Delta: Retribution by Cristin Harber Page B

heavy. Looking at him, she couldn’t shut up. “I thought they hurt you.”
    “They did. Assholes.”
    “I thought they killed you.”
    “Takes a tougher motherfucker than that to kill me, Cinderella.”
    Oh … “I finished it. They have it.”
    Trace grumbled but didn’t slow down. “That complicates shit.”
    “What was the noise? The explosions?”
    “I assumed it was—”
    Two men crept into the corner, big guns pointed at her and Trace. She screamed, aiming the point-and-shoot gun at them. Trace grabbed her hand, pulling it down. “Stand down.” He put his arm around her, dragging her to the men with guns. “We have a problem.”
    “Hello to you too, buddy.” A familiar Australian accent came from one of the gunmen.
    “Took you long enough.” Trace groaned through clenched teeth. “Where’s everybody?”
    They were Trace’s teammates. Delta. Thank God . “Tell them you’re hurt.”
    Instead, he scurried her against the wall. “Marlena, what does the weapon look like? They left with it, what are we looking for?”
    “Oh. Um. Like a small cylinder within a box. Silver colored. Six inches by six inches. Really heavy.”
    The two other men ran off, and Trace maneuvered around the corner then slid her away from her perch against the wall. “Nice and easy.”
    Blood ran down his arm, coloring his pants a darker red. The stench from the explosion permeated the air, and sudden gunfire exploded and echoed somewhere in the warehouse. She flinched then froze.
    “No time for that,” he scooped her into his arms and kept moving.
    Finally, they were out the front door of the warehouse. Trace headed toward an SUV. He put her down and reached for the back door, moving her to the seat. Everything was a blur. Someone in the shadows of the warehouse appeared, gun raised, pointing at her. No . Pointing at Trace.
    “No!” Screaming, she pushed him, catching him off balance as he turned to close her door. They landed on the asphalt, and he cursed. Probably because they’d landed on whatever part of his body had been shot and was bleeding all over the place. Marlena rolled, feeling fire in her arm. She looked down. Blood. A hole in her arm. Blood. Lots of blood. Oh God .
    “What the fuck,” Trace yelled, rolling on top of her, gun drawn.
    He fired over and over again, screaming obscenities. Then he pulled her close and threw them into the still-opened back door.
    “You’re insane.” His hands searched over her until he found her wounded arm. “Damn it, Marlena. You fucking took a bullet for me.”
    She nodded. Thinking back, if the trajectory had been right, given how she jumped at him and where the bullet hit her… that would’ve been a head shot.
    Trace opened the center console and grabbed something. He pushed it into his ear and talked into what had to be a tiny microphone. “HVT’s hit.”
    “I’m fine.” Though she felt woozy. It was only in her arm. Oh God . Only a gunshot wound in her arm. She’d been shot. Her whole body began to shake. And what about him? “Trace.”
    He crawled into the front seat, telling someone, “Roger that.” Trace turned the ignition over. The engine revved, and he screamed out of the parking toward a fence.
    She didn’t see a gate. Looking around—but he wasn’t looking. She screamed as he ran through the fence. “What the hell?”
    Easing onto an access road, he relaxed into the driver seat. “Cannot believe you took a bullet for me.” Shaking his head, he turned and looked at her, the corners of his eyes tight and crinkled. “You fucking rock.”
    Arm throbbing in pain, it was her cheeks heating in a full-out blush that she felt at that moment. “It just kinda happened.”
    With a quick tug, he pulled his shirt over his head. “Put this on your arm. Make it tight.”
    His chest was covered in blood. He had a gunshot next to his collar. “You need a doctor worse than I do,” she said.
    He laughed as he turned onto the highway. “Seems like the only