Too Hard to Handle (Black Knights Inc. #8)(50)

She realized she was hyperventilating when bright spots danced in front of her eyes. But she couldn’t make herself calm down and breathe. So much to lose. So much to lose. There was no oxygen in the air. There was no—

Eeeeerrrrtttt! The van’s tires squealed like a dying animal as the vehicle rocked to a stop in front of the souvenir shop. Penni peeked around the pillar in time to see the cargo door slide open and Dan—beautiful, wonderful, alive Dan—beckon to her with an extended hand. “Now, Penni!” he commanded.

She hesitated as Chelsea reached through the driver’s side window to lay down covering fire. One bullet. That’s all it will take to—

“You can do it, babe.” Dan’s steady voice and glowing green eyes cut through the darkness. The combination was just the impetus she needed to stop crouching like a coward and get her ass moving. With a little cry that was an unintelligible prayer for mercy, she flung herself from behind the safety of the post and stumbled down the stairs straight into Dan’s waiting arms.

He caught her up against his chest, holding her tight even as he slammed the door shut and bellowed, “Step on it, Chels!”

Chelsea stomped on the gas and the van fishtailed out of the square to the squeal of approaching sirens, bullets slamming into the bumper, and Dan whispering into her ear, “Jesus Christ, Penni. You almost got yourself killed.”





Chapter Twelve


Dan knew Chelsea was driving like a bat out of hell down the streets of Cusco. He knew Winterfield was wailing and Zoelner was yelling at him to shut up or I’ll give you something to scream about! He knew Penni’s arms were around his neck as he braced them on the floor between the driver’s seat and the first row of rear bucket seats where Winterfield and Zoelner were sitting.

But it all felt very surreal, like it wasn’t happening in real time and he was stuck in a parallel universe. Some place that existed between the past and the present. When Penni had peeked around that post, ruby-red blood running down her face, his mind had been flash-fried back to another time, another place, and another woman he’d loved who’d been covered in blood and dead in his arms. He’d nearly lost it. His sanity, that is. He’d almost gone stark raving mad in an instant at the thought that he’d come so very close to losing another one.

“Dan?” Penni squeaked. “Ease up!”

And suddenly he was catapulted out of that weird in-between microcosm and back into the world of chaos and sound. Chelsea powered through gears like a bona fide NASCAR driver. The rubber on the van’s tires squealed against the cobblestone streets. Zoelner slapped a hand over Winterfield’s mouth, digging his weapon into the guy’s ribs. And Penni was a warm, living, breathing presence—thank you, sweet Jesus!—in his arms.

He realized two things when his gray matter stopped trying on a straitjacket. The first was that Penni was wiggling to escape his embrace because he was squeezing her to him with every ounce of his strength, and was probably close to crushing her spine to dust. The second was that, during his moment of insanity, he’d compared her to his wife, to a woman he’d loved more than life, to a woman he’d given his body, heart, and soul to.

“Dan!” she squealed again, squirming with growing fervor.

“Shit!” he said. “Sorry.”

Forcing himself to relax, he released her just as Chelsea took a corner on two wheels. Penni tumbled back into his embrace—which was fine by him; that’s where he wanted her anyway—just as an emergency vehicle buzzed by them. The kooky, foreign-sounding bee-doo-bee-doo-bee-doo of the siren pierced their eardrums at the same time red and blue lights flashed inside the van.

Dan held still, waiting to see if the authorities were after them or if the Cusco five-oh were simply on their way to the square where all hell had broken loose. When the sirens quickly echoed into the distance, he blew out a blustery sigh. They did not have time to mess around with the local policia, waiting for the U.S. government to intervene on their behalf before they would be allowed to spirit Winterfield back to the States. It would be far better, and so much less hassle, if they could simply blow this joint before anyone was the wiser.

So far, so good…

Cradling Penni in his lap, he lifted her chin and used the soft cotton cuff of his jacket to wipe some of the blood from her face. “Shit, Penni…” He choked on his heart because it seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his throat. “What happened? Did one graze you?”

“What?” She blinked up at him, her eyes big and luminous in the lights of the street lamps strobing by the windows at a dizzying rate.

Chelsea laid on the horn and yelled out the open window, calling some poor pedestrian a jackass. Then she turned and quickly looked at Penni. “She’s hit?” They were still wearing their mics, so every word was public fodder. “How bad is it?”

Dan ignored Chelsea and wiped more blood from Penni’s face, gritting his teeth. This beautiful, courageous woman had taken a bullet to… Wait. No. There was only a small cut under her right eye. Relief hit him so fast he felt dizzy. Or maybe that was because Chelsea squealed around another corner.

Once Penni didn’t have to hold on to him, the back of the driver’s seat, and anything else to keep from sliding around on the floor of the vehicle, she glanced down at his sleeve. Seeing the stain, she reached trembling fingers up to her cheek to investigate. To his complete surprise, she chuckled—chuckled—and shook her head.