He stepped carefully into the living room and swung the weapon from left to right, scanning the space around him. Another doorway led to the kitchen. A deep, male voice carried faintly through the air.
Please, God, let me find her alive and unharmed.
He crossed the living room and his shoe hit something slick. He dropped his gaze to the cream-colored carpet. A small puddle of deep red stood out among the bright white. Droplets of blood and one large smear in the kitchen led to the back of the house.
All the strength left his legs. He caught his weight on the wall with his palm and drank in one deep breath after another. No, no, no. He was too late. There was too much fucking blood. He covered his mouth with his palm. Despair swallowed his heart and tears burned his eye sockets.
He’d failed her.
“Fuck!” He ground his fingertips into the wall. He drew his arm back to pop a hole through it.
Crack!
A bullet whizzed by his ear and splintered the drywall next to his thumb. He wheeled around. Eric stood in the doorway between the foyer and the living room. His legs were spaced, his shoulders firm with intent to kill. His gun hovered in front of his face.
Rhett leaped into the kitchen and took cover behind the wall. Another bullet blasted the drywall above his head. “You motherfucker.” He crouched, inched his shoulder to the edge of the doorway, and jerked his head around the corner. He locked his aim onto Eric’s form and fired.
“Fuck!”
Rhett returned to his position behind the wall. “Give up, Eric. You know I’m a better shot than you.” His former partner had clearly forgotten that they’d trained together the last two years. Rhett knew his weaknesses—Eric was a piss-poor shot at best. “Where’s Peyton?” His tongue fumbled the demand. The reminder that she was gone, that it was her body he wanted closure on, produced a crushing pressure on his heart.
“She’ll get what she deserves if she hasn’t already.”
Rhett’s muscles burned with the need for murder. He swiveled around the corner again and fired. This time, the bullet ripped through Eric’s side.
Eric caught the wound and went down in a blaze of slurs. Rhett charged across the living room and booted the gun from Eric’s hands. “Hands up!”
“You’re not going to kill me.” A shaky laugh fell from Eric’s pinched face. His gaze ran over Rhett’s body with contempt. “You’re too much of a goody-goody. You’d never kill an agent.”
Eric had lost his bloody mind if he thought for one second he wouldn’t blow his brains out. He didn’t have anyone to save now. Peyton was dead and he’d make every bastard suffer for what they’d done to her. He wouldn’t stop until he found her body and saw for himself. Even if he went to jail for it.
He took a step forward and brought the gun to Eric’s temple. “Try me.” Lucky for Eric, he wanted him alive. At least for a few minutes. “What’d you do to Peyton?”
“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even want to get involved in this shit, man.” The man sounded like a sullen teenager rather than someone who’d been caught in a murder scandal.
“Yet you’re here,” Rhett said, gesturing around. “Why?”
Eric wet his lips and looked at the palm that had been covering his wound. His face paled to an ashy gray. He lifted his head and met Rhett’s eyes. “He blackmailed me. He said if I didn’t get you off his ass, he’d turn me in.”
“Moretti?”
“Beanie.”
“What dirt does he have on you? And why does he want Jenny’s location?” He needed the answers to keep his composure, to stop himself from dropping to his knees with crippling grief. Peyton had died because of this bastard, because of the lies and the crime. The least he could do was be sure her assailants did their time, and Eric held an important perspective in the puzzle.
“Because Beanie was there! He killed Raquel. Not Andre. He wants Jenny dead before she remembers him.”
Rhett firmed his lips. “If he killed Raquel, why would Jenny accuse Andre?”
“They were high on cocaine. Andre hired the two women and Beanie came late to the party. He’s rough, bro. He broke her damn neck.”
“But what could Beanie blackmail you for, Eric?” For a second, Rhett softened toward him. If Eric didn’t get medical attention and fast, he wouldn’t last long.
Eric’s face melted, and he dropped the gun. His lip quivered, and he rubbed his hand over his jaw to stop the movement. “I set them up.”
“Who?” Rhett asked on a whisper.
“With Raquel. I knew her. She was my . . .”
Rhett’s eyebrows crept up his forehead. “You paid her for sex?”
He hung his head. “If he’d ratted me out, then I would have become a suspect in her murder. I didn’t have anything to do with it, I swear to god. We just fucked once in a while.”
Rhett heaved out a breath. Eric had been stupid to sleep with a prostitute while working for the bureau, stupider still to get involved with someone like Beanie. That was a road that would need further investigating, but for now, Eric wasn’t a threat. He jerked his head to the open front door.
“I didn’t even tell Beanie you were undercover. I swear, man, this just got out of control and I couldn’t reason with him.”
“What’d you do to Mandy?”
More regret creased Eric’s twisted face. “I hit her on the head. She’ll be okay.”
Rhett seethed. “If we can get you and her medical attention and you don’t harm anyone else, there’s still a way out for you. Understand?”
A tear crept out of Eric’s shriveled eyelid, and he nodded.
“Call for backup. And tell them you need two ambulances.”
Eric pulled out his phone but paused. “She’s downstairs, Rhett.”
Rhett jerked with surprise and tilted his head. “Who?”
“Peyton.”
The air rushed out of his lungs. “How do you know?”
“I just got off the phone with Len. Beanie’s with her. You’d better hurry.”
CHAPTER 23
Beanie motioned at Peyton’s clothes and continued undressing her with his gaze. Peyton closed her eyes against the assault of memories of that night on Moretti’s yacht: Beanie’s rough, unabashed hands, his hot breath on her ear, and his pants-covered cock pushing against her bare ass cheek.
Fresh tears of self-pity hit her eyelids, but she wouldn’t shed them. Sparks flared around her fingertips. The knife was close—two feet from her uninjured hand, on the table against the wall—positioned an equal distance between Beanie’s body and hers.
Her head pounded. Agony ripped apart her hand, and crippling fear rolled along her ligaments. He was stronger. He’d be faster. If he caught her, he’d do worse than cut her.
“I’m not waiting, princess.” His face turned hard. “Take off your clothes or I’ll rip them off.”
She sucked back a sob and lowered her injured hand to her side. Blood rushed into it, making it throb. She kept her focus on Beanie’s face and brought her good hand to the hem of her shirt. She had to distract him. Her movements would be slow and unsteady, worse so because she’d have to stab him with her left hand. She flexed the muscles in her palm as she worked her shirt up her stomach, practicing the mechanisms she’d need to attack. She’d have to move fast, hold the knife in her fist, and plunge downward.
Beanie settled deeper in the chair, leaned back, and rested his hands on his abdomen. His eyes became so dark they appeared almost black. They made her heart pound, and not in the way Rhett’s kind, loving eyes did. Rhett appreciated her body. Beanie wanted to possess her. To strip her of her power and dominate her.
She stopped at her bra. His gaze shot from her still hand to her face. She swung her hips from side to side and tucked her chin.
“Come on.” Irritation laced the command.
She lifted a shoulder. “I’ve never done this before. Can you close your eyes until my bra’s off?”
He started shaking his head but then st
opped and said, “You’ve got five seconds.” He sealed his eyes shut.
She took a breath to steel herself. She had to do this. Kill or be killed. Her only options. And the former was preferable. Lunging to the side, she caught the knife’s handle in her left hand. The blade scraped across the table. Beanie’s eyes sprang open and his gaze locked on the knife. A millisecond passed.
Now!
She dove for his chest, throwing all her weight behind the plunge. His eyes widened and fear glimmered in their depths. A vein bulged in his forehead and he caught her wrist, stopping the knife an inch before it connected with his chest.
“You fucking cunt,” he spat. He wriggled beneath her, but she kept her grip on the weapon.
She growled and bore down on him with all her strength. Her hand shook, and the tip of the knife scraped his shirt. The muscles in her arms screamed.
His pupils dilated and the skin around his face pursed into a scowl. If she didn’t finish this, he’d make her pay. Lifting her free, throbbing hand, she brought her palm to the bottom of the handle. Her hand sang in protest, but she slammed her body behind the blade.
Beanie howled, and a small pool of blood surrounded the knife—which hadn’t gone nearly deep enough.
He twisted, lifted his knee, and jabbed his foot into her abdomen. She flew backward and landed on her tailbone on the concrete. Her nerve endings twanged, sending a shockwave to her skull. A low buzz sounded in her ears and her focus waned. She reached for the knife but got nothing but a handful of air.
He had the weapon.
Beanie stood, and his shoes filled her line of vision. Panicking, she rolled onto her knees to push to a standing position, but her movements were sloppy and slow. He dug his hand into the back of her neck as if he were lifting a kitten by its scruff and hauled her to her feet. He shoved her against the wall and her face slammed into the cement.
“You’re going to pay for that.” He wrapped his hand in her hair and tilted her head back. His mouth touched her earlobe. All the heat left her body. “What do you think your boyfriend will think when he finds out that I fucked you to death?”
Epinephrine galloped through her body. She bucked backward, but the solid length of his body against her back didn’t budge. She pushed her hands into the unrelenting stone at her fingers and threw her weight to the side.
His laugh boomed in the small room. A small, pitiful pant left her lips. She caught sight of her twisted finger and her stomach lining turned to acid. There was no hope for her now. She’d keep fighting, stall as long as she could, but he’d win. She’d die in this damp room beneath the ground and her body would be fed to alligators like Max’s. Her tear ducts stung and the ache in her chest morphed into a deep, chasm of despair.
She’d wasted too many years, had felt too sorry for herself, and had held too much resentment to ever allow herself a full life.
Please, God, spare me and I’ll change. I’ll become what I’ve always dreamed and who I never thought I could be.
Beanie shifted. Metal gleamed near her face then tapped her on the cheek. “Don’t scream,” he whispered.
* * *
Rhett glided his feet swiftly and soundlessly down the stairs. The Glock was heavy in his palm as he followed the voice. The rage of Beanie’s threats reached his ears, and red flashed before his eyes. He located the room the sounds were coming from and stalked forward, his soft-soled shoes quiet on the concrete.
He’d kill him. He’d tear him to a million fucking pieces. His heart beat in triple time against his eardrums. He couldn’t hear a feminine voice. The hot, singeing taste of revenge hit his tongue.
Beanie’s back filled his vision first through the open door. His chest was pressed against the wall, and someone—Peyton—was bucking beneath him. Rhett lifted his gun and aimed. Suddenly, Beanie pulled back and screeched.
Rhett’s muscles stiffened, his finger not yet on the trigger. Beanie stumbled backward and Peyton wheeled around and swung her foot into his groin, sending him to the ground. Then she caught sight of Rhett in the doorway and stopped short. Her mouth fell open.
“Freeze!” Rhett aimed the mouth of the gun at Beanie’s head.
Beanie gripped his manhood and looked up at Rhett in disbelief. Blood trickled from where Peyton had bit his hand. Rhett closed the distance between Peyton and him. She hurled herself at his chest, and he caught her in his free arm.
God, she seemed so much smaller, so much more delicate than she had only hours before. The scents of blood and fear clung to her skin. He ran his hands over her bare back. Her breasts were covered by a lace bra. Fury consumed him momentarily, until he brought his gaze to her face. Dampness coated her cheeks. Relief swelled his chest, and he backed her up to the doorway. He had to get her to safety, had to get her out of harm’s way in case Beanie pulled a gun. But he couldn’t for the life of him tear his body from hers. One of her arms locked fiercely around his neck. Even if he wanted to dislodge her, it’d be a struggle. Her other arm hung awkwardly at her side, and instinct told him she was hurt.
“Police!” The announcement from the stairs softened the steel in Rhett’s veins. He loosened his grip on the gun and backed out of the room, still holding Peyton.
“He’s in here!” he called.
“Agent Callahan?” one of the three cops said, approaching. Rhett shifted his gun into his other hand, at Peyton’s back, and fished out his credentials.
The female cop glanced at them and then at Beanie, who was still folded on the ground. She waved Rhett upstairs. “Get her to a paramedic.”
He hugged Peyton, who was inhaling sharply. “Baby, are you okay?”
The shaky hiccup of a sob didn’t reassure him. He couldn’t look her over in the basement, but he could cover her. He peeled off his shirt and fit it over her head. She gingerly worked her injured arm through the hole. Catching her legs under his arm, he cradled her to his chest and ascended the stairs. More cops brushed passed him. He weaved through the house and out the front door. The glare of the high-hanging sun contrasted the dark war of emotions inside his chest.
What had the sonofabitch done to her? Getting her to one of the waiting ambulances was paramount, but selfishly, he needed to see for himself what state she was in. “Can you stand, honey?” He dipped his nose to her hair, inhaling the tropical smell of coconuts.
She nodded. He let her feet touch the ground but didn’t take his arms away from her. He set her back a few inches from his chest, where she seemed to want to burrow forever.
A bruise ate up half her cheek. The sight of the purplish hue sent a current of anger down the cords of his arms. Mascara darkened the skin around her eyes, and beneath the colorful bruises her skin was sickly pale. He ran his hands over her back to her shoulders then down her spine again. His gaze fell to the odd placement of her right hand, and his body hardened.
He circled her wrist gently with his fingers and lifted. Dried blood coated the outside of her wrist. Her good hand cradled the bad one near her pinky.
“What happened?” Rhett’s senses fizzled. If the bastard had cut off her finger he’d go fucking ape shit.
“It’s b-broken.”
His insides contracted. Pain etched the fine corners of her eyes and creases lined her forehead. He inched open her hand. She squeaked and jumped but didn’t pull away.
Her pinky finger twisted out to the side. The skin around the stiffly pointed bone held varying shades of blue and mauve.
“That motherfucker.”
Her tear-filled eyes locked on his shoulder. “You’re shot.”
He gave one shake of his head. “It’s nothing.”
“When I saw you fall into the water . . .”
He brushed a kiss over her forehead and swept his arm under her legs again and stalked to the waiting ambulance. He didn’t need to talk about that moment right now—all that mattered was getting her looked at.
“Rhett, it’s a broken finger. My legs are fine.”
He ignored her protest
. A female paramedic received them and positioned Peyton on a gurney. Bursts of agony ping-ponged in his shoulder and he dragged in one deep breath after another to ease it as one of the paramedics bustled around him with a medical kit. Now that Peyton was safe, the wound flamed hot and angry. As the paramedic worked, Rhett turned toward the house just as Beanie, in a set of cuffs, was lowered into the back of a squad car. His eyes met Rhett’s over the hood, dark and formidable.
Rhett ground his teeth together. Beanie would pay one way or another. Right now, all he wanted was to leap across the driveway and put his fist through Beanie’s skull. Fierce, burning protectiveness scorched his skin. He’d make sure every charge possible was laid on Beanie for what he’d done—for killing an innocent woman, for planning to kill Jenny, and for hurting what was his.
Peyton.
His heart contracted and he turned to see her talking to the paramedics. She was tough, but she was hurting. The beating in his chest grew loud and hard. Something had happened to him since Priss waltzed into his life, and now he’d never be the same. Not until he figured out what was between them or how to deal with it—but one thing was for sure, he needed her.
One big problem still remained. She was a sworn criminal, and going against his badge went against everything he stood for. They were floating in a clusterfuck because of the differences in their life paths. But he’d be damned if those differences would stand in the way of his having her.
If she wanted him.
CHAPTER 24
Peyton yawned and stretched her toes. Light streamed in through the break in the curtains and the scent of man and woods hit her nose. She peeked open an eye and stared at the thick, bristly length of Rhett’s neck. She smiled at his unkempt form. Even the hair on his head needed a good trim.
His brow line dipped but his eyes remained closed. “Why are you staring at me?”
Straight Shooter Page 19