Tucked twenty feet or so away under an icicle-laden tree sat a silver Mercedes, engine humming, driver slumped over the steering wheel.
A getaway car.
He smiled.
She winked. “Ready?”
“Set,” he growled.
“Go!” Her purse clutched to her chest, she leapt to her feet and ran like hell in those heels he could have sworn would keep her back.
Well, damn. So much for carrying her this time. He bolted after her, his coattails flapping in the wind. He focused on creating a boundary with his body between her and anyone who might target her. Seconds later, they reached the Mercedes. Hank gripped the dead man by the collar and pulled him from the car.
He took a precious extra five seconds to relieve the dead guy of all his weapons before climbing behind the wheel—to find Ginger already buckled in beside him with her black velvet bag containing the family crèche resting on her lap. Her seat was reclined enough to keep her head out of the way of incoming fire.
“Let’s blow this pop stand.” He stretched his arm along the back of her seat and looked behind them, reversing the vehicle before pulling forward onto the road. Away from the firefight.
God, it felt like an hour since he’d stepped out of that little airport, but the whole ordeal had probably lasted all of ninety seconds. He’d experienced that same bizarre time-warp sensation countless times before in battle.
Now he just had to figure out a safe place to relocate in a foreign country with a U. S. Senator in tow at a time when people had decided to start shooting at her for no apparent reason.
Merry flipping Christmas.
“Buckle up.” Ginger couldn’t hold back the order as she gripped the dash of the Mercedes they’d just stolen from the dead agent.
“Yeah. In a second.” Hank slammed the car into Reverse again as they reached a road block of tractors.
“Now. Buckle it.” She put on her best mother voice that had actually stood her in good stead at the bargaining table when working to eliminate pork from legislation. “You’re no good to me if you catapult through the windshield in a car chase.”
“Uh-huh.” He rammed the Mercedes into Drive and nailed the gas pedal, whipping the steering wheel around to dodge the limo that had suddenly taken an interest in them again. Apparently the engine hadn’t been dead after all.
“I hear you, Ginger. As soon as I get a hand free. Duck.”
A bullet nailed the vehicle. The car rattled on impact. The reverberation shuddered up through her toes. Echoed through memories in her mind. She would never forget the unmistakable sound of tearing metal when she’d lost her husband in that awful car crash on an icy road.
She also couldn’t help but think of Hank in battle. How often had Hank heard antiaircraft fire hit his plane? Had it sounded the same? Life was too fragile.
Her heart pounded. She hit the deck as ordered. That didn’t mean, however, that she would forget about Hank’s safety. If he wouldn’t take care of himself, she would do it for him.
Ginger tucked her head low and reached over his lap. He thought he was invincible. She knew better. Images of her dead husband’s lifeless body in the wreckage of their family car still haunted her dreams at vulnerable moments. Like now. Here she was again, in a vehicle, driving too fast beside a man who was an important part of her life.
The Mercedes engine roared a reminder of their need to put space between themselves and the current crisis. She could hear the limo behind them. The squeal of brakes. Feel the swish of tires on slushy roads as rubber worked to gain traction.
The luxury sedan lurched forward as if rammed from behind. Hank braced himself. She bit back a scream that reverberated in her mind anyway.
Stop thinking. Take care of Hank’s seat belt while he worked his racetrack magic over the streets along the Bavarian border. She stretched her arm, fingers wiggling until she finally…felt…the fabric of his seat belt. Victory. She tucked the shoulder harness under his arm—not optimal, but he wouldn’t take his hands off the wheel—and yanked the lap belt in place with a satisfactory click.
Relief shimmered through her. He really should know better. He wouldn’t climb in a plane without going through a checklist. A rogue thought ticked at her brain like a frosty bracing breath.
He’d been more concerned about her safety than his own. She shivered with her exhale, her breath caressing the rough fabric of his open overcoat.
His coat?
Oh my. What a time to realize she lay with her cheek pressed against his thigh. The heat of him warmed her face chilled by winter and fear. Then her face flamed from more than the feel of him.
Did he notice their suggestive position? She couldn’t decide whether she should be more embarrassed if he did or if he didn’t. She started to shift.
The car jerked left. The brakes shrieked. Hank palmed her back. “Don’t move.”