McKeevy was peeling out of the parking lot in the red truck. Cold dread filling him, Joaquin gave chase on foot, but it was too late to keep the madman from stealing Bailey away—maybe forever.

* * *

THREE hours later, Joaquin paced the local-yokel sheriff’s station, going out of his fucking mind. He scrubbed a hand down his face, worry eroding his guts like acid. How was Bailey feeling? Was she still alive? Was McKeevy, even now, beginning to tear her delicate body apart?

He couldn’t think that or he’d go homicidal and insane.

“Coffee?” Deputy Williams offered with a sympathetic glance.

“No.” He’d probably puke it up.

As soon as the red truck had disappeared from sight, Joaquin had raced to his own SUV and tried to give chase, but McKeevy and the dead dipshit had already slashed his wheels. Even with the tires on McKeevy’s truck compromised, Joaquin doubted he’d be effective at catching him and Bailey.

Still, he’d tried, but he hadn’t caught sight of them before he’d reached a fork in the road. Though lost and worried out of his mind, he’d refused to give up, exiting the remote, parklike area the same way he’d entered, all the while calling the number for the Philly branch of the FBI as he speeded down the two-lane road.

Still in mid-conversation with the feds, Joaquin hadn’t encountered any sign of the red truck—just a police barricade. He’d been tossed out of his SUV, slapped in cuffs, and thrown in a cruiser faster than he could blink. Every one of his protests and explanations had fallen on deaf ears.

Quickly enough, he found out the waitress in the restaurant had called the sheriff about a shooting. Joaquin provided details and advised them about the body laid out in the lot. LOSS member Andrew Vorhees had perished on the asphalt. Good riddance.

For the past two hours, Joaquin had tried everything possible to prevent being charged with murder and to start a manhunt for Bailey before it was too late. After a few calls from Sean’s end, the police had finally listened to reason and a pair of feds from Philly had entered. They were working through the last of the red tape now and had ruled Vorhees’s death self-defense. Soon, Joaquin would be free.

But McKeevy had three hours’ head start.

“We found the red truck abandoned in an industrial area about five miles from the lake.”

Joaquin let out a curse, trying to hold everything else in. “McKeevy wouldn’t have been prepared to have his tire shot, and he may not have known that he’d be confronting us today, so I’m not sure he would have had a backup vehicle ready. Any reports of stolen cars nearby in the last few hours?”

A deputy tapped a few things on the ancient computer. “A new red Mercedes convertible and a minivan that’s about two years old.”

“He’d take the minivan,” Joaquin assured him. “He’s got a hostage to transport, and he wouldn’t risk fleeing in the flashy-ass convertible.”

One of the feds from Philly—Joaquin couldn’t remember his name, so he’d dubbed the guy Generic Suit Two—nodded. “McKeevy will be heading west. We studied Vorhees’s burner phone. He had a few text messages. He and McKeevy had orders to bring her and Aslanov’s research to the LOSS leadership at their compound in a remote section of Decatur County, Iowa. We’re calling agents in Kansas City and Omaha to see if they can seal off the roads around the compound. But even if he goes there, a barricade may not work. Remember, these are separatists, so they’re survivalists, too. They grow their own food, slaughter their own meat. They’ve also made their own roads and tunnels.”

“Would he fly?” Joaquin asked.

“Unless he’s going to fly VFR, that would require him to file a flight plan.” Suit One grimaced. “And that’s if he found a plane and a pilot at the last minute, but we’ll follow up on private pilots in the area. Still, I doubt he’s flying, even though it’s a long-ass drive to Iowa.”

Joaquin agreed. And if McKeevy managed to get her on their land, Joaquin and the feds would have to find a judge and secure a warrant to search the property. That could take a day, probably more. Even if they obtained one within a few hours, McKeevy would still have Bailey all to himself for far too long. Once the sick bastard reached his hidey-hole, she’d likely endure hours of terrifying torture before he snuffed her out.

Ice ran through Joaquin’s veins as he contemplated his next move. Technically, he wasn’t a federal agent anymore. He certainly wasn’t assigned to this case. The odds of them letting him tag along were zilch. But he couldn’t sit on his hands and wait for one of the “big boys” to be Bailey’s hero.

He had to get as close to that damn compound as possible.

“Am I free to go?” he asked.

The deputy looked at the sheriff, who nodded, then looked at the two suits from Philly. They both nodded as well.

“I need a ride to my car.” Joaquin was already calculating how quickly he could get to Iowa.

“It’s in the county lot. Maureen will take care of you,” the deputy supplied helpfully. “But the tire’s gone totally flat.”

Joaquin didn’t have time for vehicle repairs now. “What’s the easiest way to rent a car?”

After a couple of suggestions—all of which would take hours—he felt as if his head might explode. Suddenly, his phone rang. Sean’s number popped on the screen.

“Hey, can’t talk now unless you’ve got an update.” He’d spoken to Sean after first being dragged to this sheriff station, so he wasn’t expecting a lot.

“Where are you?”

“Still at the Carbon County, Pennsylvania, Sheriff’s Office.”

“Hurry up. I’m sitting on Xander’s private jet at the Philly airport, refueling and waiting for you.”

They’d come to help him rescue Bailey.

Relief lifted a mountain of crushing fear from his chest. God bless Xander for lending his plane. And bless Sean for leaving Dallas and his fiancée less than seventy-two hours before his wedding in order to help.

“I owe you, man. Big. I’ll get there as quickly as possible.”

“Good. From what I hear, we need to get to Iowa.”

No shit.

They rang off, and the suits agreed to give him a ride to the airport since it wasn’t far out of their way, as long as he promised not to interfere in their investigation. Joaquin agreed. Of course he lied through his teeth,

but hell, he would have sworn he had four heads to secure that ride.

The tense drive seemed to take forever. Joaquin kept looking at the time on his phone, thinking of all the moments slipping by that could be Bailey’s last. Where was she now? He had no way to track her. They had a license plate of the stolen minivan they suspected McKeevy was in, but what if they’d miscalculated? What if he’d already ditched that car?

Abject fear ate at him from the inside, cracking the hard shell of his composure. He had to get it together for Bailey’s sake.

As soon as the agents dropped him off at the terminal that serviced the private jets, Sean met him.

Having slung the backpack the sheriff had returned to him on his back and ensured his weapon was secure, Joaquin shook the man’s hand. “Thanks for being here so quickly. I know you’re getting married—”

“Callie understands all too well what Bailey is going through. We agreed immediately that I needed to be here.”

After a decade running from LOSS, the heiress probably understood better than anyone. Joaquin’s respect for her went up another notch. “If we get Bailey back and recover the research, Callie will never have to worry again either.”

“Right now, she’s just concerned about your girl. I have instructions to text Callie the second I have news. Thorpe is trying to keep her calm.”

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“Any family of Kata’s is family of ours.” Sean clapped him on the back.

Stunned silent with gratitude, he followed Sean through the building, out to the tarmac. Why would people he’d met a handful of days ago disrupt their wedding plans to help him rescue a girl they hadn’t known last week? He wasn’t totally sure, but he thanked fuck they were willing.

After a quick trek up the airstairs, Joaquin’s thoughts still raced. He ducked to enter the cabin and saw Stone banging away on a computer. He never looked up. “Hi, man. Sorry I keep accompanying the bad news.”

“Not your fault,” Joaquin assured him.

“I’m looking to see if LOSS has any sort of private network I can hack. If I can see their internal communications, we’ll be better informed so we can plan our next course of action.”

Good thinking. Stone had located Bailey once. Maybe he’d be helpful again. “I appreciate it.”

Stone shook his head as if to wave him away and kept pounding on the keys.

To his right, Hunter rose to meet him, hand outstretched. “We’ll do our best to get her back.”

Gaping, he shook his brother-in-law’s hand. “Why are you here? Your wife is having a baby.”

“His wife is not giving birth in the next five minutes,” Kata said, exiting the restroom at the back of the plane. “My obstetrician okayed travel for another two weeks. So after a short discussion—”

“Temper tantrum,” Hunter corrected.

“My husband and I came to help.” Kata went on as if Hunter hadn’t spoken. “I’m not just his wife; I’m your sister, too.”

And she shouldn’t be here. This mission could get dangerous. He looked at Hunter as if the guy had lost his mind. His brother-in-law shrugged. “She agreed to stay out of harm’s way. Stone will keep watch over her.”

Joaquin’s gaze fell to an older man beside Hunter. They looked remarkably similar, right down to the rugged face and shocking blue eyes.

The man stood and stuck his hand out. “Caleb Edgington. I’m Hunter’s father.”

Numbly, Joaquin shook it. “My mother’s new husband?”

Why the hell was this guy here? Yeah, he looked athletic, especially for his age, but they didn’t have time to help Grandpa if his back went out or he needed Jell-O.

“Yes.”

“I appreciate the offer to help, but this could get really physical and dangerous.”

Caleb’s expression iced over and he suddenly looked like a mean motherfucker.

Hunter cleared his throat. “My father served the army for twenty-four years, retiring as a full bird colonel. He fought in Kuwait and Afghanistan. He’s participated in combat training and clandestine missions all over the world. For over a decade, he’s consulted as a military specialist and owned his own private company of operatives. He’s a tactical genius.”

The older man crossed his arms over his chest. “I came because my wife asked me to.”

Joaquin couldn’t quite decipher Caleb’s tone. He seemed very straightforward . . . but underlying grit and a hint of disapproval laced his voice. Naturally, he’d side with his wife, who probably wished her deadbeat son would call or visit more. Joaquin shoved the sting of guilt aside. No time to think about that now.

“Sure. Thanks.”

“You and I have never met, but we’re family now. Family helps its own.”

Mind-blowing. More people willing to go out on a limb to help a relative stranger, just because there happened to be a little blood mixed in along the way. He’d seen this group’s closeness over the past few days, but he’d never expected it to include him. Against his will, he felt humbled.

Knowing he didn’t have time to examine the sentiment now, he addressed the group at large. “Do we know anything else?”

“The Kansas City and Omaha offices have been alerted,” Sean assured him. “The known roads into the compound are on surveillance. They’re worried a barricade will signal LOSS that we’re onto them and they’ll send McKeevy elsewhere. So there’s an APB out for him. The highway patrol in every state between here and Iowa will be on the lookout for anyone matching his description. They’re circulating pictures of Bailey, too. Other than that, all we can do is wait.”

The captain announced moments later that they were taking off and everyone would need to buckle up. Joaquin’s gaze fell to the only available seat on the plane—next to his sister.

Dropping into it, he set his backpack between his feet and strapped in. Within moments, they were airborne and reaching their cruising altitude. The silence felt crushing.

“I’ve done a lot of digging,” Stone said suddenly, still tapping computer keys. “LOSS doesn’t have any sort of internal hub or electronic communication system.”

“We know they’re using burner phones,” Sean tossed out.

Stone nodded. “I’ve checked all the private charter companies within a fifty-mile radius of Lake Harmony. I’m not seeing a record of any last-minute flights. That doesn’t make it impossible, but less likely.”

“So he’s probably driving,” Caleb mused aloud.

Joaquin nodded. “That explains why they tranqued Bailey.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t want to drive all night with an uncooperative hostage,” Hunter added.

Joaquin was thankful to have something constructive to think about. “He’ll have to switch vehicles often, and if he’s smart, he has a stash of plates or steals some every time he swipes a new vehicle to keep any pesky highway patrol off his scent longer.”

“Absolutely,” Sean agreed.

“If he takes Interstate 80, it’s the straightest shot,” Stone pointed out. “It’s possible someone will spot him if they know which vehicle to look for at any given time, so I’ll try to keep up with reports of stolen cars. But some folks may not realize their car is missing until tomorrow morning when they try to head for work.”

“Aren’t parts of Interstate 80 a toll road?” Kata asked hopefully. “Maybe those cameras will catch something.”

“Which is another reason he’d be switching out the license plates,” Hunter informed her.

“You’re right.” Joaquin’s sister fell back into her seat again with a sigh.

“And cameras in toll booths don’t usually capture an image of the driver,” Stone added. “Besides, I’d have to hack into multiple states databases and watch hours of footage.”

Hours Bailey might not have.

“McKeevy is wearing a black T-shirt, if that helps.” Joaquin raked a hand through his hair. “But even if a camera snapped an image

of his face, with night having fallen, the picture won’t show much.”

“True.” Stone twisted his lips in thought. “He’d be smart enough to hide his face. He also might take a few back roads for a little insurance.”

“In his shoes, if I could afford the extra time, I would.” Sean reached for his nearby water bottle.

“So chances are, we’re going to reach Iowa way before