“No. Extra magazine and handcuffs...but those were in my purse.”

“Still in the car?”

“Yes.”

“Any other weapons in there?”

“AR-15 in the trunk.”

Dash chewed his upper lip, considering his odds of making it to the car and back....

“No.” Margo shifted, winced. “Don’t even think it.”

Given her condition, he wanted her gun—but no way would he take it from her. The way she held it he knew it gave her comfort. His brother was the same. Logan had often said he felt naked without his sidearm.

A sudden barrage of gunshot blasted the metal bin and ricocheted off the brick building. Cursing, Dash dropped over Margo, doing his best to cover her with his chest and arms, protecting her head from the flying debris of brick and mortar. They were so close they shared breath.

When the bullets stopped flying, he sat back and looked her over, smoothed his hands over her face, her hair. No new injuries, thank God.

Moving away from his touch, she swallowed audibly. “I have vertigo.”

From her head wound. A strange combustible mix of rage and worry left him taut. Margo had ability and experience, so he’d happily take direction from her. “What can I do to help?”

With the wrist of her gun hand, she swiped blood from her face. Even that movement made her clench with agony. She bit her bottom lip, sucked in two slow shallow breaths. “I need to return fire but my coordination is blown.”

He brushed her hair back to eye her injury again. “Logan is on his way.”

“Until he gets here, we’re sitting ducks and they’re determined.”

Meaning if they didn’t fire back, the goons would press forward. “Why don’t I return fire?”

Face stiff, she held her breath, peeked around the bin and ducked back again. Slumping against him, she stated, “They want me dead.”

Like hell. Dash kept his voice calm with supreme effort. “That’s not happening.”

As if he hadn’t spoken she carried on an internal debate, gripping the Glock in her right hand while trembling uncontrollably. “I can’t steady my arm.”

“I can shoot,” Dash said again. He stripped off his coat and tucked it around her legs.

She wavered in indecision. “Are you any good?”

“Logan taught me.” And that said a lot. “I’m good enough to fend them off until he gets here.”

Out on the street, the low drone of voices carried on the turbulent night. The bastards thought they had them. They were making plans.

“It’s now or never, babe.”

Margo gave one small nod. “You’ll have to take it from me.”

Dash didn’t at first understand, but when she just sat there, bloodied and battered, her hand locked tight on the weapon, he realized what she meant. “Easy now.” He gently pried the heavy black weapon from her stiff, cold fingers.

“Don’t you dare hit an innocent bystander.”

Given the dark of the night, the lousy weather and the obvious firefight, there shouldn’t be any innocents hanging around. “It wouldn’t be my first plan.” Keeping the gun at the ready, he eased forward a little bit at a time...and spotted one man taking aim from the driver’s-side window of the van.

It took only that split second for him to mentally record the man’s face, his features.

Shots came their way, the noise unsettling. Dash felt Margo flinch, and rage calmed his frantic heartbeat.

He let out a slow breath, braced as he eased forward and squeezed off three rapid rounds before taking cover again.

Watching him with something like blurry admiration, Margo asked, “Hit anything?”

“The van.” Maybe. He was a decent shot, unless compared to Logan and Reese...and probably Margo.

Using only her right arm, with her left held at a strange angle, she scooted farther back to the brick wall to give him more space. “Keep shooting.” Dash saw her every shallow breath, and he felt her unwavering strength.

Damn, she needed medical care. But first things first.

Creeping forward again, he put two more shots into the van. This time he knew for certain that he’d hit a tire and the grille. Curses filled the air.

“Next one is through your window, ass**les!”

Unbelievably, Margo snickered.

Maybe realizing that their position out in the open—especially since their victims were willing to fight back—wasn’t the best place to be, the attackers gave up. The van accelerated, and even with one tire demolished, it managed to flee the scene.

Peeking out, Dash watched until they disappeared from sight. “Stay put.”

She made a small sound that he chose to take as affirmation.

Standing, he crept along the brick wall to the open street and glanced out again. Nothing but empty buildings and shining ice. The wind howled, reminding him that he was without a coat. He ignored the bitter cold because that was all he could do.

The taillights of the van disappeared into the night, and still Dash watched until the flop-flop-flop of the destroyed tire faded away to nothingness.

When he returned to Margo, he found her slouched against the wall, her eyes sinking shut. Her utter stillness scared him.

“Hey.”

She didn’t bother to look at him. Maybe she couldn’t. “Gone?”

Relief nearly took out his knees. “For now.” He hoped like hell they wouldn’t circle around and come back again, but he’d stay alert just in case.

It felt like an hour had passed, but it was probably less than five minutes. Surely backup would arrive soon.

He placed the Glock on the ground between them, lifted his thermal shirt and ripped away a section of his white undershirt.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s okay. I’ll only be a second.” He ducked out of the alley, cautiously approached the main street and found it still empty. All around him, ice sparkled beneath stars and moonlight. Like muted wind chimes, the continuing fall of sleet made a faint tinkling sound. The air was so cold, so crisp, that it hurt his lungs to breathe.

It would be a beautiful sight if goons weren’t trying to kill them.

As far as the van had gone, it’d take the shooters at least a few minutes to sneak back on foot, but he doubted they would. They had to know the police had been called.

Stepping through the deep snow, grateful that he’d worn his boots, Dash gathered packed snow and ice into the ripped cloth and tied it shut. After one last look around, he returned to Margo with his makeshift ice pack.

He went to his knees beside her, impressed by her fortitude, worried about her lethargy and exploding with protective instincts. “Keep your eyes closed.” With tender care, he brushed the chunks of gravel-like glass out of her short dark hair and off the shoulders of her black wool coat before pressing the ice to her head.

Pain drew her brows together, but she said not a word.

He held the pack in place and looked her over. “Are you hurt anywhere other than your head?”

With exaggerated effort she opened her eyes to look up at him. “Afraid so.”

His heartbeat jumped. Dreading her answer, he asked, “Where?”

A slow, deep breath expanded her chest. Her colorless lips parted for faster breaths until she almost panted. “It’s unfortunate, but my left elbow is dislocated.”

* * *

WHAT THE FUCK? Dash looked at how she held her left arm slightly out from her body in such an awkward way. His brows flattened. Her right hand—the hand that had gripped her gun so tightly—was bare, but she wore a leather glove on her left. “You’re sure?”

Her red eyes mocked him. “Quite sure.”

Anger ignited. “Why didn’t you say something?”

She again closed her eyes, almost like she couldn’t help herself. “What could you have done about it?”

No idea, but she still should have told him. “When I took you from your car—” God, he’d thrown her half over his shoulder then literally jogged with her in that position.

“It hurt like hell, but being shot would have been worse.” Pale with pain, Margo added, “You did great, Dash. Better than I’d expected.”

What had she thought? That he’d fall apart? Maybe hide behind her—the big, bad lieutenant?

More anger simmered to the surface, and that really pissed him off. He never got angry. He was the easygoing one, damn it, the one who enjoyed life and all its vagaries. He didn’t get riled, and why should he? He’d been blessed in too many ways to count.

He had parents who adored him and a brother that would make anyone proud.

Most would call him wealthy, but because the money didn’t mean that much to him, he preferred the term financially secure.

Inherited genes gave him height and strength, a fit body that he’d honed in his construction company—a body that appealed to women.

That brought him back around to his disgruntlement toward Margo...the one woman who rebuffed him at every opportunity. Now he knew she considered him a wimp.

In the face of more pressing problems, he decided to work that out with her later. He could hear her teeth chattering—when she didn’t have them clenched in pain—so he settled back against the wall beside her and carefully drew her to his side to both support her and share heat.

She sighed and sank closer, wedging into his shoulder. “Mmm, you are so warm.”

Her voice sounded drowsy, and that, too, bothered him. “I’m sorry, but you can’t go to sleep yet.” She surely had a concussion to go with her other injuries. God, he couldn’t believe this. He wrapped himself around her as much as he could. “The ambulance should be here soon.”

Even as he said it, they heard the distant whine of approaching sirens. He probably had only a minute more alone with her. Shaking out his coat, he tucked it around both their legs, trapping his warmth in with hers. “You’ll be able to rest soon.”

“I don’t need to be babied.”

“I know,” he soothed. He looked beneath the ice pack at her bruised but beautiful face. “I think the bleeding has stopped.”

Her lashes lifted, treating him to the sight of her dazed blue eyes. “You’re a mess, Dash. You have blood everywhere.” Her gaze moved over his neck, his chest. “From me?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

Why did she keep pushing him? “Don’t worry about it.” Ruined clothes were the least of his concerns.

Her slim brows pinched down. “You followed me.”

“Instinct,” he said without apology. “I know you’re a cop, and I know you can take care of yourself. But I’m a man and I couldn’t help seeing you as a woman alone leaving a bar late at night.”

“Sexist.”

“Guilty.” He tried a small smile to counter the possible insult. “Under the circumstances I hope you don’t mind too much.”