Accidental Bodyguard (23 page)

“For once, trust me, Claudia.”

With a soft curse, she released her seat belt and curled up on the floorboard. What choice did she have? Her sweats covered most of her bare flesh, but grainy dirt from the sole of someone's shoe pressed into her cheek. Was this her life from now on—never being able to see where she was going?

“Here we go,” Jack said, accelerating with a right turn onto Highway 40.

The truck bumped onto the highway. The road hummed beneath her, the vibration increasing as the Navigator picked up speed. Claudia focused on Jack's face, hoping his expression would yield clues as to what was happening. But the sunglasses shielded his eyes, and the black cap covered his forehead. His jaw remained set, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.

“How long do I have to stay down here?” she asked.

“Until we get to I-75.” Jack's voice remained steady, which reassured her slightly. She'd been asleep when they'd driven in weeks ago, but knew the interstate was a twenty-minute drive away. Only twenty minutes. Twenty long minutes.

And then what?

“Are we going north or south?”

He didn't answer immediately, then nodded as if coming to a decision. “South. Toward Orlando. There are thousands of motel rooms around Disney. We'll find a dive that will allow me to pay cash for the week.”

That made sense to Claudia. She felt a whole lot better that Jack had a plan.

Only one more week. All they had to do was remain alive seven more days. Then she'd testify and this nightmare would be over.

As would any connection to Jack.

His phone buzzed. “Richards...What?...Shit.”

He flung his phone into the seat. “Brace yourself.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

J
ACK
FLOORED
THE
ACCELERATOR
. As the Navigator rocketed forward, Claudia pressed her feet and hands against the seat as her body was flung backward. A siren wailed in the distance.

“What's happening?” she demanded.

“A pickup truck breached the west roadblock,” Jack said. “They ran down a deputy. Shots were fired.”

Claudia's gut tightened. So her nightmare wasn't over quite yet.

“Is the deputy okay?”

“Unknown. But another deputy is in pursuit. They're headed this way.”

Claudia heard a horrible screech of tires. Not the Navigator. Its speed didn't alter.

Another siren blared. This one close.

“What was that?” she demanded.

“The sheriff executed a U-turn to assist his men.” Jack glanced into the rearview mirror. “He'll meet the Warriors head-on.”

Every instinct Claudia possessed urged her to get up from the floorboard so she could see. Maybe she wouldn't be shot down here, but without the protection of a seat belt, she was in just as much danger from a crash or a rollover. Maybe more.

“Hold on.” Jack applied the brakes. The Navigator's rear end slid, but the tires held and the vehicle came to a wrenching stop.

“Red light,” Jack said, gaze on the rearview mirror.

“Shouldn't we get off the road?” she asked. “Let the sheriff handle this?”

“And do what? Wait for the terrorists to nail us?”

“I don't know, but we can't keep speeding down Highway 40 and hope we make the lights.”

“There's only two more.”

“We can find somewhere to hide.”

“That's exactly what we're—”

Another long screech of tires straining to grip the road halted Jack's words. Claudia sucked in a breath waiting for it—and there it was—the sickening thud of metal against metal. Whose car? The siren stopped.

Jack punched the accelerator, and she was flung back again. His jaw clenched, he again glanced in the rearview. Another siren shrieked a warning.

Claudia sighed in relief. Good. The cops hadn't given up.

“Can you see anything?” she asked.

“No. Chuck is out of sight.” He glanced down to her. “But that didn't sound good.”

“Let me come up,” she begged.

“No. Stay down.”

As if to emphasize his words, the sharp report of gunfire sounded in the distance. Then more shots.

Jack cursed.

“Oh, my God,” Claudia moaned, terrified for Chuck Wheeler and his deputies. All of this was because of her. Were any police injured in that crash? Wounded in the flurry of shots? Bleeding? Dead?

“Grab my phone,” Jack ordered, eyes straight ahead. “I need you to make a call.”

Spotting the phone on the seat, Claudia pushed up and took it, catching a quick blur of trees rushing by on both sides of the truck. How fast were they going?

Nauseous from the too-rapid sensory input, she lowered herself back down.

“Press number five,” Jack said. “That's the dispatcher.”

Because of the motion of the SUV, she could barely focus on the tiny keypad.

“No, no, no!” Jack shouted. He slammed on his brakes and applied the horn in one long continuous blast.

Thrown toward the front of the Navigator, Claudia lost the phone. Her head collided with the floorboard.

Other horns sounded. No telling how many tires screeched.

The Navigator fishtailed, straightened and Jack punched the accelerator again.

“You okay?” he asked when they were back up to speed.

“I'll live.” Rubbing her head, she searched for the phone. “Intersection?”

“Yeah. The light changed just as we approached. The other drivers were none too happy.”

Claudia located the phone, punched in number five and stretched to hand it to Jack.

“I'm approaching the eastern roadblock without Wheeler,” Jack said. “I need to be let through because I'm not slowing down.”

After a pause, during which she supposed the dispatcher relayed information, Jack asked, “How bad? Any word from the sheriff? Thanks.”

Jack tossed the phone away.

“Is Chuck okay?”

“Unknown.”

Before she could ask another question, Jack cursed.

“What?” she demanded.

“They're right on our ass,” Jack said.

A gun fired. Close. Too close. What had to be a bullet slammed into the Navigator, the sound more frightening than anything she'd ever heard in her life.

She closed her eyes. This couldn't be happening. Yet it was.

Another noise. A window shattered. Three more bullets pinged into the car's metal.

Jack didn't slow down.

“Stay low,” he ordered, his voice strained.

She reached inside her purse and felt for the Glock. She wrapped her fingers around the cool plastic ridges. What good would this do if she couldn't see anything to shoot?

“Not much longer,” Jack said. “We're almost to the second roadblock.”

“Is there another cop car chasing the Warriors?” Claudia asked.

“I think there's two.”

“Why won't they stop?” she moaned, her gaze glued to Jack's grim face. “They can't get away.”

“They've got nothing to lose at this point.”

“So they intend to die for their stupid cause?”

“And take us with them.” Jack grimaced and shifted in the seat. “That's the point.”

“Oh, God,” Claudia whispered. How could anyone be willing to die for Carlos Romero, a jerk who was nothing but a big bully?

“We're there,” Jack said, his voice tight. “This isn't going to be pretty.”

Wishing with all her heart that she could see, Claudia stiffened, preparing herself for the inevitable crash she knew was coming. What would it feel like?
Maybe it's better if I don't see the end.

Jack sucked in a loud breath. Claudia closed her eyes.
This is it.

But the Navigator kept racing at an ungodly speed. They didn't roll, didn't collide with anything.

Sudden noise exploded—as if a freight train rumbled by next to her ear. But it wasn't a train. It was one hell of a lot of bullets being fired.

It had to be the cops firing at the terrorists chasing Jack. Did they make it through the roadblock?

As if holding on to a lifeline, Jack clutched the wheel with both hands, his eyes focused on the road. She didn't dare distract him with questions.

He flicked a glance to the rearview. “Oh, shit,” he muttered, his tone full of awe.

“What?” Claudia begged.

Before he could answer, a vehicle somewhere smashed hard into something solid. Next came an explosion, the sound deafening. Probably a gas tank. She swiveled her head to see out the passenger window. Black smoke mushroomed into the air, along with a strong acrid odor. No one had survived that.

“The Warriors went airborne,” Jack said. “Guess they thought they could fly.”

Without slowing down, Jack swerved sharply to the right, the motion again flinging Claudia across the floorboard.

“You can get up now,” he said. “We're on I-75.”

Claudia scrambled onto the seat and clicked her seat belt into place.

Pushing her hair behind her ear, she asked, “What happened?”

“Well, I can tell you that particular truck of terrorists will not be giving us any more trouble.”

She turned to look back. Behind them, smoke still billowed into the air, but they were too far away to smell the burning gas. More sirens screamed, and she surmised the fire department now added to the din.

“The fools ran the blockade?” she asked.

“Hit a parked cop car at full speed.”

She faced front again and released a breath. Was it over? Were they safe?

“Any cops hurt?” she asked.

“Unknown, but I doubt it. Looked to me as if they anticipated the outcome and stayed clear.” He shook his head. “But I was going fast. Hard to say for sure.”

She released a breath and offered a silent prayer for the police involved in their escape. Escape? Had they truly gotten away?

Doubtful.

“So are we okay?” she asked.

“For now,” Jack said. “It'll take them time to regroup.”

“So you think there'll be more bad guys?”

“There's always more bad guys.”

She nodded. Of course there was. Even after she testified—assuming she got out of this mess alive—she'd always be looking over her shoulder.

And she wouldn't have Jack to protect her.

She shoved away the memory of their insane wild dash for freedom. It was over. She didn't need to think about it anymore. Somehow they'd made it out safely.

Claudia was relieved that they rode without speaking. Her nerves were frayed into confetti. She suspected even Jack needed some time to recover. They rocketed south on the interstate, pushing the speed limit, putting distance between them and the horror.

This part of the state was lightly populated, heavily wooded. Trees flew by on both sides of the Navigator, calming her, allowing her to consider what would happen next. Would the Warriors locate them again? And how did the terrorists find them in Dunnellon?

“Have you figured out how they found us?” she asked, breaking the silence.

When Jack didn't reply, she turned to look at him and gasped. His face was pale, coated with a sheen of sweat, and he drove with only his right arm. He no longer sat erect behind the wheel.

“What's wrong?” she demanded. “Talk to me, Jack.”

He tossed her a look. A look she recognized only too well from her years of nursing. This man was in serious pain.

“There's a rest area coming up,” he said, his voice weaker than she'd ever heard it. “You're going to have to drive.”

She scanned his body and spotted blood spreading through the gray sweatshirt on his left shoulder and arm. The driver's-side window had been shattered. Damn. He'd been shot.

“You're hit,” she accused.

“Sorry about that,” he muttered. He moved the Navigator to the far right lane and slowed.

“How bad is it?” she asked.

“How the hell do I know? I'm not a nurse.”

“Bull.” He didn't want to tell her, which meant the wound was serious.

“Are you still bleeding?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Thought I'd be okay. Not as if I could stop.”

“I need to stop the bleeding.”

Jack exited the interstate and brought the Navigator to a stop at the far end of the rest stop, away from any other vehicles. Claudia released her seat belt, jumped out and raced to his side of the truck. He'd slumped against the seat and closed his eyes.

She ripped the cotton fabric to assess the damage.

“Oh, my God,” she gasped, then clamped her mouth shut, furious with herself. She knew better than to alarm a patient with her reaction to an injury. But this wasn't just any patient.

She loved this man with all her heart. And he'd just taken a bullet for her.

He'd saved her life.

The bullet had entered his shoulder, exited and slammed into the seat cushion, grazing his huge muscled thigh. His sweatpants had been burned by the friction. That's how close it had come.

If the trajectory had been a mere inch or two to the left—she dismissed the horrifying thought of his femoral artery being hit and spurting blood with every beat of Jack's strong heart.

It didn't happen.
Treat the injury in front of you.

Yes, he was bleeding, but not badly. The brachial artery had been spared. They'd been lucky. The first bit of luck they'd had since they'd started their journey.

Hands shaking, she ripped open her duffel and dug out her cosmetic case, which contained a tube of antibiotic cream. She gently smeared a coating over both the entrance and exit wounds, an act she'd performed countless times that somehow calmed her. Steadier now, she tore apart one of her T-shirts, fashioned it into a makeshift bandage and secured it around his shoulder with as much pressure as she could manage. Eyes closed, Jack didn't offer any protest while she worked.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Like shit.”

“Can you walk?” she asked when finished.

“Yeah.”

She helped him down from the truck. Supporting his weight, she tried to walk him to the backseat.

“No,” he said, resisting the direction.

“What?”

“Up front—with you.”

“You need to lie down, Jack, elevate your legs so you don't go into shock. I'm surprised you haven't already.”

He shook her off, swaying for a moment. She stepped forward to catch him before he fell, but he collapsed against the Navigator.

A car drove by, its occupants eyeing them speculatively.

“What's wrong with you? Get in the backseat and lie down.”

Jaw set—using what was surely his last bit of energy—Jack pushed off the Navigator, walked to the passenger side, opened the door and pulled himself into the seat.

She shook her head but didn't argue. She knew why. Sure, it was okay if
she
couldn't see what was going on, but not if Jack couldn't. He had to stay in control. Stubborn gladiator.

She hauled herself into the driver's seat, adjusted it so she could reach the pedals and put on her seat belt.

She had one mission now—getting Jack to an ER. She took a deep breath.

“We need to find the closest hospital,” she said.

“Agreed.”

That surprised her. She reached for his phone. After she spent several seconds of fumbling with apps, Jack took the phone from her hands. His fingers were icy.

“Let me,” he said.

While he worked the tiny computer, she eyed her less than professional bandage, looking for blood seepage. Nothing yet. Maybe keeping him upright was better since it would slow down blood loss. Maybe not.