Glitter and Gunfire. Cynthia Eden

wasn’t amateur hour. He wasn’t about to—

      “Look out!” Cassidy screamed.

      She didn’t try to run away.

      She grabbed him, twisting with him so that they both fell in a heap, crashing onto the cement even as a crack of thunder broke the waning night.

      Not thunder. He knew that sound too well—gunshot.

      He rolled them, positioning their bodies so that he was on top of her, shielding Cassidy. He heard her mutter, “You’re welcome, cowboy.”

      He lifted his gun. His gaze searched the area. The shot had come from the south, from the heavier shadows there. They had no good cover, and he had to get her out of there.

      From what he could tell, the shot hadn’t drawn any attention. They were away from the main party streets, so this area of town was pretty deserted. And the shooter—well, he was probably just waiting for Cale and Cassidy to move.

      They’d rolled behind an old sports car. One that they couldn’t hide behind forever. But some generous person had conveniently parked the car at the edge of the alley.

      Your mistake, buddy, but thanks.

      “Where’s your team?” Cassidy demanded in a low whisper. “You have a team, right? Shouldn’t they be here?”

      His team was still back at the ballroom, talking with the local authorities and trying to figure out just who those men had been.

      For the moment, he and Cassidy were on their own.

      Cale quickly considered his options. He could try to get her back upstairs into her room.

      And then have the shooter—shooters?—come up after us? Not the best idea.

      Or he could get her the hell out of there.

      Cale decided to go with option two. His left hand tightened on her. “When I say ‘move,’ you get into the sports car and you stay low.”

      She turned her head, meeting his gaze. “You’ve got keys on you?”

      Since it wasn’t his car, no, he didn’t. But that was just a minor point.

      One, two... “Move!” He yanked open the car door. Cassidy jumped inside, staying low, just as he’d told her.

      But the shooter saw their movements. He fired, and the glass exploded on the passenger’s side of the vehicle.

      Cassidy yelled and ducked even lower.

      Again—the yells weren’t the actions of a trained EOD agent. Civilians yelled. Screamed. Agents went to work.

      Cale jumped into the vehicle. He shoved his hands under the dashboard, found the wires he needed—cars had always been a specialty of his—and he had the engine cranking to life instantly.

      A good thing because more gunfire was exploding around them.

      He shoved the car into Drive and slammed the gas pedal down to the floorboard. They raced from the scene with bullets chasing after them.

      His right hand still held the gun, and his left kept a white-knuckled grip around the steering wheel.

      “Are you okay?” Cale demanded as they rounded the next corner. The shooter could be pursuing them, so he barely slowed. He was pretty sure the sports car lifted onto two wheels.

      She didn’t answer him.

      “Cassidy!”

      She was curled in on herself, crouching down on the floorboard. He could just see the top of her blond head.

      “I’m okay.” Soft. “I just got cut from some of the glass. No big deal.”

      He glanced in the rearview mirror. Saw only darkness behind them. But it wasn’t like their pursuers would come chasing with their bright lights on.

      He wasn’t using his lights, either. Because if you wanted to blend in with the darkness, you didn’t flash a beacon.

      “Are they following us?” Cassidy asked from her crouched position.

      Maybe.

      The car slid around another corner. He wasn’t getting on the main roads, the roads that would still be full of those celebrating Carnival. The party didn’t exactly stop just because it was after midnight. He needed to stay away from the party—and the cluster of people that would just slow him down.

      He knew this area. This wasn’t his first time to visit Rio. The EOD agents had a house not far from their current location. A few miles, a few more backstreets.

      Then they’d be safe.

      Or as safe as they could be. He needed more intel to figure out what was happening. Why is she a target?

      Cale didn’t like being the hunted. No, it was his job to be the hunter.

      And for others to be his prey.