Long Road Home by Maya Banks
last time he’d spoken to her. Her fear, her terror. It ate at him. Had eaten at him for the last three years. He’d imagined the most awful scenarios, and he prayed that none of them were true.
When she finally shoved the plate away, she looked up at him, and he locked gazes with her. “You know it’s time for us to talk.”
She closed her eyes and nodded.
He reached over and took her hand. “Don’t be frightened, Jules. You don’t ever have to be afraid again.”
Still holding her hand, he helped her up and led her into the living room. “Sit down. I’ll build us a fire.”
He quickly stacked wood from the box over a few pieces of kindling then struck a match. In a few seconds, a steady flame licked up over the logs.
Returning to Jules, he settled beside her, his gaze sweeping over her face. She was so fragile-looking he feared touching her. She looked poised to break into a million tiny pieces, and he wondered not for the first time how hard he should press.
He pushed a strand of hair over her ear and let his palm rest against her cheek. “Talk to me, baby.”
Her eyes were enormous in her face. Fear, fatigue, apprehension. They all crowded to the front.
Wanting to put her at ease, he pulled her against him, feeling her heart beat frantically against his chest. He stroked her hair then moved his hand up and down her back in a soothing motion.
Her arms crept around him, and his chest tightened uncomfortably. How long he had waited for this moment. For her to be in his arms where she belonged.
Jules tentatively burrowed into his embrace, seeking comfort she’d long been denied. His broad chest cradled her cheek, and she nuzzled deeper into his muscled hardness. She didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to unleash her tightly held demons.
She’d held them close for so long, they clawed at her, seeking release. If she hated herself so much, how could everyone else not do the same?
His warm hand cupped her chin and slowly forced her to look up at him. “I can’t help myself,” he murmured as he lowered his lips to hers.
But the past was burning too brightly in her mind. All she saw were the shadows closing in around her. Frightening images. Suffocating memories.
Her breathing lurched and sped up. Panic. Groping hands. Self-loathing.
Manny jerked away from her, fire in his eyes. He was angry. She’d never seen him angrier. His entire body bristled, power shrouding him. He looked every inch the predator. Gone was her childhood protector, the object of her teenage crush. In his place was a dangerous man. One who looked as though he could take apart someone with his bare hands.
She shivered involuntarily, and his expression grew even blacker.
“Who hurt you, Jules?” he demanded, his voice dangerously low.
It took her a moment for her to realize that he wasn’t angry with her. He had picked up on her utter terror, and now he was a seething mass of muscle. She opened her mouth to speak, to reassure him in some way, but no words came out.
Her throat was fast closing in, and once again, harsh despair swelled inside her. Though she hated the person she’d become, she recognized that at least that person was strong.
He reached hesitantly for her, and she turned away, curling herself into an impenetrable ball. It was all crashing down. Her carefully constructed balance was rapidly deteriorating.
“Manny, I can’t breathe,” she gasped.
Manuel grabbed her shoulders and turned her back to him. “Look at me, Jules,” he ordered. He forced himself to be calm, though he boiled just beneath the surface.
Her eyes flitted up to him, dull, lifeless. He swore long and hard under his breath. This was his fault. He pushed her too hard, too fast. And he couldn’t keep his damn hands to himself. Finally being able to hold her, touch her, had overwhelmed him. He needed to be close to her. Reassure himself that she was really here.
“You’re safe. Nothing can hurt you anymore. Do you understand me? I won’t let anyone hurt you again. Ever.”
Regret flickered in eyes that had shone lifeless just seconds before. “It’s out of your hands, Manny.”
The sound of glass shattering startled them both. Instinctively, Manuel shoved Jules to the floor, shielding her with his body.
Gunshots sounded, the rat-a-tat peppering of bullets spraying through the windows and into the walls on the other side of the cabin.
“Let me up, damn it!”
“Stay down,” he barked, reaching for his gun.
She shoved hard at him and reached for her duffle bag, her fingers straining to capture the handles.
“For Christ’s sake, Jules. This isn’t the time!”
He returned fire, spacing his shots a few inches apart in the direction of the gunshots.
Jules kicked him in the gut, and one of his shots went wild. “What the hell are you doing?”
She managed to snag her bag and tear it open, the contents spilling onto the floor. She grabbed a mean-looking Russian assault rifle in one hand and a Glock in the other.
“Cover me.”
“What the… Get back here!”
She rolled across the floor, laying down a spray of fire.
“Son of a bitch.” He turned and began firing as well.
The front door burst open, and before he could react, Jules put a bullet straight through the intruder’s forehead. She had impressive aim.
She shoved the body over and removed the machine gun from the dead man’s grasp. She sent it sliding over the wood floor in Manuel’s direction, and he scooped it up, shoving his piece back in his waistband.
Suddenly, she raised her pistol and aimed it straight at his head. He jerked when she fired then heard a thud behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see another body sprawled on the floor. “Thanks,” he muttered.
He caught movement outside one of the shattered windows and immediately fired off a round. A shadowy figure fell. Three down now. How many more were there?
As if reading his mind, Jules called out from her perch by the door. “They usually travel in teams of six.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Trust me.”
Trust her. How the hell was he supposed to trust her when he didn’t have a friggin’ clue what her involvement was? All he knew was that since her reappearance, the people he considered his second parents had been blown to hell, he’d been drugged, and now he was being shot at. Not exactly the cornerstones of trust.
And then there was the fact that one minute she was an injured fawn and the next she was an avenging angel, hauling a freaking arsenal out of her gym bag.
He’d had enough of this shit. The gloves were off. If they made it out of this alive, she was going to do some serious explaining. And this time, his damn hormones weren’t going to get in the way.
“Follow me,” he ordered, gesturing at Jules. His tone brooked no argument, but he wasn’t entirely sure she would listen.
To his surprise, she scooted forward, her chest to the floor. “You have a plan, I take it?”
“Yeah. It’s called we’re getting the hell out of here.”
She made a rude noise. “No need to get snippy.”
“Save the lip, Jules. You’ve got a hell of a lot of explaining to do if we make it out of here alive.”
“If we make it out alive.”
He glared at her then crawled toward the back door. He didn’t harbor any hope that no one was staking out the exit, but he knew if they could get to the river they might have a chance. Might.
“When I start firing, I want you to dive out the door and keep on going,” he directed. “Get to the river. If I don’t show up in two minutes, get to the other side and use this.” He shoved his phone at her. “Just punch one. Tony will answer.”
She stared at him, her eyes determined. “You’ll show up or I’ll come back and haul your ass out of here.”
He kicked the back door open and began laying down a barrage of bullets.
Jules dove on
A bullet struck the soft powder beside her head, kicking up icy pellets. She shot in the direction she thought the bullet had come from and scrambled farther into the trees and toward the river.
Behind her, the gunfight continued, the short staccato of the machine gun followed by the longer barking of a high-powered rifle. Then the sound of Manny’s pistol. Shit. He’d run out of ammo in the Uzi.
She wasn’t about to leave him to the three remaining hit men. Jamming another magazine into her assault rifle, she scrambled back up the hill.
Manny was just inside the door, shooting into the woods to her left. She surveyed the terrain behind him, alarmed to see movement close to the porch. Too close. She raised her gun and squeezed off a round.
Manny jerked around then pinpointed her position with a menacing stare. “Damn it, Jules. Do you ever listen to anyone? Get the hell out of here.”
She ignored him, seeking out the remaining two. They were out there. She could feel them. The front was unguarded now that she and Manny had moved to the back. One could be inside even now.
“Get down!” she cried, thankful that Manny immediately dropped to the floor. Unable to get her rifle up in time, she reached for her Glock with her left hand, yanked it up and fired at the man behind Manny.
He fell forward, and Manny recovered his weapon.
“Okay, so I’m glad you didn’t go,” he grumbled.
He dove from the house, rolling in the snow toward her. To their left, the last assailant peppered the snow in front of Manny. Before she could shoot, Manny rose up on his elbows and shot one time. The fire halted immediately. Eerie silence filtered through the trees.
“Come on,” he said, picking himself up. He pulled her back inside, through the living room and toward the front door.
“Wait.” She pulled away from him and dropped to the floor. She hastily collected the items from her bag and shoved them back inside. She needed everything.
As she rose, Manny’s hand closed around her elbow like a vise grip. “We’re getting out of here.”
He ushered her outside and all but shoved her into the car. Before starting the engine, he punched a series of buttons on a small device secured to the dash.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Making sure it isn’t wired with explosives.”
“And you can tell that how?” she asked in disbelief.
“I’d love to stop and explain, but I’m more concerned about getting the hell out of here.”
She shrugged as he started the engine and threw it into reverse. They tore down the road as fast as the conditions allowed.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “FBI?”
“Not exactly,” he said, never taking his eyes off the road.
“What does not exactly mean?”
“It means I’m not FBI,” he ground out. “Look, can we save the question-and-answer period for later? Maybe when I’m not trying to save our asses?”
She slid down into her seat and stared out the window. Now that the adrenaline rush was gone, her body let her know just how much it didn’t appreciate her throwing herself around the cabin. She closed her eyes wearily and pondered the mystery of just who Manny was. Whoever he worked for, he had connections and he knew how to defend himself. Computer software analyst he was not.
If he was FBI or anything similar, she couldn’t afford for him to know who she was. Not that it would be safe for him to know under any circumstances. But for the first time, she allowed herself to dwell on what his profession meant for her.
She’d never imagined that he would be in law enforcement, though he certainly looked the part. Menacing. It was the only word to describe him when he was pissed off. He’d be a serious deterrent to anyone wanting to cross the line.
How could she possibly tell him, the enforcer, that she had broken every law he had sworn to uphold?
Chapter Nine
The miles spread out before them as they headed across the barren landscape of West Texas. The first faint shadows of dawn had begun to creep across the eastern horizon, painting the sky lavender.
Silence was thick between them, and Manny still gripped the steering wheel as tightly as he had when they had fled the cabin. He hadn’t once looked at her, his eyes fixed on the road ahead of him. He was angry. At her? She wasn’t sure, but he was no longer treating her with kid gloves. She greeted that fact with relief.
Hatred, anger she could take. She wasn’t used to softness. Gentleness. Caring. She had no idea how to respond to kindness. Maybe now she could stop being a watering pot every time he looked at her.
She sighed and closed her eyes. She had to get away from Manny before he died because of her. The men who had tried to kill them were from the NFR. Under Northstar’s direction, she was sure. No matter how much Manny thought he could protect her, he had no idea what he was up against.
In her duffle bag were passports, money, weapons. Everything she needed to get out of the country and draw attention away from Manny. Normally she would be patient, but she didn’t have time to wait until an opportunity presented itself. She would have to make her own.
“Whatever it is you’re thinking, I can assure you I won’t like it.”
She turned to look at him as his voice filled the car. “How do you know what I’m thinking?”
“It’s not that hard to figure out,” he said with a sideways glance at her. “You aren’t going anywhere without me, especially not with a bunch of machine gun-wielding maniacs on the loose.”
He relaxed his grip on the steering wheel and let out his breath. “Know who those jokers were?”
“I have an idea.”
“Care to enlighten me?”
She looked down at her hands. “They’re from an organization called the New French Revolution.”
“Christ. Nothing like having a bunch of terrorists wanting to kill you.”
“You know who they are?” she asked with a frown in his direction. “The NFR is a pretty low-key organization. They never publicly take credit for their hits like so many of the Middle Eastern terrorist cells.”
“I think the more important question is why you know who they are and why they want to kill you.”
“It’s complicated.” More complicated than he could possibly know. She wasn’t even sure she understood her role. Drifting between two worlds, neither good.
“So tell me, Jules, when is a good time? Maybe after I’ve taken a bullet in the ass?”
“You’re angry.”
“No, I’m pissed,” he corrected. “I tend to get that way when I’ve been shot at.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Are you shot at often?”
“Don’t change the subject. Why is the NFR after you?”
“They’re pissed off at me.”
“So am I, but I’m not trying to kill you.”
“But they’re really pissed.”
“And why are they pissed, Jules? Terrorist groups don’t usually single out an individual. They’re much more interested in large masses of people.”
“They aren’t technically terrorists,” she muttered.
He nearly veered off the road. Slowing drastically, he turned to her, his mouth agape. “Jules, why the hell are you defending a terrorist organization?”
“I’m not defending them,” she protested. And she wasn’t. Shit. She should have just kept her mouth shut and let him think what he wanted. “A terrorist and a revolutionary aren’t the same thing. A terrorist is, well, a terrorist. They operate on fear. No real or realistic agenda. A revolutionary acts to effect change. They have