The Captive's Return (Wingmen Warriors 10)

A whistle sounded overhead. Damn. Damn. Damn it all.

Boom.

A column gave way, spewing chunks and shards of stone. He rammed the side entrance with his shoulder. It gave. The weighty door creaked open to a corridor packed with guards darting for position, civilians seeking cover.

Quade booted the door closed behind him. The cacophony outside was muffled.

"Guards," he shouted, even as security personnel poured around the corner. "Alert a medic or doctor. Now."

He ignored offers to pass Sara over and pounded down the winding hall toward the small on-site clinic.

She clutched his wrist, her hold a fading echo of her usual strength that only yesterday had left scratches down his back. "We have to keep Tomas safe." Not surprisingly, she focused on her teenage brother instead of herself. "He is too young, not a man yet in spite of what he thinks. Promise me you'll take care of him."

Her brother had no family except Sara since their father had died two weeks ago. Without her, Tomas would be a vulnerable fourteen-year-old. So young, but old enough for "recruitment" into local rebel armies renowned for underworld dealings, even some with terrorist ties.

Now Lucas understood the reason for her surprise proposal. She wasn't delirious after all. As Lucas's brother-in-law, Tomas could leave the country.

He should have known she would only marry him if desperate. He'd asked her to be his wife more than once over the past month, and she'd always said no. But nothing mattered now except easing her worries so she could focus on surviving.

Or dying in peace.

"Yes. I'll marry you." He knew she only asked to secure Tomas's safety and somehow that made Lucas respect her even more. He understood all about survival and paying any price to protect others. "But you have to stay alive. Got it?"

"Si." Her eyes slid closed.

"Sara!" His arms convulsed around her while he checked that—yes—she still breathed, shallow but steady.

He kicked through the clinic door, only to be stopped short by the press of walking wounded. Blood streamed down the groundskeeper's face. A secretary cradled his mangled arm to his chest.

Where the hell was a doctor, nurse, anyone? Or a medevac helicopter out would be damn welcome right about now. He opened his mouth to bark an order—but a medic acknowledged him from across the room, leaning to whisper to the overworked doc.

Lucas spotted an empty gurney in a far corner, tucked sideways through the mass of people and lowered her, carefully, slowly. As she peeled away from his chest, fresh blood pumped from her side onto the sheet.

"Doc! Speed it up," Lucas shouted as he sealed his hands to her wound, speaking while searching over his shoulder. "Hang in there, Sara. You're going to be fine. By the end of the week, I'll be giving you bed baths that will drive us both crazy."

"Senor," called the overworked doctor. He slid between Lucas and Sara, rolling the tray of medical supplies to a stop by the gurney. A medic trailed behind with IV bags. "If you will step aside, porfavor."

Quade clasped her fingers in his, moving closer to her head, their hands slick and red with the same blood oozing from her side as the medic cut away her blouse.

"Swear to me." She clasped Quade's hand tighter. "Swear you'll take Tomas out of here. Don't let Tio Ramon near him."

Ramon Chavez, her father's best friend rather than an actual relation. Chavez was a slimy bastard with enough money to buy invulnerability in this corrupt country.

Damn stubborn woman. "I won't let anything happen to your brother."

"You'll take him with you when you leave." She insisted on nailing him to a specific promise even as she winced at the jab of an IV needle.

"We'll take him with us."

"Of course we will." Her accent grew thicker, the normal perfection of her multilingual skills seeping away in time with her blood. "But to be safe, marry me now, so you are his legal guardian."

Lucas sliced away the thought of a world without Sara as effectively as he blocked the clipped orders of the doctor probing her side. She'd painted his stark life with bold strokes the first time she'd swished in to translate for a press conference.

He would take her any way he could have her.

Pivoting, he barked to the Marine sergeant standing guard at the door. "Find a priest."

"We already have, sir. Anyone who requests it will have last rites."