He stumbled backward, his arms windmilling in a hopeless struggle for balance that he’d never regain. Blood gushed from his nostrils.
Seizing the momentary advantage, she rolled onto her side, pulled her backup Glock 27 subcompact from the holster at the small of her back, aimed center mass and blew a hole in her attacker.
The force of the bullet wasn’t enough to knock the big guy down. He stood motionless, hovering in animated death for an instant, and then tipped forward face-first.
Charlie rolled out of the way.
He hit the floor with a nauseating thud. She looked at his face, stared in his vacant eyes.
She’d killed a man. He’d been trying to kill her and a witness. Extensive training had fortified her for this, but nothing truly prepared her for the stark reality.
Next thing she knew, Torres came in hot through the front, making a beeline for Potter.
Aiden hustled inside through the back door, coming to her side. “Are you all right?” he asked, his proximity sending a rush of warmth through her. He proffered a hand.
Charlie accepted the assistance up and onto her feet, shaking off the vestiges of pain. She took in Aiden’s mussed black hair and his deep brown eyes. He looked uncharacteristically weary, and his softer brown complexion that spoke of his Native American heritage was pallid. A nick marred his cheek, but there was a nastier gash on his arm.
Her breath hitched, her chest tightening. “You’re hurt.”
The deep cut was below the sleeve of his tight black T-shirt. Blood ran in rivulets down his muscular arm and dripped from his fingers.
This was the first time he’d ever been injured on the job in six years and she’d borne witness during the past four that they’d been partners. Not so much as a scratch.
An impressive SOG record that made him a figure of near-mythic proportion in their elite ranks.
“We’ve got to stop the bleeding, bandage it.” She hated the sound of fear that leaked into her voice. Pushing hair behind her ear, she summoned her composure. “You might need stitches.”
“It has to wait,” Aiden said. “I’ll bandage it in the car and worry about stitches after we get to the SSPC.”
Always self-sacrificing. Always a pillar of strength. Always so darn hard to resist.
Aiden crouched next to the dead body and reached for something she’d completely missed. A black nylon belt bag on the dead man’s waist.
“What about the sniper?” Charlie asked.
Aiden unzipped the utility pouch and dumped the contents. Two loaded magazines and a cell phone fell out. He picked up the mobile device. “We took a tumble off the roof. He hit an AC unit. Neck snapped.”
Tumble? She tamped down the watery, sick feeling welling up inside and retrieved her STI Staccato-P from the floor. “Let’s go.”
The sooner they got Aiden’s wound to stop bleeding and Potter out of danger the better.
Torres took point and led the way out through the front.
Charlie and Aiden waited for Torres to give the all clear and start the SUV before they brought Eugene outside and ushered him quickly toward the vehicle.
A few neighbors gawked at them through their windows as they made their way to the curb.
She put a hand on top of Eugene’s head, ensuring he didn’t bump it on the frame, and helped him scramble into the third row. After putting the seat back in place, Charlie hopped into the second row.
Aiden grabbed the medical kit from one of their bags stuffed with gear. As soon as he sat beside her, Torres thrust the SUV into gear and sped off, tires screeching.
“Oh my God. Oh my God.” Eugene crouched low into a ball on the seat, his teeth chattering between his words. “Do you know how close I came to getting my head blown off? I almost died.”
But he hadn’t. He was alive and well.
Unlike Dale Banks, whose eight-month-pregnant wife was going to have to bury him.
And Aiden had got injured in the process of protecting Eugene.
Charlie snatched the medical kit from Aiden. No way was she going to let him treat himself. Not when she was there to help. She took out gauze and pressed it to the wound. He gave a small wince and quickly washed the expression from his face.
Risking one’s life was part of the job that she had got used to quickly, but one thing rubbed her wrong and she’d never get used to it. Ninety-five percent of witnesses in the program were like Eugene—not innocent bystanders but rather criminals looking to be absolved of their illegal actions and to save their own neck. Snitches who were angry, bitter and had a sense of entitlement. Like the government owed them more.
Few had the common courtesy to even say thank-you.
“Where’s my Jumpdrive?” Eugene sat up. Then he looked over his shoulder and ducked back down as if at any moment the bulletproof window might explode. “You got it, didn’t you?”
No thank you. Only entitlement. Charlie shook her head in disgust.
“As a matter of fact, I did. What is this?” Aiden asked, holding up the drive.
“My insurance policy,” Eugene said.
Was he holding on to evidence he’d never turned over to the US attorney’s office?
“What’s on it?” Charlie inspected Aiden’s wound.
His cut was still bleeding in earnest and not slowing down fast enough. Charlie wasn’t very good with blood and there was a surprising amount of it, not to mention the sharp metallic scent, but she could handle it. For Aiden. She pressed down, trying not to hurt him, and watched as he looked through the hit man’s phone. It wasn’t password protected.
Aiden’s profile was strong and all male, given his chiseled bone structure and sensual mouth. His hair was the richest shade of black and he had long lashes most women would envy. Damn, he was gorgeous. More beautiful than any man had a right to be.
“I told you what’s on it,” Eugene said. “Give the drive back to me. It’s mine, damn it. I need it.”
“No, you didn’t tell us.” Aiden frowned at something on the phone. “I want details. Right now. Did you know that you can be kicked out of the program for withholding evidence? It’s called obstruction of justice.”
“Protecting myself isn’t the same as obstructing justice.” Eugene started to straighten in his seat but seemed to think better of it. “You don’t have the right to confiscate my personal property.”
“What property?” Charlie asked. “I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Do you, Aiden?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
“You can’t do this.” Eugene peeked up over the seat. “Marshal, uh, you, the one driving. You can’t let them do this.”