by Nicole Snow
There’s barely a full second to do recon.
My eyes flick to everything that moves.
Felicity, backed against the wall, that little hell-doll holding a gun to her head with one hand, the other shielding herself with a bright-purple leather jacket pulled up over her head.
Four big men cowering under shelves full of gold bars and tall empty bottles on top, taking shelter from the falling window I destroyed.
Two more goons knocked out cold, unconscious, one with the shape of my bootprint practically imprinted on the back of his skull.
And what’s left of Gavin Coakley.
Dead.
A hole in his skull, his eyes vacant and staring up at nothing, coppery blood pooling on the floor around him in a slow stain.
I don’t even have the luxury of being shocked.
Just half a second to aim and fire.
I take my shot while Paisley’s looking away from Fliss, her gun hand pulled to the side so even if her finger reflexively slams on the trigger, she won’t hit anything.
I don’t aim to kill.
The bullet zings past her, though, cutting at the space between her and Felicity.
With a shriek, Fliss flattens herself against the wall. Paisley throws herself in the opposite direction, swearing a blue streak—just what I want.
Diving to my feet, I throw myself between them, my hands steady on the gun as I take aim.
Warm hands fall on my back, clutching, gripping mad fistfuls of my shirt.
“Alaska?” Felicity’s voice trembles—with fear, with relief, maybe with awe.
“Stay behind me,” I snap off, never taking my eyes off the brat as she recovers, retreating toward her little army of thugs.
She watches me with hooded eyes. She’s like a leopard, just as wary, just as vicious.
No fear written in her.
It’s the numb, experienced look of a woman who’s killed far too many and lived to enjoy her murder tally.
And now she’s got her gun trained straight on me.
Finally, a proper standoff.
Only, she’s got a hell of a lot more guns.
Guns she yells at, turning her head over her shoulder to hiss without ever taking her raging eyes off me. “Get up, you cowards! You afraid of a paper cut? Give this swinging dick his death wish!”
She’s got them cowed; that’s for sure.
All four men start to stand, creeping out from under the shelf.
Only for the entire room to go stiff at the sound of sirens wailing close to us.
I know that sound.
A fire truck.
Here comes the cavalry.
“Boss!” one of the big guys gasps, looking up at the torn skylight like he’s wondering if they can climb out through it somehow. “We...we gotta go. We gotta go, Miss Paisley. If the cops find us here with the dead guy...”
With nervous looks they corral her, herding her with their bodies, practically dragging her away. She looks like she’s ready to fight every last one of them to get at me and Felicity, but like hell I’m going to stop them if they want to turn tail and run.
I just want that gun away from Fliss.
Whatever comes after that, we’ll manage, as soon as she’s out of harm’s way.
“Move with me,” I whisper, angling myself to always make my body a shield between Felicity, Paisley, and her men as they go surging toward the door without even giving us a second glance, leaving their unconscious casualties behind.
I don’t lower my gun till the last of them is out—and I barely get a second to ask, “You okay?”
There’s the sound of another gunshot tearing through the café.
Glass breaking, something a hell of a lot bigger than a skylight.
“Retreat! Fuckers—is that a fire truck? Is that a goddamned AR-15? Who are they? Back, back—get the hell back! We need hostages!” Paisley shrieks.
“Mother fuck,” I snap.
Behind me, Felicity hisses.
“We have to—”
No time.
I barely have two seconds to back us into a defensive position against a side wall—I’m no one’s fucking hostage and neither is Fliss, not again—before the entire gaggle of cornered assholes comes pouring back in like hunted coyotes.
This time with a lot more guns drawn.
I can’t believe this sack of festering idiots didn’t go for the back door.
Not that it would help them much. If I weren’t facing down about half a dozen armed bags of self-propelled trash, I’d be grinning.
Knowing Holt and the other boys, they’ve split up to surround the entire building by now, plus every possible exit. The Heroes of Heart’s Edge haven’t just had their own recent baptisms by fire. They’re all former military men, the same as yours truly.
In other words, the last men you’d ever want to fuck with.
Looks like the Lockwood gang never got the memo.
I keep my stance—and keep my aim glued to Paisley, even as she backs into the opposite corner of the room with her men, all of them with their weapons trained on my body.
“Don’t try it,” I say softly. “We might be outgunned, but I promise you that if any one of you pull the trigger, my next shot goes straight between your eyes, Paisley. You might kill me, but you won’t live to celebrate.”
She curls her upper lip at me.
“Don’t underestimate how fast I can shoot, Goliath. I’ll mow you down, slit her throat, and be skipping out the back door before you breathe your last,” she hisses.
“And you’ll be skipping right to your grave,” I retort calmly. “This isn’t Mayberry. Every last one of those men out there is ex-military. I know how they work. They’re surrounding this place right now, and you’ll damned sure get a warm welcome no matter which door you pick. So, try me. Try me, brat, and see how it works out.”
Everyone’s got a tell.
Paisley’s is the narrowing of her jade-green eyes, the tensing whiteness of her knuckles as she takes aim.
And before the shot goes off, I’m already moving.
I crash into Felicity, shoving her down and rolling her to the other side of the open doorway as a bullet whizzes overhead and embeds in the wall—right where we’d been standing a second ago.
Another shot.
A punch to the back that makes my girl gasp.
I only have a second to flick my hand out, assuring her I’m not hurt even though I’ve taken a direct hit. Thank fuck I was able to throw on Kevlar.
“Go!” I hiss, pushing her toward the hall. “Run!”
“No!” she cries. “You have to—”
No time.
The subtle click of the trigger and I’m rolling again, keeping my body positioned like a shield, keeping Paisley focused on me and not on Fliss—and making absolutely sure she stays focused on me with a few strategic shots, just enough to keep them alert and ducking.
One of her guys goes down with a yip like a wounded hyena as I clip him in the shoulder, but she’s a slippery eel, ducking around her boys, using them as meat shields as she fires shot after wild shot at me.
Only her nervous haste keeps me from taking one right in the eye.
Shit.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been pinned down and outnumbered, stacked against impossible odds.
But most of my active shoot-outs were before the good life.
Before Eli.
Before Felicity.
Back then, I didn’t have anyone waiting for me to come home in one piece.
This time’s different.
This time, I have every last reason to fight with everything, to make sure Paisley fucking Lockwood finally pays for threatening the woman I love.
Every shot is strategic.
I fire to push them back, into a corner, even as I angle myself toward the door, inching toward Felicity in the hall.
So close.
Another few feet and I’ll be out of this cramped storeroom, and then I’ll slam t
he door and punch holes in it with as many bullets as I have left in this clip every fucking time any one of them tries it.
I never make those last few feet.
“Alaska! The rope!” Felicity screams at my back. “Pull the rope!”
Rope?
It only takes me a second to realize what she’s talking about.
There’s a cord dangling down to the left of the door, running up to the ceiling, then down, connected to the shelves with the gold bars.
The same shelves Paisley and her men crawled under for shelter, shoving thick bags of coffee beans in front of them until it’s like they’re bunkered down behind sandbags.
Clever.
Even as Paisley pops out to take another shot at me, I lunge for the cord. Grasp it in my free hand.
And yank.
There’s a mighty, creaking groan that makes me think of a wooden pirate ship splitting apart as the shelf drops down like it’s on hinges.
Everything comes crashing down.
It’s as loud as a whole china shop exploding simultaneously.
I’m airborne, leaping, throwing myself at Felicity and knocking her out of the doorway as glass blows into knives on impact, right behind the metallic thunder of the gold bars landing.
Those huge growler jugs throw glass daggers in all directions like spinning shrapnel.
I wrap my whole body around her, narrowly missing a long, deadly sliver that nearly embeds in my shoulder from behind before whizzing past and slicing my sleeve.
There’s an unholy screaming fit behind me.
A crunch of breaking bone.
The sound of a man sobbing.
Still, I hold Felicity tight, sheltering her with my body.
For a second, this eerie déjà vu sets in.
Whoever would’ve guessed that morning with the flying coffee mugs and a nasty gash to my leg would lead to this?
Only when the cacophony of crashing glass and metal ends do I risk looking into the silent mess.
There’s nothing but heaps of gold bars gleaming through the swirling dust.
And several twitching, red-streaked limbs just barely emerging from under them.
It’s fucking brutal—and brutally appropriate.
Nobody’s getting up and walking away from that.
I think I’m bleeding a little, but my adrenaline’s running too hot to feel where the cuts are, much less care.
Clutching Felicity against me, I squeeze her till it hurts, breathing her in, feeling her.
The beat of her heart rabbiting between us. Her shaky, shallow breaths. Her everlasting warmth.
The way she holds me so tight like she’ll break if I don’t keep holding her.
And the way she whispers, her voice choked with tears.
“Alaska, Alaska, Alaska...Paxton. You came.”
My name’s never sounded more reverent on her lips.
“’Course I did, Fliss.” I capture her face in my palms, lifting her tear-streaked eyes to mine. “I...fuck. I never had a choice. I could’ve lost you. I’m sorry. So sorry.”
She smiles fiercely, her fingers curling hard in the front of my shirt. “What are you apologizing for, polar bear?”
“I don’t even know. Mostly just thinking. If I hadn’t gotten my ass here in time, I might’ve never gotten the chance to tell you.” I stop, out of words.
To say I love you.
I want to say it so much it kills me. But they’re big words, so large and so strange when we’ve barely made it out with our lives, and we’re still surrounded by a bloody mess.
I fucking shudder as I draw Felicity up closer, trying to tell her what I can’t quite say just yet—with my lips, with my touch, with growling kisses that taste like hot tears.
She clings to me desperately, sweetly, rising up on her toes to meet me.
Gasping against my lips, she opens for me delicately as if she’s afraid of the same thing.
That everything we’d started building together was lost.
Until this moment, when we come together again in fire, and for just a few perfect breaths there’s nothing but the two of us.
One long kiss that feels more like a promise than a reunion.
A new beginning.
A graceful vow.
A clean slate, wiped from all the messes burning away behind us.
Christ, I want that. I want her.
I want every impossible thing I know we can have together in the coming days. Every chance for a future worth living.
I want her in my life.
In our life.
I just want her.
That want ripping out of me cuts short as Felicity goes stiff in my arms, staring over my shoulder.
The police? The guys? They had to make it in here sooner or later.
I’m not ready for her to pull back, but she jerks away, the strangest look crossing her face: stark terror and animal anger, something I’ve never seen in the time I’ve known her.
I barely get a second to process it before her mouth opens in a scream.
“Alaska!” She shoves me aside—rather, she tries—thrusting herself in the opposite direction.
Luckily, I’ve got the good sense to move where she wants me.
Just in the nick of time.
The instant I look down, I see her.
A bloodied, broken Paisley Lockwood, lunging at the spot where we’d been seconds ago, splattering herself against the wall with a shriek of rage.
One of her arms hangs loose, contorted, clearly broken.
She’s limping on a leg that just might be in two pieces inside her jeans, but that doesn’t stop her from whipping around and flinging her good arm out, pointing her gun straight at my face.
My heart skips half a beat.
I square my shoulders to charge her, ready to tackle her around the middle.
I never get the chance.
Because Fliss dives in from behind, coming in like a falcon, a familiar pearl-handled switchblade with KL engraved on the handle clutched in her hand.
Before I can do anything, she’s slashed the back of Paisley’s good leg, catching her behind the knee—and she must’ve cut deep, possibly severing the tendon.
Paisley drops like a puppet with her strings cut, breathlessly screaming, clutching at her leg, blood pooling around her and turning the floor to rusty crimson.
Breathing hard, face white as a sheet, Felicity looks down at her with a mixture of bitterness and grim satisfaction.
“You wanted this back,” she spits—then tosses the knife down next to Paisley’s writhing form.
Paisley shoots her a single venomous look.
Right before her eyes roll back in her head, and she slumps in a shattered heap on the floor.
Felicity’s eyes widen. “Oh, crap. Is...is she dead?”
I sink down into a crouch and press my fingers to the demon’s throat.
“Still got a pulse. Weak, but there. She probably passed out from blood loss or shock.” I lift my head, glancing toward the front of the café at the sound of fresh sirens, different from the boys and the fire truck. “Guessing that’s Langley. Late as usual, but just in time to keep her from bleeding out.”
“I have...mixed feelings about that,” Felicity says dryly. “But I have a feeling in the end I’ll feel a lot better about not killing someone, no matter what she’s done to me.”
“You’re not a killer.” I pull away from Paisley and pick up the pistol that flew out of her grip when she went down. Without hesitating, I jack the clip out in my palm. No need to take any chances. “You’re a lifesaver, Fliss,” I say.
She looks away from Paisley, smiling shyly and tugging at one of her sleeves.
“Now we’re even, I guess.”
“Even? Not quite,” I say, reaching for her hand. “Now we’re together, woman. Now we’ve got nothing standing in our way.”
Correction to my grand declaration: almost nothing standing in our way.
I wish like hell I’d had ti
me to finish that conversation with Felicity.
I want—no, need—to clear the air between us.
Regrettably, it wasn’t in the cards. Standing in the ruin of a lethal standoff does that.
Let’s just say we’ve been busy ever since Langley came bursting in behind all the baddest men in Heart’s Edge like a live action movie. And less than an hour later, the Missoula PD showed up with backup and a few ambulances for the human mess groaning in Felicity’s storage room.
Smart girl, hitting the panic button to summon the police, and having ’em show up after we cleaned house.
This whole thing was still reckless as hell.
Still, with the cops on the scene, we both ended up in interrogations while Langley tried to sort out what the hell to do with all that gold. His eyes were so wide and his face so flabbergasted, it would’ve been hilarious—if only we had the luxury of laughing at any of this.
He’d probably never seen anything so valuable in his life. Even his shock didn’t stop him from doing his job by the book—and judging by the snorting comments from Holt and the guys, he apparently did it better than anyone expected.
He was quick to separate me and Fliss. Got our individual accounts of what happened, then made us tell him again—together—checking every tiny detail for consistency.
Seems like it takes forever, Langley rattling off questions and taking so many notes I’m surprised his hand doesn’t fall off.
Then, with a sharp reminder not to go anywhere yet, he leaves us alone in the little break room that’s had to double as an interrogation room for the first time in the history of Heart’s Edge, despite its checkered past.
Guess we’re off the hook...for now.
We sit there in numb silence under the stark lights for a few minutes before speaking at the same time, “I’m so—”
We both stop and stare at each other.
A slow, sheepish smile creeps over her lovely lips. She looks at me in the most beguiling way from under her long lashes, blue-violet eyes glimmering and warm.
“Um, can I go first?”
“Be my guest.” I laugh. “As long as it’s not another apology. We both fucked up and we both made right.”
“No, Alaska—I need to apologize.” Her soft, slender hand slips into mine, lacing our fingers together as she looks at me earnestly. “I shouldn’t have tried to go all Lone Ranger.”