Not Without Juliet

chapter TWELVE



Jules walked along the road trying to enjoy the lovely day and ignore the hitman who held her upper arm in his grip. She needed to enjoy the fresh air—the breath she shouldn’t still be breathing. Why hadn’t he killed her already?

The smell of pines and birch trees warming in the sunlight reminded her of Star Valley, Wyoming, where she’d grown up. She could just imagine the smell of campfires from the hunters, the sound of gun shots ringing out, echoing through the Grand Tetons that had been her backyard. She would have killed to have a shotgun in her hand at that moment. But all she had was her lucky stick.

Why hadn’t he taken it away?

If the hitter wasn’t all dressed up for a Scottish festival, it would be easy to believe they were just walking through some woods in the twenty-first century. But there was a different kind of quiet there. Was it just because it was Scotland? Or because it was Ancient Scotland? Or maybe it was quiet because everything was lush and heavy with moisture?

The road was uneven and had been cut deeply by flooding rain. The wild growth was so brilliantly green, it looked Photo-Shopped. It was like God was making up for the fact the country was so wet.

Sorry about all the rain. Here, I’ll tweak the landscape a little. It’s on Me.

The last minutes of her life could have been spent somewhere much worse, but the anticipation was killing her. She didn’t really want to remind him to kill her, but she wanted to know who she should thank for her Stay of Execution.

“Why am I still alive?” She turned and watched his face, hoping she’d be able to tell if he lied to her. She didn’t trust her own judgment much anymore. Not since Gabby had gone from father-figure to cold-hearted killer in a split second.

The hitter was more handsome than a killer should be, to her way of thinking at least. His hair was gorgeous and wild even though he’d tied it together at the back of his head. The loose copper ringlets were almost painful to look at when the sun hit them.

She tripped, but he caught her and helped her get her balance back. She expected his hands to be cold for some reason, but they were nice and warm.

Nice? Gah!

“Why are ye still alive? That’s a fine question,” he said, implying that she was a klutz and was lucky to have survived as long as she had.

"You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” He cocked a brow.

"Oh. I see. You’re going to pretend like you’re not a brutal son of a bitch who could snap my neck at the drop of a hat?”

He laughed. “Aye. I suppose I could at that. Though I’m only brutal when it’s called for.”

What was he trying to do? Get her to let her guard down? Get her to cooperate? Not a friggin’ chance.

"I know your kind. I know what you're like,” she said.

"Oh, do ye now?” He snorted.

"I do."

After the feds had taken her into custody, she’d begun to suspect the line between law and crime was as fine as that between love and hate, and some of the good guys weren’t on the side they thought they were on. In fact, Agent Dixon, on whose watch she’d escaped, had gotten pretty comfortable on that other side. He was willing to ignore all kinds of rules that were meant to keep her safe, especially if there was anything in it for him. He’d even teased her, said Gabby was probably pay a literal fortune to some agent willing to forget to lock a door and leave her long enough to get some take-out, like he’d done a dozen times already. But lucky for her, Gabby Skedros didn’t have the address. Yet.

She thought she’d been safe when she’d slept? She hadn’t been.

And the next time she and Dixon had been alone and the taunting resumed, she’d egged him on, told him just what she thought of him, gotten him all worked up. And when he’d lost control—grabbed her hair and even reached for his gun to prove how he held her life in his hands—she’d had all the excuse she needed to put a nice heavy pan to the side of his head. Then she’d used Dixon’s phone to send an email to the DA, promising she’d be back in time to testify. Then she’d slipped away.

She looked over at the hitter. Yeah, it hadn’t been just Gabby who’d taught her what a cold-blooded man was like.

The guy frowned. "Well, perhaps the Scottish version is no' so bad as the American."

She snorted. "Bullshit. A killer is a killer, even if he wears a badge."

If she could have mustered up some saliva, she’d have spit at him. She really needed some water.

His eyes narrowed. He hadn’t liked being called a killer.

Well, too bad.

"I'd been warned ye’d be a difficult handful. I believe they might have underestimated ye, lassie. Ye’ve a hard heart, to be sure."

"Hah! What do you know about hearts?"

She was on a roll. At least she’d be going out in a blaze of pithy glory.

“Ach, now, yer teeth are showin'. Why don't ye tuck in your claws and we'll have a nice wee stroll back to Castle Ross. Were ye aware how you'd gone in circles? Or did ye mean to do it? Did ye think ye could hie home to your witch’s tomb and leave me back here, in the past? Ye forget, I'm a local lad. It's a bit easier for me to swallow what's happened to us than it has been for ye. And I speak Scots too, only without the American accent, o' course. Ye never had a chance. Those lads reported yer every footstep.

“I must admit, I'm a mite impressed by you scarin' off the wolf as ye did. But now that we've had a chance to get to know each other a bit, I'm no' surprised in the least. No doubt you could scare the whole pack away with but the venom in your sweet voice.”

She was tempted to let him have it with her stick.

“If I didna have a job to do,” he added, “I'd leave ye be, here in the woods. But I wouldna be so cruel to animals, aye?”

She ignored his joke, too busy asking herself, Why didn't she let him have it with her stick?

He might not have considered it a weapon because she’d been using it as a walking stick. Or maybe it looked a little too brittle to cause any harm. If he hadn't been the one to see her chase the wolf away, maybe he didn't know she'd done so with her glorified toothpick.

She started thinking like a physicist again. Okay, so she’d only had one class, but still. It had worked with the wolf.

Weak stick. Big man. Weak spots.

They’d left the other men behind. Either McKiller was too cocky to think he needed help with her, or he couldn’t find anything in his pockets that might bribe them. So she only had to get away from one little man.

Okay, one big man.

The morning sun was up, lighting their wide, well-worn road. In the distance, a ridge had been stripped of trees. Stumps left behind looked like stubble on a giant jaw. It had to be the ridge that ran up behind Castle Ross. She was almost there! But then again, so was Gabby's man. A footrace to the hole would only continue what they'd started. Once they were back outside, she'd be racing up the hill to her car. He’d beat her to it since his car was probably still parked at the castle, or behind it.

As much as she wanted to go back, it would be futile. She’d be handed over to Gabby for the ultimate betrayal. And that wasn’t going to happen.

She dragged her foot over a rock and tripped, then stopped to adjust her shoe. McKiller let go of her arm, but stood with his hands ready to grab her. She rolled her eyes and walked on, but as she did, she began to limp.

“Ye're hurt?" He looked at her sideways, suspicious.

"Rock in my boot," she said. Then she stopped in the middle of the road and pretended to remove said rock. While she pulled the boot back on, he looked behind them for the hundredth time. "Better be careful,” she teased. “Some FBI agent might have followed us through time. Might be hiding in the bushes."

He snorted. "And that would frighten me, why?"

Her skinny piece of wood might not have had much mass, so thumping him on the head would have done nothing but break the stick. But if she added a bit of momentum and velocity to it...

She spun in a circle, holding her innocent stick away from her body, then pulling it in a little just before it smacked the cocky Scot across the nose. He’d ducked right into it. The stick broke, of course, but before it did, it gave the big man’s nose one hell of a whack. She was pretty sure it wasn’t just the stick that broke.

He cried out and stumbled back. His eyes were pinched tight. His hand reached for his gun at his back. It was too late to try to push him to the ground and wrestle him for it. She just had to run and hope there were some trees between them by the time he could see straight.

“Get back here, Bell! Ye’re a lot safer with me than ye are out there!”

Safe? With a killer? Hah!

Deep and deeper into birch trees she flew, her feet barely touching the ground. When the grasses gave way to rocks, she had no choice but to slow. She struck out east, hoping to avoid those men that had supposedly been tracking her every move before. McKiller kept hollering at her, but it didn’t sound like he’d even left the road yet. The first time she’d dared look back, he’d still been holding his nose and groping the air with his free hand.

"Juliet! I'll not go back without ye. Do ye hear? And ye're going to stick out like a sore thumb. I'll know exactly where to find ye. And this time, I'm going to truss ye up like a pig and hang ye from a pole! Do ye hear?"

"Thanks for the pointers," she said softly as she ran. First thing on the wish list would be a change of clothes.