Striker rose to his feet and brought Margo up with him. “I doubt if anyone has gotten inside, but I’m not taking any chances. Evidently that first missile was to let us know he’s here. He’s probably giving us time to think about that for a minute or two. And that’s where he’s making his second mistake.” His first mistake was even thinking he could take Margo’s life.
Pressing against the wall with Margo, whom he tried keeping behind him, he eased them toward the second set of stairs that led to the cellar. He had checked out the wine cellar the first day and saw it was stocked with several bottles of water as well.
It was only when they reached the stairs that he moved her in front of him to protect her back. “Watch your step. It’s a long way down,” he told her, releasing her wrist, grateful for the emergency lights that shone near the floor to illuminate the way. “Lock the door behind you and stay put until I come back for you.”
She grabbed hold of his arm, frowning. “Why? Where are you going?”
“To take care of business, like I should have been doing all along. Now, please do as I told you.”
She stared at him, and it was as if she was seeing into his very soul. “Take care of yourself, Striker, and come back for me.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment and then he leaned down and kissed her forehead, thinking he would love her forever. “I will. But I don’t want to worry about you. The person I’ll be dealing with is a killer, and I need to concentrate. Stay focused.”
She nodded. “I understand, and I will do what you said. You just make sure you keep your word and come back.” She tilted her mouth for him to kiss her.
He lowered his mouth to hers. Kissing was the last thing they needed to be doing right now, but he figured it was the only thing he wanted to do before he left to make sure her life was never threatened again.
He loved kissing her, loved the way she would respond, contribute and share a part of herself with him. But, knowing he had to go, he broke off the kiss. Instead of saying anything else, she licked her lips, which was her way of letting him know how much she’d enjoyed his taste. She turned and quickly walked down the stairs to the cellar. He held his breath when she opened the door, went inside and closed the door behind her. He heard the lock click in place.
It was only then that he released the breath he’d been holding. Turning with his gun in his hand, he was determined to put an end to the assassin’s killing spree once and for all.
* * *
THE ASSASSIN TOOK a sip of his coffee as he leaned against a tree. Nice place, he thought, looking at the huge cabin. Too bad by the time it was over he would have destroyed most of it.
By now the police would have discovered Leonard Small’s body. What pissed him off more than anything was that Small had been expecting him. That was no fun. He liked having the element of surprise on his side. It was no fun when the person knew they were about to die.
He took another sip of coffee, smiling when he thought about how easy it had been to block any calls coming in or going out of the cabin, thanks to a device he’d acquired on the black market last year. He’d also been able to block the police notifications when the security alarm went off. So if they were waiting for the police to respond to the alarm, they were in for a rude awakening.
It was obvious the woman wasn’t at the cabin alone. A hysterical female on her own would have run out of the cabin hollering and screaming and giving him a chance to get a good shot on her.
He checked his watch, thinking he’d given the people inside the cabin a good twenty minutes to ponder what they needed to do. It was time to give them another scare. If they still refused to come out, then he would shoot a flaming ball inside the cabin. He would either burn them out or burn them up. Either way was fine with him.
* * *
ADRENALINE SEEPED OUT OF Striker’s every pore as he crawled out the bathroom window. It had been a tight squeeze and he’d scraped his upper arm on a piece of glass. That scratch, along with the night’s chill, was an unwelcome reminder that he was shirtless. But the last thing he’d wanted was for Margo to be naked. Hell. The fact that she was wearing his T-shirt without a stitch of clothing underneath was bad enough and sure to raise a few brows when they were rescued. And he wanted to believe they would be. Like Striker had told Margo, Stonewall would have figured they were in danger by now. In the meantime, he would show the crazy assassin that, when warranted, he could be just as crazy.
He was glad Margo hadn’t given him any grief about staying locked in the wine cellar until he returned. He’d seen a degree of trust in her eyes and he didn’t intend to let her down. Her life depended on it. And because she was the love of his life, his life depended on it as well.
He managed to land on his feet, and the moment they hit solid ground he crouched down and looked around. The property was shrouded in darkness. The only light was from the stars and the moon overhead. He had no idea where the assassin was, and he’d taken a big chance in coming out on this side of the house. But based on the trajectory of the missile, the bastard was somewhere stationed on the other side of the house.
Suddenly a bright light whizzed overhead within twenty feet of him. Another missile, this one through the living room window. Damn. As long as Margo stayed put, she was safe. For now. At least he now knew where the missile had been launched. Crouching down with his Beretta drawn, he headed in that direction.
* * *
MARGO PACED THE CELLAR that was stocked with bottles of wine. As a child, she’d loved hiding in her parents’ basement and recalled a number of fond memories she had of being there. That space was a lot bigger than this one, and every once in a while her parents would join her when she hosted a tea party.
Those had been great times for her and now were great memories. Her parents had wanted more than one child, but after a couple of miscarriages they had decided she would be their only one. They had showered her with all their love and she thought about them often—a lot more than usual lately. Probably because, as she grew older, she wondered if they would be proud of the woman she’d become or disappointed that she hadn’t followed in her father’s footsteps by becoming involved in more of the day-to-day operations at Connelly Enterprises.
She drew in a deep breath, knowing her parents would have loved her enough to allow her to make her own decisions as to how she wanted to live her life. Murdock Connelly had been less of a traditionalist than her uncle Frazier. But her uncle had never tried pressuring her to take her father’s place at the company. She smiled, thinking he was probably glad she hadn’t. She loved her uncle immensely but could see how their opinions would clash.
She stopped pacing and sat on a stool. If she got thirsty, there was plenty to drink with all the water and wine stored in here. She tightened her arms around her body as nervous shivers passed through her. She hoped Striker was okay. She wished there was something she could do to help but knew as well as he did that she would be a hindrance.
Striker hadn’t left her a weapon, and she knew why. She’d made it clear she wasn’t a fan of guns and would injure herself if left with one. Her greatest weapon was her belief that Striker would come back for her. That he would stay safe. But she couldn’t discount the lunatic he was going up against. She hoped and prayed that the man she loved would come out the victor.
She was about to stand up when the ceiling overhead began to shake as if it was about to collapse on top of her. She quickly reached out to grab hold of a table as several wine bottles went crashing to the floor.
Margo knew the assassin had fired another missile into the cabin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
DESPITE HIS DISCOMFORT, Striker darted between a number of low-hanging red oak trees, moving stealthily through the thickets. The temperature had dropped. Without a shirt he should have felt cold, but the anger radiating inside of him was keeping
him warm.
He paused when he reached the area where he suspected the assassin was hiding. He was anxious but forced himself to wait, listening for any sounds. Time passed and he didn’t hear anything.
The cut on his shoulder was hurting like hell, but he would deal with it. Right now there were more important issues he had to handle. A crackle of lightning lit the sky and he looked up and frowned. The last thing he needed was a downpour. Cold and rain weren’t a good combination. Striker was about to move when he heard a click at the same time he felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his head.
“Drop your weapon. Now!”
Striker did as he was told, dropping his Beretta while knowing he had backup with the knife in his boot.
“You fool. Did you not think I had all my bases covered?” a man’s hard voice taunted. “I knew the moment your feet hit the ground. Now I’m going to kill you and then I’ll find the woman and kill her too.”
Knowing this was his only opportunity and he had to take it, Striker, in a lifesaving move, quickly shifted his body, missing the bullet from the man’s gun by mere inches. Then, lifting his leg in a fast and firm kick, he knocked the gun from the man’s hand, sending it flying into the brush.
Unfortunately, the kick didn’t take the man down. Recovering from the blow, he lunged at Striker, his weight knocking Striker to the ground. The man went down with him and slammed a solid fist into Striker’s chin. Then another. Pain nearly blinded Striker, but he pushed back and, using his weight and height, was able to gain the upper hand. Striker landed a couple of sharp blows that jarred the assassin before he sent a hard punch to Striker’s abdomen.
Striker ignored the impact of the excruciating jolt to his gut and managed to get in a few more hard jabs that sent the man crumbling backward. Using that opportunity to his advantage, Striker landed on his feet in time to counter another punch and was able to knock the man back a foot or two with his own hard punch to the man’s gut. By the time the man regrouped and was charging toward him, Striker had pulled the knife from his boot and threw it to lodge deep in the man’s shoulder. When that didn’t slow the man down, Striker quickly dived where he’d dropped his Beretta and in seconds he swiveled around to fire a shot, hitting the man in the chest.
The bastard didn’t fall immediately. Instead a painful sneer showed on the bastard’s face. And with blood spurting from his mouth, he said, “I preset the flame thrower. You won’t be able to save her.”
The man fell to the ground at the same time a fiery missile was launched from twenty feet away. Its target was the cabin, and the moment it hit, the cabin was engulfed in flames.
“No!” Striker screamed at the top of his lungs and took off running toward it.
* * *
THE SCENT OF smoke alerted Margo that the cabin was on fire. She was suddenly filled with panic. Would her life come to an end the same way her parents’ had? Where was Striker? Was he okay? She was certain he wouldn’t want her to remain in a burning house. She raced up the stairs to the door and tried turning the knob only to discover it was jammed and wouldn’t turn. She was locked in the cellar of a burning house.
Margo quickly moved around checking every corner, trying to find something she could use to force open the door. All the while, the scent of smoke got heavier. The room had no windows—just walls—and she could feel both smoke and heat overtaking her.
She tried the door again and when it didn’t budge she moved away from it. Covering her face in her hands against the sting of the smoke, she had gone back down several stairs, intent on finding a corner of the room where she could feel safe, when suddenly she heard her name. She dropped her hands, wondering if she was hearing things. When she heard it again she knew the person calling her was Striker. She stood and raced back to the door.
“Unlock the door, Margo. I need to get you out of here,” he shouted from the other side.
Clearing her throat against the smoke that was choking her, she said, “I can’t, Striker. The doorknob is jammed.”
She heard his expletives. “Go back down the stairs, away from the door. I’m bringing it down.”
And he did. With a mighty force, he kicked down the door. “Come on!”
Margo raced up the stairs to him, and he gripped her hand. The moment he pulled her from the cellar, she saw the house was ablaze and fire was quickly spreading everywhere. How on earth had he made it inside the house to rescue her? There was no way they could get out alive. She was about to tell him that when he turned and swept her up into his arms.
“Keep your face buried in my chest, Margo.”
And then he was moving, but she didn’t know where to. Nor did she know how he was maneuvering around the fire since he’d told her to bury her face in his chest. But more than once she heard him curse and was jolted when he had to quickly change directions.
“Hold tight. I’m going to try to get us out through the living room.”
She was tempted to lift her head and ask him if he was crazy. She’d seen the fire escalating from room to room. But from the way he was moving, jolting her every which way, she knew he’d decided to risk it. Suddenly she heard male voices holler, “This way, Striker!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
STRIKER KNEW THEY were safe when he breathed in the chilly air. Ignoring the feel of the blanket being thrown over them, he continued to hold Margo as he nearly collapsed to the ground. But he still held her, refusing to let her go, even when someone told him to release her because they both needed medical attention.
Through stinging eyes, he looked up and saw the place was surrounded by both FBI agents and police officers. It had been Stonewall’s and Quasar’s voices that had helped lead him out of their fiery hell. Also standing within a few feet of them were Roland, Frazier Connelly, Detective Ingram and others he did not know.
“We got here in time to see you run inside the burning cabin. Don’t know how you did it without getting burned to a crisp,” Roland said, crouching down beside him.
“Man, you okay?” Stonewall asked, also squatting down in front of him. “Damn. What happened to your shoulder?”
“Yeah, man, you look like shit,” Quasar added.
Stonewall’s and Quasar’s observations had Margo scrambling around in his arms to stare at him. When she shifted, the blanket covering her shifted as well. Striker saw his T-shirt had risen up over her thighs, and he quickly pulled it down and tried to cover her with the blanket.
“Oh my God, Striker,” she said, staring at him and seeing the assassin’s handiwork from their fight. He probably looked like crap with his face bruised and all.
“I’m fine, Margo.”
As if ignoring him, she leaned in and kissed a bruise by his eyes. “I hope the other guy looks worse than you,” she said, as if her kisses would make the welts go away.
“He’s dead,” Quasar said. “Damn. It took both your knife and a bullet to bring him down. It’s a good thing you’re in great shape, Striker.”
At that moment, a throat was cleared and Striker glanced up into Frazier’s face. “You can release my niece now.”
Striker wondered if Frazier hadn’t noticed that Margo also had a tight grip on him. He looked at Margo when she placed a kiss at another bruise on his cheek and thought that even with smudges of soot on her face she looked so intrinsically sexy his entire body ached, which wasn’t good since it was in pain already.
There was no doubt in his mind that those standing nearest had figured out that his and Margo’s relationship was more than the bond between protector and client—something she evidently didn’t have a problem exposing by kissing his face. That was probably the reason Connelly was frowning.
“Margo, your uncle needs to see that you’re in one piece,” Striker decided to say.
She twisted around in his arms and smiled at he
r uncle. “I’m fine, Uncle Frazier.” And then, seeing Roland, she said, “And I’m fine, Uncle Roland.” The shocked look on Roland’s face was priceless, Striker thought. Margo, intentionally or not, had let out of the bag what had been a dark family secret for years.
“You need medical help,” Frazier said to his niece.
She shook her head. “Striker needs it more than I do.”
At that moment paramedics rushed forward, and Striker said, “We’ll both get checked out. How about that, Margo?”
“Okay.”
When Striker stood, she slid down his body and he quickly saw his T-shirt was rising up again. He practically wrapped her in the blanket.
“I’m fine, Striker. You’re the one who needs to be covered. You’re not wearing a shirt.”
He didn’t care about that, but he didn’t like the thought of anyone seeing her wearing just his T-shirt. He leaned in and whispered those very words.
A blush touched her cheeks and the only response she could give was “Oh. Okay.”
The moment the paramedics were finished looking them over—after adding drops to their eyes and making them breathe through some type of inhaler—the FBI and the police were there with questions. Striker allowed them to bandage the cut on his shoulder but refused stitches.
One of the paramedics had an extra jacket, which he let Striker use. That was a good thing since the temperature was steadily dropping. Law enforcement requested to take statements from Striker and Margo separately. Margo hesitated a second before being led away by a female FBI agent, Detective Ingram and some other woman.
* * *
“MS. CONNELLY, I’M SPECIAL AGENT Yvette Hines. To my right is Detective Joy Ingram and to my left is Dr. Randi Fuller.”
Margo glanced around at the women and shook hands with all three. For some reason, it was Dr. Fuller whom she found most intriguing. She’d thought the psychic would be someone a lot older—in her fifties at least. However, the woman standing before her couldn’t have been any older than she was. And Margo thought she was very attractive. In fact, all three women were, and she doubted the other two were even in their thirties.
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