BULLETPROOF HEART

BULLETPROOF HEART: SCARS AND SECRETS

BULLETPROOF HEART - CHAPTER 3: SCARS AND SECRETS

Darkness. Complete.

Marcus's hand was over Amara's mouth before she could breathe, his body pulling her flat against the wall beside the window, away from any line of sight.

"Don't move," he whispered against her hair.

Outside on the muddy road, headlights swept slowly past the guest house. Black SUV. Same one. Or another one just like it.

Amara's heart was hammering so loud she was sure the men outside could hear it. She could feel Marcus's heart too - against her back. Steady, controlled. How was he so calm?

The SUV crawled past. Didn't stop. The sound of its engine faded into the rain.

Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.

Marcus didn't let go.

"They're circling," he said quietly, finally releasing her. He moved to the window, peeking through a tiny crack in the curtain. "They lost us in the rain but they know we're in this area. We have till morning at most."

Amara sank onto the edge of the bed, her legs finally giving out. The adrenaline crash hit her.

"We can't stay here."

"We can't run in that storm with no plan. We stay till 4 AM. Then we move." He checked his gun, then pulled out his phone - no signal. He tossed it on the table. "You need to dry off. You'll get sick."

"You need to dry off too," she said.

He looked at her. Really looked at her for the first time since the room.

Her white dress was destroyed. Soaked, torn at the shoulder, mud up to her knees. Her hair was plastered to her face. She should have looked broken. She didn't. She looked furious. Alive.

Marcus grabbed his own tactical bag and pulled out a black t-shirt. Military issue. Dry.

"Here."

He tossed it to her. She caught it.

"Turn around," she said.

He smiled for the first time that night. A small, tired smile. "Rule 1, Amara."

"Marcus."

"Fine." He turned to face the wall, his hands behind his head. "Make it fast."

Behind him he heard the wet fabric hit the floor. He stared at the peeling paint like his life depended on it.

Amara slipped the big t-shirt over her head. It came down to mid-thigh, smelling like him - soap, gun oil, something clean and dangerous. Her own dress was in a wet pile.

"Okay."

He turned. She was swimming in his shirt, her bare legs showing, but somehow she looked more covered and more powerful than before.

Then he saw she was staring at him.

"What?"

"Your back," she whispered. "Your shirt is..."

He looked down. His own tactical shirt was soaked through and stuck to him, and across his left side, blood was seeping through.

Not a lot. A graze from the glass or a bullet. He hadn't felt it.

Amara was across the room before he could stop her.

"You're bleeding!"

"It's nothing."

"Let me see."

She pushed his shirt up before he could argue. And froze.

His back was a map of old wars. Three long scars across his ribs. A round, puckered burn near his shoulder. Tattoos covered some, but not all.

Amara's hand hovered, not touching.

"Kinshasa?"

"Afghanistan. Before that, Syria." His voice was flat. "I told you. I'm not a good man to fall for."

Her fingers finally, lightly, traced the edge of the biggest scar.

"I didn't ask if you were good," she said softly. "I asked if you were real."

Marcus's jaw clenched. No woman had ever touched his scars without flinching.

He caught her wrist gently. "Don't."

"Why?"

"Because if you keep looking at me like that, Rule 3 breaks."

"Good," she said.

For a second, the rain, the SUV, the briefcase - everything disappeared. It was just them, in a tiny room with one bed, breathing hard.

Then the briefcase clicked.

Both of them jumped.

The black metal case in the tactical bag - it had popped open on its own. Or someone had triggered it remotely.

Inside, it wasn't money. It wasn't documents.

It was a single hard drive. And taped to it, a photo.

Amara picked up the photo. Her face went white.

"It's not my ex," she whispered. "Oh God, Marcus. It's not my ex who wants this."

She turned the photo to him.

It was Marcus. Two years younger. In uniform. Shaking hands with her ex.

"Do you know him?" she asked, her voice shaking.

Marcus stared at the photo, his own blood dripping onto the floor.

"Yeah," he said, his voice ice. "He was my commander."

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*END OF CHAPTER 3*