“Yeah, well that’s two of us. At least I’m not hung up on some chick. Quit trying to avoid the subject by making this about me.”
“Find anything yet?” Sam asked mildly.
Garrett frowned and looked for a moment like he’d pretend he didn’t know what Sam was talking about. He slapped a burger on the grill, banging the spatula in the process. Then he glanced over at Donovan.
“Hey, don’t look at me,” Donovan said, holding up his hands. “You haven’t exactly been discreet about it.”
“I want to take the fucker down,” Garrett said.
Sam leaned back and braced his hands behind him on the railing. “Christ, Garrett. KGI can’t afford to go on some damn revenge mission.”
Garrett shrugged. “Who says it has to be about revenge? The world would be a better place without the piece of shit. He’s dirty. He’s a traitor.” He stared hard at Sam. “He cost me my team. While we sit here waiting for you to snap out of your funk, we could be doing something useful. Like nailing Lattimer’s sorry ass to the wall.”
There wasn’t a whole lot Sam could say to that. He understood Garrett’s rage. He’d be doing the same in Garrett’s shoes. But he sure as hell hoped his brothers would rein him in. Just like he was doing with Garrett.
“Garrett’s not the problem right now,” Donovan said pointedly. “You are. You need to pull your head out of your ass, and we need to go back to work, otherwise Garrett’s going to go rogue on us and start some goddamn war trying to find Lattimer.”
Sam blew out his breath and turned around to gaze out over the lake once more. His brothers were right. His head wasn’t in it, and that was a very bad thing for KGI. They’d built their business into an extensive list of military and government contacts. They did jobs for agencies that didn’t even exist.
The job to take out Mouton had come from their CIA contact, Resnick, and while KGI had thwarted one arms deal, Mouton himself had slipped through their fingers. Which meant he was still there, still viable, and he was busy rebuilding his network.
And at least for now, the U.S. government didn’t seem inclined to follow up.
Sam hated unfinished business. It went against his every principle to leave a predator out there who was capable of destroying so many lives. In theory it wasn’t personal. Mouton was just a job, but to Sam it had become personal the moment he failed to take the man down.
He was tempted to tell his CIA contact to fuck off and go back after Mouton, but it wasn’t worth getting on Uncle Sam’s bad side.
His lips twisted into a grimace. Maybe Donovan had the right idea. Maybe some sun, sex and vacation would get his mind back in the game. And off Sophie.
He had started to turn around to his brothers again when he caught sight of something that gave him pause. A large log was floating lazily down the lake. Water levels were way up in the spring as the TVA held water in so as not to burden the rain-swollen rivers and creeks that the lake fed. Recent storms and heavy rainfall had caused a debris field that had only just begun to diminish. But it was something on the end of the log that captured Sam’s attention.
“What the hell?” he muttered.
“What’s up, Sam?” Garrett asked.
But Sam didn’t answer him. He leaped over the edge of the deck and took off running down the dock toward the water. He heard his brothers’ surprised exclamations behind him, but he didn’t slow down.
When he reached the end of the dock, he dove cleanly into the water, wincing at the cold shock. He surfaced several yards away and swam hard toward the middle of the channel.
He grasped the middle of the log and maneuvered his way down. A woman’s limp body was draped across the end, her wet, bedraggled hair hiding her face completely.
He hesitated a moment, afraid to reach out and touch her, to feel the rigidity of death. Then he shook off the ridiculous fear and grasped her shoulder.
To his relief, her skin was soft and pliable, albeit cold, under his fingers.
“Jesus, what the fuck?”
Sam jerked around to see Garrett approaching with swift, sure strokes.
“Help me get her to shore,” Sam said as he pulled her from the log.
Her head lolled to the side, and he sheltered her face in his neck so she wouldn’t accidentally inhale any water. He put fingers to her neck to check for a pulse. Weak and thready, but it was there.
“Holy fuck, she’s been shot,” Garrett said as he closed in on her other side.
Sam glanced down to see her blood-smeared arm. “Let’s go,” he said grimly as he turned on his side and began doing a sidestroke back toward shore.
Garrett kept pace, holding as much of her body out of the water as he could. As they neared the shore, Donovan waded out and reached for the woman.
Sam waved him off and curled his arms underneath her, lifting her from the water as he stood in the shallow depths. It was ridiculous, but he was gripped by the necessity to see to her himself. He didn’t want anyone else touching her.
His nape prickled and the hairs stood up as he laid her on the ground. The first thing he noticed was the bruises around her slim neck. Someone had done their damndest to choke her.
The second thing he saw was the obvious bullet wound in her arm. Blood still seeped from the jagged crease.
The third thing? His gaze drifted down her body, and he froze as he met with the tiny swollen mound of her belly.
“Holy fuck,” he breathed. “She’s pregnant!”
“I’ll call an ambulance,” Garrett said.
The woman stirred at Garrett’s voice, and Sam reached up to wipe the hair from her eyes.
All the breath left his body as her eyelids fluttered open and their eyes met. He took stock—took full stock of her face—and the realization hit him like a sledgehammer.
God, he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He was leaning over her, staring down at her; his mind registered who she was, but it didn’t make sense to him.
“Sophie,” he rasped out.
Her eyes widened in recognition just as fear slammed hard into those big blue eyes of hers.
“Sam.”
It came out a hoarse whisper and dissolved into a cough. Once she started, she couldn’t stop, and her entire body convulsed as she coughed water from her lungs. Her moan of pain hit him hard in the chest and jolted him out of his fog.
And then the next wave of what-the-fuck hit him so hard he nearly lost his balance.
Sophie was pregnant.
He and Sophie had been together just five months ago.
She certainly didn’t look beyond five months pregnant.
In fact she looked exactly that far along.
She was hurt. Someone had shot her. Someone had tried to kill her.
She was pregnant.
“No,” she said fiercely.
“No what?”
“No ambulance. Promise me.”
She grabbed his arm with surprising strength. Her eyes were wild, and he doubted she had a clue where she was, who she was or the danger both she and her child were in.
“You need a hospital,” he soothed. Hell, he needed a hospital. Or a stiff drink. What the hell was she doing here? Where the hell had she been for the last five months?
Pregnant. Sweet Jesus, was the baby his? His tongue felt thick and swollen in his mouth. He couldn’t form the words, and he doubted she’d understand them anyway.
His hand automatically went to her arm, where the wound had started to bleed again. Her blood was warm against her cold skin, and he pressed as hard as he dared, not wanting to hurt her more.
She raised her head, and her eyes, glazed with pain, sparked with determination.
“No hospital. No police. Promise me. Promise me.”
The desperation in her voice got to him. An uneasy sensation crawled down his spine. His gut told him this was a clusterfuck beyond all clusterfucks.