“Sutton Dahl.” The man in front of her lowered the gun and slipped off his mask.
She wanted nothing more than to put it back on and insist she’d never seen his face. That she couldn’t identify him. She looked down, so that she saw only a flash of reddish-brown hair. Then it struck her. He’d said her name. In a British accent with a slightly off pronunciation of her last name, but he said it.
For some reason that took some of the debilitating panic away. Her head popped back up. “How do you know who I am?”
“Sit on the bed.” The smooth British accent contrasted with the fury simmering in those dark brown eyes.
She fell back on the victim act. Let it cover her while she tried to work all this out in her head. “I can’t . . . I don’t . . .”
“If you think I won’t kill you because you’re a woman, you are absolutely mistaken.” He gestured toward the bed. “Now, move.”
She regretted unfolding the couch. Regretted a lot of things in that moment, including her decision not to find a gun once she got to Paris. Amazing how holding a weapon evened out the battlefield.
She studied her attacker, the one closer to her. The scruff over his chin and around his mouth. The broad shoulders and muscled chest peeking out from under the black protective vest. He struck her as rough and harsh and filled with fury.
This guy could hurt her and looked ten seconds away from trying.
Well, if he was going to kill her, he’d have to look into her eyes as he did it. “Who are you?”
“Not important.”
“Look, I don’t have anything. The entire apartment is two hundred square feet.” She held out a hand. “Search whatever you want.”
Maybe he could decipher that damn list for her while he was at it. If he looked at it or touched it, she’d have her answer about whether they worked for Bane. If the guy went for her wallet, he’d be surprised by how little was in it, but at least then she’d know the game and could try to devise a strategy to disarm them.
“You’ve been busy.” The second attacker took off his mask and rubbed a hand through his blondish-brown hair as he spoke. This one had the blue-eyed, All-American look with the accent to match.
Her gaze traveled between them. They loomed over her. There was nothing petite about her. She stood five-seven, not tall but not short either. Like most everything else about her she was average. Normal. Except for the part where she could shoot better than most men back in the PI office. A fact none of them liked to dwell on, so she talked about the skill a lot.
“Sutton.” The British one barked out her name.
She winced at the sound. “What?”
He holstered his gun but kept a hand close to it. “You’ve been investigating.”
The pieces came together in her head. Yeah, this definitely was about Bane and that stupid list. She’d never seen these two on her surveillance, because she would remember guys who looked like that walking into the office next to hers. But her investigation in Paris was limited to only one thing, and that brought them right back to Bane.
The Brit, clearly the one in charge, frowned at her. “Tell me about the information you’ve been searching.”
Her fingers dug into the blankets on the bed she’d made up only an hour before. She twisted fistfuls of material in her palms as she tried to think about the right thing to say. “What information?”
The Brit shook his head. “That’s not going to work.”
She wasn’t all that inclined to play a game of show-and-tell with only her doing the telling. “Who are you?”
“This is the last time I’m going to ask you, Sutton.” The Brit’s hand slipped to his weapon.
She watched those fingers, long and strong, curl around the handle. After the initial shock of the home invasion, her brain cells ran at full power now. “If you shoot me I can’t answer your questions.”
“I am not joking here, Sutton.”
The familiarity. The way her name rolled off his tongue. Her nerves stretched to snapping. “I got that from the gun and commando outfits.”
The American’s mouth twitched but he kept frowning. “Who gave you the intel?”
“No one.” The Brit took a step toward her and she held up her hands in surrender. “I’m doing some work on a file. That’s all.”
He nodded. “Be more specific.”
“I think I was pretty clear.”
“Try again.”
The details didn’t matter. Arguing semantics with guns waving nearby crossed over from scary to surreal. “Did Bane send you?”
“No.” Curt and to the point like everything else the Brit said.
But that answer didn’t really help her. “Then who—”
“Benton.”
Not the answer she expected. She’d showed her hand and they talked nonsense. “What is that?”
She glanced at the American but something about the Brit had her attention slipping back to him. He was dangerous, possibly a little twisted, certainly ticked off. Not a great combination. Still, she had trouble looking away.
“Benton is the person who knows the information you were searching. One of the only people who know,” he said with a bit less heat than before.
She’d clearly stepped in something she didn’t understand. Leave it to Bane to pull some con that had military or pseudo military running to find him. Either that or these two had the wrong place, but she didn’t really believe in coincidences. Clearly knew she’d been searching, but it sounded as if they wanted him, not her.
These two didn’t seem ready to spill any information or listen to reason, so she told a version of what she knew. Maybe it would get them talking. The point was these two knew she had the file, so she feared that meant Bane knew as well. “The information came from a file I got during an investigation. That file belongs to Ryan Bane, the owner of Clayton Pharmaceuticals.”
“Describe him.”
Smooth British accent or not, the way he issued orders made her head pound. “Why do you—”
“Sutton.” The Brit squatted down in front of her, bringing them face to face. “My patience has expired.”
“I missed the part where you had patience,” she said under her breath.
His eyebrow lifted as a deadly stillness fell over him. “Excuse me?”
The American reached into a pocket on his vest and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Is this him?”
She leaned in and studied the artist’s sketch. Not a photograph and not totally familiar. The facial features looked right but the scars were gone. That struck her as a pretty big descriptive thing to miss. “Sort of. Not really.”
The Brit exhaled. “Which is it?”
“He has scars from a fire and . . .” The men looked at each other and the American nodded. An interesting reaction and one she tucked away to analyze later. If she had a later. “What did I say?”
“Benton,” the American said as he walked over to her window. He hugged the side of the frame and shifted the curtain to look outside.
The comment didn’t make any more sense coming from the American than it had from the Brit. “I still don’t know what that means.”
“You’re working with an international terrorist.” The Brit stood up straight again. Didn’t back up or give her even an inch to breathe.
His stubbornness touched off hers until she skipped over most of his words. “I am not working with Bane.” She tried to stand up and almost rammed into him before falling down hard against the mattress again. “The guy is human waste, which is probably why you’re here. Either that or you work for him.”
“He’s a psychopathic fucker.” The Brit delivered the assessment without so much as raising his voice. Stated it as a fact.
She totally agreed but decided to keep that information to herself. She still had no idea what was happening. But terrorist? That comment floated back to her now. The only conclusion she had reached was that these two did not seem all that inclined to hurt her. They cared about the i
nformation in that file and this Benton guy, who might be Bane, which circled her right back to not knowing what the hell was happening. A frustrating sensation she didn’t love and rarely accepted in her work life.
She usually dug around and asked questions. Didn’t let things drop or questions go unanswered. A voice inside her head screamed at her to hold off on that for now. Not tick these guys off.
Maybe she’d had too much wine.
“Why is it so hot in here?” The American rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Did you play with the heat to throw us off?”
The ridiculousness of the moment hit her and she almost laughed. “I don’t even understand the question.”
“Sutton.” The Brit snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Focus.”
Before she could think it through, she knocked his hand away. “Don’t do that.”
He glared at her. “I can go back to threatening you.”
“It’s hard to listen to anything you have to say with a gun right there on your hip.”
“Fine.” He took his hand off the gun. “Happy?”
He had to be kidding. “Would you be in my position?”
The tightness around his mouth eased. “Fair enough.”
A new sensation hit her. Not fear. Not even frustration. With the fury gone from the Brit’s face and the edge easing out of his tone, she saw something else. A quiet desperation. He might have a gun and think nothing of shoving his way inside her apartment, but the energy bouncing off him didn’t shout killer. He talked tough but he needed her . . . for something. That gave her the edge. Let her take the time to watch him. To assess.
Two short beeps cut through the room. Then the Brit touched a finger to his ear.
In a night full of abnormal actions the move barely registered, but she did see it. She certainly heard the noise, like an alarm. “What was that?”
“Do not move.” The Brit issued the order as he took a step closer to his buddy. “Well?”
The American kept staring out the window. “Company.”
She was about to ask about that cryptic answer when the Brit pinned her with his gaze. “Where is this file now?”
“Why?”
He swore under his breath. “Let’s try this. How exactly did you get it?”
The intensity in his voice started a violent shake racing through her. She wanted to move back on the bed, make a run for the door . . . something. The knife she spied in his hand kept her frozen to the spot. She had no idea where it even came from.
His stress touched off hers. She swallowed back the new ball of anxiety crawling up her throat. “From Bane.”
The Brit’s eyes narrowed. “He gave it to you.”
“Not exactly.” Not at all.
“Damn it.” The Brit continued to swear, making up some inventive combinations.
For some reason seeing this guy veer out of control, even for a second, sent a whole new wave of fear crashing through her. “What is it?”
“You shouldn’t have it, should you? You took it.”
She wished he hadn’t worked that out so quickly. “Technically.”
“But he knows you grabbed it, and now he’s coming for it.”
“That’s a leap.” She feared the Brit got this right, too.
“Benton doesn’t leave vital information lying around. I don’t know if you’re working for him or investigating him, or just stumbled over the file. But you got it and he knows, which makes you a target.”
The comment pricked at her. If true, that meant all those worries that she’d messed up in that office proved right. “That’s possible, except for the working for him part. I’d never do that.”
“Right.” The clipped tone came back. “And now you’ve led him to us.”
In her mind, the exact opposite happened. Or some version that ended with gunfire at her door and her unarmed and unable to fight back as she’d been trained. “What are you talking about? I still don’t know who you even are.”
The Brit frowned at her. “Get up.”
That suddenly seemed like the worst idea in the world. She leaned back, trying to shift her weight and make it harder for either of them to snatch her off the bed. “No.”
“Sutton, you are expendable.”
“Time’s up.” The American made a weird hand signal. “We need to move.”
She had no idea what was going on but something had these two kicking into action. They went from questioning and walking around, while scanning every inch of her apartment, to mobilizing. She didn’t even know for what.
Before she could ask a question, a dot of red light bounced along the wall and landed on the Brit’s chest. “Move!”
“Get down,” he shouted over hers as he grabbed her arm and pulled her with him to the floor.
Her body hit the hardwood and a thumping pain started in her hip. Her head would have bounced but the Brit put his hand in her hair, guarding her, as he rolled her under him. A scream trapped in her throat as her window exploded into tiny pieces and rained down around her. Glass covered the floor and the Brit. She could feel his muscles tense as he wrapped his arms around her and shielded her from the bulk of the blast.
When the world stopped spinning and her breathing jumpstarted, she looked around the room. Her lamp had crashed to the floor and the American sat crouched under the windowsill. The man above her didn’t move. She clenched her fingers against his arms, digging her fingernails through a thin layer of material to hit flesh.
He lifted up and stared down at her. “Are you hurt?”
The way he frowned with those eyebrows all scrunched up almost had her brushing her fingers over his forehead to smooth the lines. Just before she touched him, she let her hand fall back to the floor. “Stunned.”
“That’s probably good since you’re lying on a bed of glass.”
She found his whisper oddly soothing. “It’s all over you.” She brushed a few of the bigger pieces off his shoulder.
The American cleared his throat. “I’m fine, by the way.”
Sutton ignored the joking. Ignored the weight anchoring her to the floor and the way the Brit watched her. He’d saved her from something. Now she wanted to know what.
“Can you explain what just happened?” She’d seen enough action movies to have an idea but she hoped she read the scene wrong. Last thing she needed was some random third party firing through her window.
“A warning.”
“Right. Got it.” The American touched his ear, then nodded, as if he were holding a silent conversation with someone she couldn’t see. “We have a second wave coming. We got the sniper who was sitting in the building across the street, but we have more storming up the stairs.”
“Of course.” The British accent came back full force as he turned to her. “You have a choice to make. Come with me and live or stay here and become a statistic.”
“I don’t know you.” But the heat and doubt had lessened. Not disappeared, but if someone was going to fire a gun at her or her apartment, she wanted to fire back. These two had weapons and she needed one. Right now that meant the Brit looked like the best option.
He nodded and jumped to his feet. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
The impressive response had her gaze traveling up and down his body. The guy could move. But that didn’t mean she was ready to go anywhere with him. “What’s the plan?”
The Brit glanced at the window. The window not attached to a balcony or fire escape.
Dread filled her. “You can’t be serious. We’re four floors off the ground.”
Just the thought of going out on a ledge had her heaving. She wasn’t wearing her contacts and scanned the room but couldn’t find her glasses. Then there was the issue of her very real fear of heights.
“Technically, we’ll be five since we need to keep going up.”
The man needed to work on his comforting skills. “That’s your argument?”
The American swore under his breath. “Smooth, dude.�
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“We’re going up to get out. My partner will handle this floor,” the Brit said, ignoring the chaos in the room and inside her.
“I’ll cover you.” The American took out a second gun as he peeked out of the corner of the window and into the dark night.
They acted as if this plan made sense. She started to wonder if all that diving from bullets and hitting the ground shook something loose in their heads. Rattled one too many brain cells or something.
She glared at both of them. “Come up with a better plan.”
“Ten seconds,” the American said without looking at her.
“One thing.” The Brit glanced at her feet. “I’d find shoes. Or a jumper.”
As if she had any idea what that meant. “Jumper?”
“Brit speak for sweater.” The American grinned as he added to the impromptu wardrobe discussion.
The Brit nodded. “And trousers.”
Trousers? “Or you could leave me here.”
“We’ll take care of your injuries later.”
She forgot about the glass and the cuts until right that second. Now she felt like one giant throbbing ache. “How about we do that now?”
He lifted her, putting her feet on top of his and off the debris scattered all over the floor. “See? There’s no need to panic.”
She had a big band of nerves zapping inside her. She’d rather face a gun than a certain fall to her death. “Too late.”
He treated her to a wide smile. “The good news is I’m not going to let anyone else kill you tonight.”
She knew better than to be lured in by the sudden show of chivalry and a sexy grin. “And the bad news?”
“I still might.”
5
GOOD THING he brought the harness. The thin rope held Himalayan climbers. Today it would have to hold him. Him and her, the “her” Josiah still believed might be a plant working for Benton. Someone with full awareness of Benton’s plans. And Josiah was about to hand over his only harness to her, swing out a window, and trust her not to cut the rope beneath him.
Facing Fire Page 4