Hands bracketed her head a second before a strap stretched across her forehead, securing her. She didn’t even have to look to see who had hold of her. The past hours had even her breaths synced up with Hugh Franco.
She grabbed his sleeve and squeezed hard so he couldn’t walk away. “Hugh, please, get Joshua… don’t give up on Joshua.”
“They’re on it.” His fingers slid from her hair. “I promise.”
“You. I want you to be the one. I know you’ve already done so much for me, but I trust you—”
His face creased with one of those half smiles that had carried her through hell. “I appreciate the vote of confidence. And all Superman claims aside, I’m a worn-out, exhausted piece of crap right now. You want someone fresh freeing the little guy. My buddy Cuervo’s already going in, and he will take the best care of him. Trust me on that.” He squeezed her shoulder. “No freaking on me now. I don’t want to have to knock you out with a Vulcan nerve pinch. Okay?”
Nodding, Amelia slumped back onto the stretcher. Finally, finally daring to let herself relax as they made a jostling journey through a tunnel in the rubble so lengthy she was overwhelmed by what Hugh had done for her.
And because of him, she was actually going to get out of here. Alive. In one piece. Granted, every piece of her ached from a combination of bruises, scrapes, and immobility. But she welcomed every twinge, stab, burn that let her know she was alive. Somehow, she’d survived. She had the chance to breathe regular air again.
The end of the tunnel waited ahead, glowing. A breeze gusted inside, dank but free of grit. Strapped to the stretcher, she slid free into her second chance, like a rebirth.
Blazing lights pierced her eyes. From the sun? She’d lost track of time. But no. It was night now, with halogen spots placed all around, illuminating… Hell.
The beautiful tourist town was gone. So much devastation. Hotels and brightly painted shops were either broken in half or covered in a film of gray grime.
Noises, no longer muffled, assaulted her ears. The growl of machinery. Engines straining in tractors, trucks, and cranes. Shouts. Barking dogs.
And moaning masses of injured humanity.
Her gaze scanned to… oh God, a tarp on the ground with sheet-draped bodies on top. The dead. Horror and bile filled her mouth. She winged a prayer for all those lost souls, all too aware of how easily her lifeless remains could have been there, unclaimed, unknown.
If not for Hugh Franco.
Her eyes tracked back to him as he towered over her. He held one side of the jostling gurney. He’d been through a horrific ordeal himself and yet he still had the energy to haul her out, waving aside a uniformed medic trying to take his place.
Hugh shrugged off the man’s hand on his shoulder. “I’m fine, Major. Surely there’s somebody in this godforsaken mess who needs you more.”
The major backed away, out of Amelia’s limited sight line. All the same, she wondered if Hugh was hiding an injury. Why hadn’t she thought to worry more about him belowground?
For the first time, she could really see him. Before now, he’d been a deep voice and shadowy savior under the hard hat. She tried to turn her head for a better view, but the strap held her secure.
Gravel crunched under Hugh’s boots, his broad-shouldered body looming. He was taller than two men jogging past. In fact, he was every bit as tall as she’d thought in their cavern. The outside world and circle of lights only accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, the hard lines of his face.
A harsh shout echoed in the distance a second before she heard—
Gunfire.
Staccato shots popped in the distance. Her heart echoed in horror. Her every muscle screamed run, run, run! But she couldn’t move.
The stretcher thumped to the ground. Hugh threw himself over her, covering her with the bulk she’d been learning only seconds earlier.
The hard wall of his chest shielded her. His body curved around her and she realized that even in the pandemonium, with bullets flying, he still thought to keep his weight off her in case she was injured.
She stared up at him, his piercing green eyes close to hers, as they’d been when he first found her. Her mouth dried up. She wanted to tell him she was okay, that she could take care of herself. He should look out for his own safety.
As a prosecutor, she stared down criminals on a regular basis in prison interrogation rooms, on the witness stand. She’d even been confronted once by a drug dealer out on bail who’d hoped to intimidate her. She’d thumbed her car alarm and kneed him in the balls—then almost passed out when a rat ran across the alley.
But hey, she’d taken care of herself then and she could do it now—if someone would free her hands. Yes, she was a wimp on the inside, but she could deal when she had to.
And she’d always had to.
Being protected felt… foreign, strangely frightening in how easily she gave over control and simply absorbed the feel of this toned man on top of her. Her pulse hammered in her ears. Her blood burned through her veins as her senses went into hyperdrive. The sliver of air between their gazes fizzed with awareness, danger, and some sort of world-stopping connection. Which was so ridiculous, given that they were both filthy, beyond disgusting, after being all but buried alive—and yet somehow that didn’t matter. And she could swear she saw a whisper of matching emotion in his eyes as well.
It had to be from what they’d experienced together. She knew that intellectually. Her body, however, clung to the feel of him.