Hidden Away

CHAPTER 25

“SON of a bitch. Son of a bitch!” Donovan exclaimed.

He got up from the desk and hit the floor at a dead run. He left the war room and sprinted over to the house. He burst into the living room, where Sophie was feeding Charlotte. Sam was sprawled on the couch beside her and looked up in alarm when he saw Donovan.

Donovan didn’t waste time trying to preserve Sophie’s modesty. Nor did he bother trying to hold back so as not to frighten her. “We’ve got a situation.”

Sam was on his feet in an instant. Sophie’s eyes widened in alarm and the baby let out a mewl of protest.

“Garrett?” she asked fearfully.

“His locater was activated several hours ago,” Donovan said to Sam.

“Why the hell didn’t we know until now?” Sam demanded.

“Fuck if I know,” Donovan bit out. “Signal may have been interrupted. Maybe it was the damn satellite. But the time stamp was during the night.”

“What does that mean?” Sophie asked. “Is he in trouble?”

Sam gave a short nod. Then his expression softened as he looked at his wife and child. “He wouldn’t have activated unless he was in trouble and needed help. It’s our SOS system. It means he’s down or in deep shit.”

“Go,” she said. “He needs you. I’ll be fine. I have Marlene and Rachel.”

Sam only hesitated a brief moment before leaning down to kiss Sophie and then Charlotte.

“Bring him home, Sam,” she said in an urgent voice.

“I will, baby. I promise.”

Donovan had already turned and ran back toward the war room with Sam on his heels.

“Rio will be closest. I’ll reroute Steele and his team from Alaska, but we’ll get there first after Rio,” Donovan said. “I don’t know what we’re dealing with but I’m going to assume the worst and pull every available man to get the hell down there.”

While Donovan hailed Steele and gave him the order to pull out, Sam picked up the phone and punched in a number. A few moments later, he said, “Ethan, Garrett’s in trouble. We need you.”

Donovan was already opening the gun locker. He pulled out an array of weapons and tossed two rifles in Sam’s direction. When they had their gear packed, they hustled out to the truck.

“I’ll drive. We’ll swing by to get Ethan and then head to the jet. You raise Rio and give him the coordinates,” Sam said.

The drive was silent, but Donovan knew Sam was as worried as he was. And Donovan blamed himself. He should have put a team with Garrett from day one. When he smelled a rat, he put Rio and Steele in place but it was too little, too late. He should have hog-tied Garrett to a chair if necessary to make sure he didn’t go to Mexico alone.

It was always the cake jobs that went all to shit.

GARRETT lay with Sarah in his arms listening to the quiet rhythm of her sleep. He’d shamelessly lied to her about the condition he was in. Not that he was ready for a pine box, but his ribs hurt like a bitch, and he hadn’t been able to sleep for the discomfort.

But he hadn’t wanted to scare her any more than she already was. He was damn proud of her for not losing it completely. She was scared witless, but she was also one pissed-off woman. It was the pissed-off part that worried him.

Pissed-off women were unpredictable.

He’d lost sense of time but he figured it ought to be daylight soon. Sarah had slipped into an uneasy sleep during the night and when she stirred, he’d soothed and quieted her as much for her peace of mind as to prevent her from moving too much against his ribs.

He hoped to hell he’d told her the truth about what their captors would do. Again there was that whole predictability factor at work. And while it made sense that they’d leave them to worry and wonder over their fate, wear them down, they’d already proved what stupid sons of bitches they were. He didn’t have a whole lot of faith in their intelligence.

He hadn’t fought them, which rankled. He’d meekly gone along, like some lamb to a slaughter, because he hadn’t wanted to risk anything happening to Sarah. If it had been him alone, he would have kicked some serious ass and enjoyed every minute of it. But Sarah was with him, and he’d die before allowing any harm to come to her.

His growing discomfort signaled a need to shift positions, but he didn’t want to wake Sarah. She’d finally settled into a more peaceful rhythm and he liked the sensation of her warm breath on his neck.

She’d kissed him the night before. The first time she’d initiated any intimacy between them. It was soft and so damn sweet he’d been able to forget the pain for that barest moment when her mouth had met his.

When he could stand the position no longer, he tried to edge to the side so he could turn more fully onto his back. She came awake instantly, her head shooting off his shoulder. She leaned over him, her hair falling onto his chest as she stared down at him, concern blazing in her eyes.

“Are you okay? Are you hurting?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you. I just need to turn onto my back for a while.”

Her hands ran lightly over his chest as she helped him roll the quarter turn onto his back. He felt an instant relief as some of the pressure on his ribs subsided. His breaths came easier and he took in several deep ones.

“Better?”

“Better,” he said. “Now come back here. I like you close to me.”

She settled into the crook of his arm and laid her head on his shoulder. Her hand ventured lightly over his chest and down toward his ribs. It was cool against the heat of his pain. A soothing balm; he closed his eyes at the sheer pleasure of her touch.

“Am I hurting you?” she asked.

“No, don’t stop. It feels damn good. I like you touching me.” He felt her smile against his shoulder.

Carefully she skimmed over his shirt, her touch so light it was almost not there. She rubbed a path to his belly and then back up again, taking care around his rib cage. Then she settled her palm against his chest, right over his heart as if reassuring herself that he was there and alive with her.

After a moment, she retraced her path downward again. He could stand it no longer. The damn shirt was in the way and he wanted to feel her hands on his bare skin like he wanted nothing else.

“Push up my shirt,” he said. “Touch me, not my shirt.”

He waited to see if she’d balk, but she lifted the end and slowly pushed upward until his shirt was bunched under his arms. Then she put her palm on his bare chest and he almost groaned from the sheer pleasure of it.

Such gentleness in the face of such violence and pain. So warm and sweet. He drank it up greedily, wanting to be soothed by her fingers.

When she ventured lower, down to the band of his pants, his body reacted. His dick surged to life and swelled, begging to be included in her tender ministrations.

Hell, the last thing he wanted was to frighten her or put her off.

“Watch your hand,” he said hoarsely. “I seem to have this problem around you.”

She chuckled softly and raised her head up again. “I wouldn’t have imagined, I mean not now. You have to be hurting so much.”

“I’m not dead,” he muttered. “And my dick isn’t particularly concerned with what the rest of my body’s feeling.”

To his further surprise, she leaned down and pressed her lips to his chest. She kissed him softly and then moved down an inch and kissed him again. All the while her palm smoothed over the skin of his belly awfully damn close to his waistband. The discomfort in his groin was fast overtaking the pain in his ribs.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered. “Tell me to stop if I do.”

Like that was ever going to happen. He could be missing a leg and he’d be damned if he called a halt to her sweet seduction. An angel in hell. That’s the only descriptor he could come up with. His sweet angel.

“I can guarantee that I’m not going to tell you to stop,” he groaned. “I only wish to hell I could make love to you. I want to touch you, damn it.”

Again her husky laughter washed over him like a healing wind.

She lovingly kissed and caressed every part of him that hurt. Every bruise. Every cut. Her soft mouth moved over his flesh as if she were absorbing the pain. She placed one hand on the other side of him and pushed herself up and over him until her hair fell down around his face. Then she lowered her lips tentatively to his.

The first brush tasted like ambrosia. Sweet. So damn sweet. Fire raced through his veins when the tip of her tongue rubbed shyly over his mouth. Her hand left the mattress and cupped his cheek. Her fingers stroked gently over his jaw, feathering up to his temple as she kissed around the cut at the corner of his mouth.

He’d give anything to be able to turn her over, hold her tight and slide between her legs. It certainly gave him incentive to get the fuck out of this hellhole, because when they did, he was going to do everything to her that he was currently fantasizing about.

She continued her gentle ministrations, touching, petting lightly and following her caresses with her lips. No part of his battered face and abdomen was left out of her sweet lovemaking. She soothed his aches and pushed away his pain, replacing it with warm pleasure.

Finally she lay her head on his chest and slid her hand over his belly in a light, comforting pattern. He raised his hand and thrust his fingers into her hair, enjoying something so simple as touching her.

He couldn’t think. He could only feel. Mellow and content, his woman lying on his chest snuggled into his body. He covered her hand with his other one and squeezed, unable to voice all that he felt. She squeezed back as if understanding his silence.

They rested there, their fingers laced together, and forgotten for the barest moment, was the hell that waited.