His to Take (Wicked Lovers #9)(122)
Author: Shayla Black

“Bailey,” he called.

“Hmm.” She sounded barely coherent.

Worry torqued Joaquin’s gut.

“She can’t hear you,” the bastard in the hoodie sneered. “She’ll be asleep for the next twelve hours—at least.”

“I’ll give you the research.” Joaquin reached for the disk. “You want it?”

“Don’t touch it!” their assailant shouted. “Get away from her and put your hands in the air, damn it.” He transferred the gun to one hand and reached into his hoodie pocket with the other, retrieving a semiautomatic. Instantly, he wrapped his finger around the trigger. “I need her alive. You? Not so much. Get on your knees. I’m itching for the chance to waste a scumbag who made a living as a federal agent.”

Joaquin scrambled to his feet and stepped away, knowing that if he knelt again, he wouldn’t ever get back up. His best chance to save himself, Bailey, and the research was to take cover and shoot this asshole.

“Yeah?” he challenged. “I’d like the chance to waste the scum trying to tear this country apart.”

If he was going to get out of this alive, he needed a distraction. On the edge of an empty parking lot, his choices were few.

Joaquin sank to one knee, as if he meant to stoop down. Instead, he quickly grabbed at the disk and tossed it across the asphalt.

“You fucking shithead!” the criminal yelled and tore after it.

Joaquin tried to lift Bailey and haul her with him to some cover, but he couldn’t hold her and his gun at once. Damn it! A glance up proved the guy in the hoodie had retrieved the disk and was now shoving it in his pocket.

Joaquin hauled ass toward the cover of the wide trunk of the tree. As dark as the lot had become, he wouldn’t be an impossible target to hit, but he would be a much more difficult one. As if to prove him right, the separatist shot at him. A bullet whizzed past his shoulder.

With a curse, the attacker came after him. He’d probably rather take Bailey and the disk, then flee. But he wouldn’t leave a loose end alive if he could help it.

Another bullet zipped past his ear as Joaquin reached the trunk and stood sideways behind it, then grabbed his gun from his waistband. He peered around the tree and saw the guy in the hoodie racing toward him. He popped off a shot and obviously missed because the assailant fired again—now closing in. This time, the bullet pinged off the bark.

Joaquin took a chance and crouched down, then leaned around the tree to take another shot. Just as he did, a second man opened the door of the red truck in the distance, gun in hand. The new psycho bore down in Joaquin’s direction, his features shadowed by the falling dusk.

Together, the two separatists fired a hail of bullets at him. Joaquin hunkered on the ground, inching toward the lake. If they both came at him at once, guns blazing, he might not have any fallback position except the water. But damn it, he didn’t want to leave Bailey to them. God knew what they’d do with her. Still, he was more use to her alive than dead.

Since he had limited ammo remaining for his gun, his options were also limited.

“You’re a dead motherfucker,” one of them shouted.

Joaquin eased closer to the water. He hoped like hell the woman inside the restaurant had heard this barrage of gunfire and called the police. It might be his only chance to leave this parking lot alive. Without that, he was outmanned, outgunned, and out of his mind with worry for Bailey.

“Grab her,” the second assailant, wearing a black T-shirt, said, approaching the tree, gun at the ready. With a tattoo of a burning American flag on his forearm and a mean expression, he looked as if he’d lived a hard fifty years. He also sported a smooth-shaved bald head and a familiar face.

McKeevy. Shit! Joaquin’s heart stopped.

“I can’t get to her with this asshole firing at me,” the guy in the hoodie complained.

“Oh, I’ll do it, you whiny fucking bastard,” McKeevy spit.

Joaquin peeked around and found that he’d flung Bailey over his shoulder fireman style. Son of a bitch. She was in the arms of a sick fuck who enjoyed torturing young women to death in the most gruesome ways imaginable.

The hoodie-wearing asshole nodded. “Good. I’ll dust this guy.”

Joaquin didn’t have a moment to waste. He crawled on the far side of an adjacent bush, then stood, caught the younger criminal in his sight line, and pulled the trigger. At the same time, the man fired, but aimed toward Joaquin’s previous position, closer to the tree. He missed, then staggered back as Joaquin’s bullet went into his chest and rattled around his rib cage. Blood spurted from his wound as he toppled to the ground.