Dash of Peril

“Let me help.” She hadn’t yet moved her left arm, so he used extra care as he reached in around her, gently opened the latch on the seat belt and freed her.

Looking past him, Margo swallowed hard, blinked twice and rasped, “Move.”

Her voice was so weak he barely heard her—but he didn’t try to disarm her. Looking back, he asked, “Any idea who that is?”

“Yeah.” Stark pain narrowed her eyes. “Trouble.”

The wheels of the van finally found purchase. It shot forward a few feet, slewed to the side and, oddly enough, did a U-turn to face them again.

“Ah, hell.” His first instinct had been right. “We have to go. Now.”

Margo clenched her teeth and slid one leg from her car.

Not fast enough. The van barreled toward them again, so Dash did the expedient thing and hefted Margo up against his chest. On a short cry, her body shuddered before going deliberately still.

So brave. So damned stoic.

The van sped forward and he knew he’d never make it to his truck in time. Instead he headed for the sidewalk and ducked toward the questionable safety between two brick buildings. Fuck. No outlet.

Margo groaned raggedly, shifted to take aim and a loud blast sounded far too damn close to his ear.

He nearly dropped her.

Seconds later he heard return fire and hunkered down with her, trying to shield her with his body until he could get them both behind a heavy metal trash bin.

She locked her jaw as he set her on the dirty, icy ground behind the hulking steel bin. A thick layer of ice covered every surface. Her breath frosted in front of her.

“Are you okay?”

Small, wounded, dazed, she still pulled it together and gave him a stiff nod.

He could tell she had extreme pain. From her head—or somewhere else? What could he do about it anyway? More blood ran down her jaw, her neck. An overhead utility light showed the whiteness of her face.

They both heard the van’s engine idling right outside the alley. Not liking their odds, Dash put his shoulder to the giant grimy bin and scooted it catty-corner to provide a few more inches of cover. He eyed the windows in the two buildings sandwiching them. One had bars and was too high to reach anyway. The other would leave them exposed. No way would they get through it without getting shot.

“Dash?”

Absently, not wanting her to worry, he said, “Help will be here soon.” Reassurance and the physical protection of his body was the best he could give. In the refuse, he located a long thick pipe and lifted it. It’d make an adequate weapon if it came to that. He glanced back at Margo. “Don’t suppose you have a second gun with you?”

“No. Extra magazine and handcuffs...but those were in my purse.”

“Still in the car?”

“Yes.”

“Any other weapons in there?”

“AR-15 in the trunk.”

Dash chewed his upper lip, considering his odds of making it to the car and back....

“No.” Margo shifted, winced. “Don’t even think it.”

Given her condition, he wanted her gun—but no way would he take it from her. The way she held it he knew it gave her comfort. His brother was the same. Logan had often said he felt naked without his sidearm.

A sudden barrage of gunshot blasted the metal bin and ricocheted off the brick building. Cursing, Dash dropped over Margo, doing his best to cover her with his chest and arms, protecting her head from the flying debris of brick and mortar. They were so close they shared breath.

When the bullets stopped flying, he sat back and looked her over, smoothed his hands over her face, her hair. No new injuries, thank God.

Moving away from his touch, she swallowed audibly. “I have vertigo.”

From her head wound. A strange combustible mix of rage and worry left him taut. Margo had ability and experience, so he’d happily take direction from her. “What can I do to help?”

With the wrist of her gun hand, she swiped blood from her face. Even that movement made her clench with agony. She bit her bottom lip, sucked in two slow shallow breaths. “I need to return fire but my coordination is blown.”

He brushed her hair back to eye her injury again. “Logan is on his way.”

“Until he gets here, we’re sitting ducks and they’re determined.”

Meaning if they didn’t fire back, the goons would press forward. “Why don’t I return fire?”

Face stiff, she held her breath, peeked around the bin and ducked back again. Slumping against him, she stated, “They want me dead.”

Like hell. Dash kept his voice calm with supreme effort. “That’s not happening.”

As if he hadn’t spoken she carried on an internal debate, gripping the Glock in her right hand while trembling uncontrollably. “I can’t steady my arm.”

“I can shoot,” Dash said again. He stripped off his coat and tucked it around her legs.

She wavered in indecision. “Are you any good?”

“Logan taught me.” And that said a lot. “I’m good enough to fend them off until he gets here.”

Out on the street, the low drone of voices carried on the turbulent night. The bastards thought they had them. They were making plans.

“It’s now or never, babe.”

Margo gave one small nod. “You’ll have to take it from me.”

Dash didn’t at first understand, but when she just sat there, bloodied and battered, her hand locked tight on the weapon, he realized what she meant. “Easy now.” He gently pried the heavy black weapon from her stiff, cold fingers.

“Don’t you dare hit an innocent bystander.”

Given the dark of the night, the lousy weather and the obvious firefight, there shouldn’t be any innocents hanging around. “It wouldn’t be my first plan.” Keeping the gun at the ready, he eased forward a little bit at a time...and spotted one man taking aim from the driver’s-side window of the van.

It took only that split second for him to mentally record the man’s face, his features.

Shots came their way, the noise unsettling. Dash felt Margo flinch, and rage calmed his frantic heartbeat.