Mine to Crave (Mine #4)(43)

The FBI Agent’s SUV was on its side. Glass littered the narrow street, and two armed men—wearing black ski masks—were pulling someone from the wreckage.

Jasmine.

She was fighting them. Kicking, twisting her body, but they were dragging her toward a gray van that waited just a few feet away.

He slammed on his brakes. Grabbed for his own weapon—good thing he’d brought it from the Masquerade—and rushed out of his car. “Let her go!”

One of the men turned at his shout. The guy lifted his weapon and took aim at Drake.

The other masked * heaved Jasmine back against him and nearly succeeded in tossing her into the van.

“Drake!” Her scream chilled him.

Drake dove to the ground, and the bullet missed him. But in the next instant he was firing, and Drake found his target. The jerk who’d shot at him grunted and staggered back.

Then Drake was moving again. Staying low and going in fast, he raced right toward Jasmine. Her hands had locked around the side of the van and she was kicking out at her captor.

The guy was so busy keeping her in check that he didn’t turn to face Drake, not until it was too late. Then Drake hit him hard and fast, and the guy’s head slammed into the side of the van.

“Drake,” now her voice was a stunned whisper.

He grabbed her and pulled her into his arms. She was shaking and there were scratches on her hands, but she seemed okay.

He locked his hand with hers and rushed back to his car. He pushed her into the passenger seat.

“Victor!” She grabbed for Drake, holding on tightly. “You have to make sure he’s okay. He-he wasn’t moving when they took me.”

She was worried about the FBI agent?

Giving a grim nod, he spun back around. The two jerks who’d tried to take Jasmine were retreating into their van. They thought they’d just get away? Oh, the hell, no.

He took a lunging step toward them, his weapon up.

“Help!”

That cry was coming from the wreckage. The agent?

“I’m stuck, and I smell gasoline—help me!” Yeah, that was definitely the agent.

And he was right. Drake could smell the acrid odor filling the air. Shit, shit.

He took aim at that van. Fired. Once, twice. The van careened when the bullets crashed into the back, but it kept going.

Drake rushed to the wrecked SUV. He heard the clatter of footsteps behind him. He spun— “I put you in the car!” So she’d be safe.

“And I got myself right out!” Jasmine tossed at him. She tried to shove by him.

He pushed her right back. “There’s gasoline leaking out. You need to stay back.” He quickly shoved his weapon in to the back waistband of his jeans.

Fear flashed across her face. “We have to get Victor out of there!”

In the distance, he heard the wail of a siren.

This street was deserted, but someone must have heard the shots and called the cops. The question was…would the cops get there in time?

Jasmine broke free of his hand and the woman ran right to the driver’s side. “I’m here, Victor!”

Part of the driver’s side window had shattered. Victor pushed his hand through the hole there and his fingers curled around Jasmine’s. “Dammit, baby, I was afraid they were going to take you, and there wasn’t anything I could do.”

Drake stiffened. That didn’t sound like an FBI agent talking to his charge.

Jasmine isn’t wearing handcuffs.

“But it’s too dangerous,” Victor snarled. “There’s gasoline pouring on the ground, and I can…I can smell smoke…”

Drake’s gaze shot to the rear of the SUV. The rear…and the front. Tendrils of smoke were escaping from both areas. The SUV had been littered by bullets and some of those bullets had hit with a very, very dangerous impact.

The driver’s side door had slammed into a lamp post, and it was a dented heap.

“My left leg is pinned,” Victor said, voice gruff. “Archer, I need you to break out the rest of the driver’s side windshield and see if you can help me get free.”

“Victor…” Jasmine’s voice was low. And scared.

Drake grabbed a chunk of metal that had fallen down—part of the SUV’s front bumper?—and headed toward the driver’s side. Jasmine stepped back when Drake slammed the metal into the glass. The rest of the windshield shattered easily as it rained down on Victor.

The smoke grew thicker. The wail of the siren seemed to be coming closer. But it wasn’t close enough.

From the corner of his eye, Drake thought he saw the flicker of flames. He ignored that flicker and crawled half-way into the car. The air bag was in his way, so Drake used the knife he normally kept in a sheath at his ankle, and he cut right through it.

“Hold on, Victor,” Jasmine whispered.

The agent’s leg was caught all right, the dash had thrust in around him, and the steering wheel sagged, keeping the guy trapped.

“Jasmine,” Victor’s voice was low and calm. The guy had blood dripping down his face, and Drake was pretty sure the man’s leg was broken, but the agent didn’t sound as if he were in any pain. “I want you to wait for me in Archer’s car, okay?”

“I’m not leaving you,” she said right back. “I’m not.”