No.
She wouldn’t accept it. Wouldn’t entertain the thought that she was already too late. That the men hunting him had gotten to him, first. That she’d let him down. Not when he’d taken all those hits in Prague to save her. While she didn’t doubt her assessment had been right — that he was headed for an early grave — she couldn’t deny that she’d been part of the problem. The reason he pushed the boundaries until they barely remained.
That he’d been a breath away from saying he loved her, too.
That got her motivated. Burned fire through her veins. She’d face any number the men — down every last one if she needed, but she was reclaiming her car — getting to Nick regardless of what the damn map said.
She waited for a lull, working through how she’d go vertical — take out a few front runners until enough shadows darkened the area she could push forward — when a pair of headlights sliced through the dusk, twin beams lighting a swath through the gray. A dark, heavy-duty pickup barreled down on the men, clipping the SUV’s rear bumper, spinning it into the far ditch with the screech of twisting metal.
The driver jumped the shoulder, landed on a narrow patch of grass and moss bordering the road, tires spinning before they found purchase, lurched the truck forward. A few rounds popped out of an open window as the vehicle side-stepped the logging truck, trading some paint and the passenger mirror with a lone pine, before it swerved to a halt several feet away from her.
Sloane dropped into a crouch, pistol up, sights trained on the door as she waited to see who, or what, got out.