Page 73 of Rescuing You

Splat let up the pressure on his arm to grab the wheel as he climbed in. Blood dripped from the wound. More covered his hand. “Give me your phone.” Michael did, and Splat tapped the screen, leaving red stains across the glass. “They must’ve been looking for us at the airport.”

Having his fears confirmed sent adrenaline coursing through Michael’s veins. “How many?”

“Three, at least. I was an idiot. Moving boxes.”

So maybe more than three. “We need to dress that wound.”

“Just a scratch.”

Right. His friend was already paling.

“You get any of them?”

“I’m lucky the guy had bad aim. He opened the cargo door, took a shot, and I went down.”

They didn’t call him Splat for nothing.

“I managed to fall on the wound and cover my chest with blood. I think the guy thought he got me in the heart. Incompetence working in our favor.”

“Aren’t you armed? You didn’t fight back?”

“I’m a leftie.” Splat didn’t look up from the phone. He was typing fast. “Didn’t think I’d be able to grab my gun before they saw me move. Better play was to wait for you.”

Yeah. Maybe. If the guards didn’t kill the women before Michael could find them.

Poorly trained guards, maybe. But they had the sisters, and the CIA agent and the SEAL had lost them.

“Got ’em.” A fresh map came up on the truck’s screen, and Splat dropped Michael’s phone in the console, leaning back, breathing heavily.

The red dot indicating the cargo van’s location was already a mile away and moving fast. Obviously, Splat had left his phone in the van. Small favors.

He shifted into drive, and Michael tried to figure out what they were going to do when the men stopped. Which they would have to do, wouldn’t they? Or would they wait until they were back in Iraq?

Michael couldn’t let them get that far.

He reached into the backseat, opened his pack, and found his first-aid kit. No time to worry about a bullet, but at least he could staunch the bleeding.

“They stopped.” Splat’s voice was still strong. A good sign.

According to the map, the van was a little over a mile away.

Probably transferring the women into a different car.

Splat turned at the corner toward them and floored the gas pedal.

A quarter mile out, Michael said, “Stop here. I’ll run.” He pointed to the map. “Cut them off in front. Can you walk? Shoot?”

“I’m fine.”

Sure he was, but Michael needed his help. “Turn toward me and I’ll wrap that.”

“You gotta go before we lose ’em.”

“I need you alive. Give me your arm.”

Splat shifted, and Michael reached across him and placed the clotting gauze over the wound. Wounds—entry and exit. Good. Then he wrapped a bandage around his biceps, tight. “Okay? You can get your gun?”

He pulled it out with his right hand. “You come from behind. Two minutes.”