“Maybe we get lucky,” the Russian smirked. “Cats might have got them.”
“Not very fucking likely,” the American muttered. “Man’s too smart for that. I fought him in Africa. Bastard had some kind of affinity for big cats. It was spooky, I tell you. They obeyed him, danced to his tune like some fucked up Pied Piper.”
“Lars…?”
“Stay put.” One minute he was near her, the next, he flew through the air and drove the Brit and the Russian to the ground. The American pulled a large caliber revolver from a hidden holster. Tamara didn’t stop to think. She launched herself at his back and sank her teeth deep into the side of his neck, aiming for his carotid. Blood shot into the air before he hit the ground, and it just kept pumping. She batted his gun out of range and raked her claws down his head and neck for good measure. Flipping him over, she clawed out his eyes. If he couldn’t see, he wouldn’t be a threat, even if it took him a few minutes to die.
A gun went off. She spun, tail and whiskers twitching. The Russian lay in a spreading pool of blood, maybe dead. Didn’t matter since he wasn’t moving. Lars was all over the Brit who’d just fired point blank into his belly. Tamara shrieked a high, feral squeal and pounded her body into the Brit’s side. He went down with a whump and she clawed and bit until she was drenched in his blood.
As soon as she was sure he’d never get up again, she padded to Lars inert body, whining. She nosed him, licked him, and could have cried once she realized he was alive. “Heal yourself, beloved.”
“Get me into the car and drive us out of here.” His mind voice was shockingly weak. She reached for her human form and acted fast. Lars was bleeding. A puddle had formed beneath him. She drove the car right next to him, opened the back door, and tried to lift him, but his cat weighed well over two hundred pounds. After sweating and struggling, she finally had an idea and draped one of the sleeping bags so it hung half out the door. She closed the other end in the opposite door to stabilize it.
“You have to help me.” She buried her hands in his fur. “Goddammit, Lars. Sure and you can’t die on me. Use your claws. Dig into the fabric. If you can help even a little, I think I can boost you inside.”
Making a gurgling sound that made her blood run cold, Lars twisted and dug his claws deep into the sleeping bag. She got behind him and pushed. Between the two of them, his cat’s body slithered inside. She took a moment and wrapped her arms around him. “Hang on, dearest. I’ll be figuring something out.” He licked her face. She stroked his fur, murmured in Gaelic, unable to force herself to let go.
“We must leave. More will come behind them,” Lars said, voice so faint she barely heard him. Blood bubbled from his nostrils and her heart shattered. She slammed the back door and ran around to the driver’s side pulling a sweatshirt over her head as she went. No time to worry about her naked bottom half. As an afterthought, she remembered to open the other back door and move the sleeping bag so it wouldn’t flap against the car as they drove.
She’d never driven a left hand drive car, so it took her a moment to get her bearings. She tried to go slow so she wouldn’t jostle Lars and make things worse. Once they were back on the expressway, she tried calling for him both out loud and in her mind voice, but he didn’t answer. Frantic, she fished his cell phone out of the center console and pushed the redial button. Garen didn’t know her from Adam, but she bet he’d pull out all the stops to help Lars.
“Yes, Lars. What’s wrong?” a sleepy sounding voice said.
“Sure and ’tisn’t Lars. He’s hurt. I need help.”
“Whoa. Slow down.” His voice sharpened with a suspicious undertone. “Tell me your name.”
“Tamara MacBride. Let me activate FaceTime so you can see it’s me.” She wanted to cry, to shriek, but she couldn’t afford a meltdown. Tamara split her attention between the road and the phone, found the FaceTime button and initiated it.
“Got it,” he graveled. “You look like hell, Ms. MacBride. Report.”
She forced herself to speak distinctly, so her brogue wouldn’t run her words together. “Gunmen came after us. Lars took a bullet. I have him in the back of the car and I’m on the highway to Jackson, but he’s not talking to me. I’m scared he’s going to die. Help me. Tell me where to take him to get help.”
“Is he in cat form?”
“Aye.”
“Goddammit.”
“Talk to me.” She pounded the steering wheel. “Why is that bad?”
“Because if he was strong enough, he’d have shifted back. Only reason he’d stay in his cat form is if he’s badly wounded, but then you probably already knew that.”
“What is it?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Who was that?” Tamara asked, voice trembling.
“My wife Miranda.”
“Och. Lars was telling me of her—”
“Stop. No time for social niceties. Do you have a navigational system in the car?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me as closely as you can where you are.” She did, trying to keep her voice from shaking. She wanted to stop the car, wrap her body around Lars, and will him to live for her—for them.
“All right,” Garen said. “I’ve pinpointed your position on my computer. Drive another twenty-five miles. Pull off the road at Dubois. I’m heading for the heliport on my roof right now. I’ll have a bird in the air in five minutes and I’ll be to you soon. Not more than a couple of hours, three tops.”
Miranda said something in the background. Garen muttered, “Yeah, probably a better idea. Miranda thinks it would go faster if you keep driving and meet the chopper in Idaho Falls.”
“I can do that. I am less likely to draw attention if the car is moving.”
“Tamara. They’ve made you.”
Something cold slipped down her spine and she shivered. “What do you mean?”
“The bad guys know what you’re driving. If you were one of my agents, I’d tell you to swap cars, but you probably don’t know how to hot wire one. Just be careful. Lars always carries a gun. Can you shoot?”
She nodded, realized he couldn’t see her, and said, “Yes.”
“Is the gun where you can get to it?”
“No.”
“Okay, Tamara. Take a deep breath. Stop the car when you can. No rush. Take everything nice and easy. Clean all that blood off yourself and get the gun. Keep it loaded and ready. If anyone but a cop tries to stop you, shoot to kill—and then drive like hell.” She swallowed back nausea and clutched the steering wheel so hard it made her hands ache. “It’s pretty quiet on your end,” Garen said. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes. I’ll do it.”
“Shifters are tough. Keep the faith. See you soon.” The line went dead.
Tamara stared at the cell phone for a long while before she set it back in the console. She listened intently with her cat senses. Lars was still breathing. Thank all the bloody saints. If he died because of the mess he’d gotten roped into saving her, she didn’t think she’d ever be able to forgive herself. In a few kilometers, she pulled off onto the shoulder, retrieved the gun, and dipped icy water from a half-frozen stream to clean herself up, using a shirt from her suitcase as a washrag. Once she’d gotten the worst of the gore off her face and hands, she yanked on the rest of her clothes and shoes, and settled back behind the wheel.
After an incident where another car flashed its brights and honked loudly, she managed to keep her car in its proper lane. The transition to driving on the right wasn’t as automatic as she would have liked. Minutes ticked by; they turned into hours. The night had developed an eerily kaleidoscopic quality when something flashed at her. Low fuel light. Damn it. She glanced at the miniature map on her dashboard and punched a few buttons to find the nearest petrol station. It was thirty-two kilometers. She wondered if she’d make it and slowed the car to extend its range.