Dying to Score Read Online Free PDF

of a jungle, he'd have walked away from the bet.   In his line of work, a 'good' end just wasn't in the cards.   The law of averages said he'd buy the farm in a confrontation exactly like this: pinned down by enemy fire, chance of rescue, nada.
    By the same token, if that same anyone had told him that his best chance for survival from said AK round came in the form of a hot, petite redhead who was built like a Vegas show girl, swore like a Force Recon Marine and flitted around like Tinkerbelle on speed, he'd have told them to go blow smoke up someone else's ass.
    Taking that bet one step further, if that same farseeing SOB had told him he'd not only fall in love with that sexy little fairy but marry her, he'd have asked them exactly what kind of ganja they were smokin'.
    Look at her, he thought with more pride than he'd ever thought he was capable of feeling.   Just freakin' look at her.   Laying on her belly, elbows planted in the dirt, sighting down the barrel of her AR-15 and holding off the baddest of the bad guys while bullets whizzed all around them.   She was a pint-sized warrior woman, fierce and fearless and ready to take on an entire battalion if she had to, to keep them both alive.   And she just might have to if help didn't arrive soon.
    "God, do you have … any idea how much … you turn me on … right now?" Blood loss made him slur his words but that didn't stop him. "If you weren't … already my wife, I swear … I'd propose.   At the very least … proposition you."
    "I said, shut up.   Save your strength, Reed, because if you die on me, so help me, I'll make you sorry you were ever born."
    "That's … my girl," he ground out around a grimace then cursed his useless right arm.   He pressed harder on the compress, gritted his teeth against the ripping pain and prayed to God the quick clot Tink had emptied over the wound would do its thing soon.   Best guess – he was well over a pint low.   He needed to plug the leak fast.   And more grim news – he couldn't feel his hand any more.
    This was bad.   This was so, freakin' bad.
    ∙ ∙ ∙
    Crystal Debrowski Reed – aka: Tinkerbelle, aka: Tink, aka: Babe – bit down on her lower lip, swiped a trickle of sweat off her forehead with the back of a grubby arm and slowly swept the jungle through her rifle scope.   Several silent minutes had passed since they'd last taken fire.   No muzzle flashes.   No bang bangs.   All was quiet – for the moment.   But the bad guys were still out there.   No question about that.
    She glanced over her shoulder at her husband where he lay on his back in the damp, decaying leaves and feted jungle heat.   His eyes were closed.   His mouth was clamped tight with pain.   The pasty pallor of his skin scared her to death.   She needed Doc to work his magic and fix Johnny up.   But Doc and Gabe were out of radio contact, only God knew where.   So it was up to her to keep him alive and keep Reyes's thugs at bay until they could hook up and get the heck out of here.
    "Did I … mention," her husband asked with that crooked, arrogant, and totally smart-ass grin she'd fallen in love with, "that you …. are sooo turning me on right now?"
    "Yeah, you mentioned it," she grumbled and kept her head on a swivel, checking 360 degrees around them at all times.   "Which just goes to show how much blood you've lost."
    Looking like she did, she couldn't 'turn on' a light bulb let alone compel a second glance from this tall, blond and gorgeous elite operative who just happened to be her husband and who had better not, by God, die on her.
    Her hair looked like it had been groomed by an orangutan.   Hell, it looked like orangutan hair – orange/red, short and spiky – and not in a glitz and glamour way that had originally turned the head of this sweet talking Texan.   Her face and arms were covered with camo paint, bug bites and blood.   Johnny's blood.
    Oh, God .   Her stomach sank as she thought of just how much blood