and his future hanging in the balance, Alicia’s face, her voice, remained stubbornly in the forefront of his mind—forever there, yet forever out of reach.
* * *
Alicia followed McCaffrey’s hand as he snatched her gun and tucked it in his pants pocket. Arrest, huh? So he didn’t have the green light to kill her. Good to know. Part of her was spitting nails that her mission had gone so royally FUBAR, but another part of her had to give thanks for that small favor. At least she was alive. She sat still, forcing him to make the next play.
He took hold of her left arm again and repositioned his gun against her neck.
“Right hand on top of your head, right now.”
She complied, biding her time. Next, he’d probably order her out of the car. One could hope he’d do something so stupid, anyway.
“Real slowly now, you’re going to get out of the car. One wrong move and I shoot. Don’t think for a second that I don’t understand how dangerous you are.”
If he’d truly understood how dangerous she was, he would’ve cuffed her hands to the steering wheel, then climbed in the backseat and ordered her to play hostage taxi driver.
She unfolded one booted leg to the ground, then the other. Predictably, he tugged her arm to force her to stand. Harnessing the momentum in his tug, she pushed off the ground with her left leg, kicking out with her right.
Her boot slammed into his gut as she grabbed the wrist of his gun hand. She banged his wrist against the door frame as she kicked his legs out from under him. With an oof, he fell forward into her lap like she’d hoped he would, his grip on her arm loosening. She jerked her arm free of him, and before he had time to gather his wits, she kneed him in the head, then grabbed the wrist of his gun hand.
They grappled for command of the gun. She nearly lost the battle when he grabbed her hair and yanked. The pain of it made her stomach ache, and the lack of air made her light-headed, but she fought through it, banging his gun hand against the door frame over and over until it fell from his hand, either onto the ground or the car floor, she couldn’t tell. Time for part two of her plan.
Her hands shot out, groping the steering column until her fingers closed around what she’d been after. The gear shifter. She wrenched it down but didn’t have enough force behind the movement to snap it off.
She threw herself backward, arching her hips and creating a slight window to get her knees up. Her boots hit his legs, though she couldn’t guess how high up. Gasping and grunting, she kicked against him, but his hold on her was too firm. Before she could stop him, he pulled her from the car. She put all her effort into one last tug on the gear shifter as they moved. She was about to give up and come up with a new plan when it snapped off.
There was no time to waste. As soon as she was out of the car, she got her legs under her and swung the jagged-edged shiv toward his neck. She felt it snag on skin. He hissed through his teeth and grabbed for her arm. No way was she going to let that happen. Instead, she used his power against him and as his arm whooshed past her, she countered with a block, just as she’d learned as a student of Krav Maga, the discipline of Israeli martial arts her father practiced and had taught her, his only daughter, from the time she could walk.
The memory and discipline of her training settled into her bones, eclipsing the need for conscious planning. They merged, becoming one fluid series of spins, kicks, jabs and blocks. McCaffrey gave as good as he defended himself, employing a dangerous combination of lightness and power that spoke of a background in mixed martial arts. For every lock and strike she issued, he countered with a punch or kick, but she was able to finally create a pocket of space to swing the shiv out. She brought it down hard and stabbed him square in the thigh.
Grunting in pain, he stumbled back, gripping his bleeding leg.
She turned her attention to finding her fallen gun. She didn’t see it on the ground, so it had to be somewhere near the driver’s seat. She’d nearly reached the car when Logan grabbed hold of her waist. She was no match for his strength. He twisted her elbow behind her, then body slammed her face-first into the side of the car near the rear wheel. Painfully.
He pulled her back, then slammed her into the car a second time. His gun found her neck again. “Give me a reason to squeeze the trigger.”
Her mouth went dry. There was more than patriotic duty or irritation that she’d temporarily bested him behind those words, which had dripped with hate, anger. But why? She’d never seen him before, so what could he have against her on a personal level?
Besides the shiv she still held in the hand he’d twisted behind her, she had a hell of an arsenal strapped to her body under her clothes, none of which she could use at the moment. So she waited and tried to ignore the piercing pain in her twisted arm. Patience, patience...
“Got her,” he said low, as though speaking into a phone or earpiece. He rattled off their coordinates.
She gazed down the side of her leg, checking out his stance, calculating how much room she’d need to create so she could slip sideways enough to take control of his gun arm. His right knee had her leg pinned against the car. The shiv had been removed from his leg and, though the pants were torn and bloody, the blood wasn’t spreading or dripping. She must not have caught him all that deep.
She was contemplating her options to get him to loosen his hold when she spied an edge of black peeking out from beneath the cuff of her pants.
Her ankle holster.
“Roger that,” Logan said, his tone indicating he was still on the phone. She glanced over her shoulder as he pocketed the phone.
He narrowed his eyes at her, so she made a show of glancing at her ankle, as if she was considering making a play for the gun. He took the bait, following her line of sight.
“Loaded down with firepower, hmm? I’d expect nothing less. I bet you want me to squat down and get it, make it nice and easy for you to kick me in the face from that position, right?”
“A girl can dream.”
His gun scraped over her shoulder, then her back as he repositioned it between her ribs, aimed at her heart. “How about you get it, nice and slow, then drop it on the ground. I’ll stay here with my finger on the trigger.”
This guy was good. Too good. For the first time, a flutter of nerves started inside her. This was going to be harder than she thought, especially with no crew backing her up. John’s image flickered in her mind. Guess it was too much to ask for him to surprise her with a well-timed ambush.
No.
This was what she wanted—to work alone. She didn’t want to be rescued, especially by the man she’d once dreamed of spending the rest of her life with. Even now, the thought of him made her chest ache. It was stupid, pining for a man who’d conspired to kill her. But even as she thought the words, they felt hollow. Did she really believe him capable of that? The same nagging doubt she’d fought for twenty months to ignore came creeping back into her consciousness.
No. She didn’t have time for doubts and heartache, not with Rory on the loose and herself in a battle of wits with a highly trained ICE agent.
She shoved her wayward thoughts aside and gave an exaggerated squirm. “You’ll have to let go of my arm for me to get that gun.”
His hand slid to her wrist, loosening the twist, but he didn’t release her. With his mouth near her ear, he whispered, “If you try anything clever, I have no qualms about hurting you.”
She didn’t doubt it, given the way he’d threatened to pull the trigger of his gun earlier. “You must have some qualms or you wouldn’t have said that. In fact, I think you’re pretty damn offensive. You would have never said that to a man. Don’t be such a sexist pig.”
He let out a sardonic chuckle. “I couldn’t give a damn that you’re a woman. Truth is, you’re a worthy adversary, and I would’ve loved to have you on my team. It breaks my heart a little to have witnessed