Holiday Heroes (Wingmen Warriors 13)

Eventually she’d made her way past the pain into a vision of a future full of her children, grandchildren and a career on the national scene full enough to keep her busy for life. It had felt like enough.

Except at the moment she was too aware of the feel of red satin against her skin.

Heaven help her, Hank was reaching toward her. Could he be as caught in this moment as she was? Now wouldn’t a single inappropriate touch between the two of them eclipse all other morning feature photos?

She started to caution him when she realized he wasn’t reaching to stroke her arm, but to grip her elbow. His mouth opened.

“Ginger. Down,” he shouted, just as a bullet split a hole in the red carpet an inch from her high heels.

Chapter 2

Hank flattened Ginger down to the red carpet, shielding her with his body as he weighed his options for the best place for her safety. Bullets came at them from both sides. Security personnel made attempts to rush toward her, but bullets held them off.

Downed two. Holy hell.

Handheld radios squawked as a local cop pointed out a target in a black suit. A man with a sputtering gun keeping them from the airport.

A longer rifle glimmered in the distance from the patch of icy trees. Hank shouted a warning as another hail of gunfire exploded. Good guys and bad guys—all wearing black suits—blended until he didn’t know who to trust. No way even of determining who was from what country.

Shielding Ginger, he pivoted left and right, ascertaining one thing for certain. The limo chauffeur narrowed his eyes in their direction.

Hank had a split second to decide whether to put Ginger’s life in that man’s hands. Hank’s training, his instincts all shouted, trust no one.

He went into battle mode. Over thirty years of training kicked into high gear with one objective. Keep Ginger alive.

His arm hooked around her, he pressed her to his side as he ran. He protected her as best he could, shifting his back to whichever way it seemed the barrage of bullets raged worst.

He needed cover. Certainly. More than that he needed to get the hell away. He scanned the field, a mass of mayhem now with the crowds of shrieking observers running for cover behind trees or distant houses.

He missed the good old days when he’d driven himself from point A to point B. The limo was a no-go for transportation even if he could trust—or take out—the chauffeur. The vehicle was too unwieldy and identifiable.

Hank ducked by a tree with Ginger against him as a fresh hail of bullets spat from the airport door. Thank God she wasn’t a squealer. She kept her head and her silence. Although she couldn’t keep up, thanks to those ridiculous high heels that made her legs dream material.

“Look. There.” She pointed to another man dressed in a suit. Appeared to be secret service, but damned if he wasn’t pointing his gun in their direction.

His brain raced until the obvious hit him. They couldn’t go inside the limo, but the back end of the limo would make a fine place to crouch while planning.

Arm around her waist, Hank hefted her off her feet and sprinted back, closer to their original position. Bullets pocked the ground by his polished uniform shoes. Damn it all, he wished he had his flight suit and combat boots rather than this monkey suit with medals clanking and shoes pinching.

Finally, he eased Ginger to the ground. Luckily, the vehicle’s engine was off—shot out from bullets perhaps?—so no worries about being run over.

She wrapped her arms around the boxed crèche, her black wool coat trailing in the snow behind her. “What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know, but I’m not sticking around to chat with the guys shooting at us.” He slid his hand inside his overcoat and pulled out his 9 mm. “Can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys.”

He had a gun—of course he did, given the woman he’d been tasked to escort. Right now it was tough to figure out who to shoot. He could just as easily take out one of their own, but by the same token he couldn’t bring himself to trust a single person here at the moment. Bottom line, the best course still seemed to be trust no one for the moment, leave and recoup.

Now he had to figure out how to get out surreptitiously—with a hot woman in a red suit who just happened to be the high-profile U. S. Senator from South Carolina.

“Hank?”

“Thinking.” He gave her waist a reassuring squeeze. “Hang in there.”

“Hank—”

“Damn it, Ginger—”

“Hank!” She thumped his chest and pointed.