Page 89 of Fiery Romance

I throw my door open and follow him. I half-expect him to scold me for not staying in the vehicle, but he leaves me to do what I want.

Two men, probably the leaders of the A-Team, separate from the line of private soldiers and approach Clay, who’s spreading out a map on the hood of his car.

One of the guys gives me a suspicious look. “Sir, is she a scientist related to this case?” The way he furrows his nose at my hair and makeup tells me he’d believe I was a stripper before he believed I was a scientist.

I open my mouth to defend myself.

“She’s with me,” Clay barks. His tone is cold and deadly, leaving no room for argument.

The rude guy clicks his heels together, tightens his shoulders and nods sharply. “Yes, sir.”

“Sir?” Another man approaches. He’s holding a walkie-talkie.

Clay takes it, his jaw tense. “Bolton.”

There’s a hissing noise from the walkie.

“This is Bolton,” he says again.

“Sir, this is Gomez.”

“Gomez, what’s happening inside?” He squints into the distance. “Any casualties on the roof?”

“No, sir. Your plan to shoot from the rooftop worked. We managed to hold them off and engage Total Lockout.”

“What about the gate operator?” Clay asks, his jaw tightening even more.

I wait on pins and needles as static booms.

Finally, Gomez answers, “He’s being held hostage, sir. It’s the cause of the cease fire.”

I suck in air between my teeth. My heart is about to burst and I feel frustrated and worried even though I don’t know this gate operator or any of the men guarding the warehouse.

Clay, on the other hand, looks serious but in control. “Don’t worry. We’ve got back up. We’re going to get everyone out safely.”

My eyes whip to his. How can he make that kind of promise when someone’s being held at gun point?

His eyes meet mine briefly and he gives an almost imperceptible nod of comfort before barking orders at the guards around us.

Everyone jumps into a truck and starts driving closer to the compound. I run to our car too, expecting Clay to get behind the wheel and follow them.

When he doesn’t, I stumble outside, slam the door closed and throw my hands up. “What are you doing? Let’s go.”

“We’re not going.”

“Why not?” My heart thuds and a sick feeling enters my stomach. “Is it because of me?”

The walkie shrieks to life.

“Sir, what’s your 20? The bandits are on the move!”

“The team is on the way. I’m keeping eyes from the hill.”

My heart hammers my ribs. “Clay!”

More static.

“Should we engage, sir?”

---