by LENA DIAZ,
He killed Sebastian, Amber, maybe even Hawke by now, whether by his own hand or by giving orders to someone else. Remember that.
She dove across him for the gun that had fallen out of his hand. Just as she was about to grab the pistol, one of his hands clamped around her ankle.
“Oh no you don’t.” The gravelly words seemed torn from his throat, air wheezing between his clenched teeth.
She aimed a kick at his face. He jerked to the side, grabbed her other ankle and yanked her toward him. She slid across the polished wooden floor and he rolled on top of her—pinning her, just like he had in the woods. Her attempt to knee his vulnerable thigh again was met with a twist of his hips. Then he was pressing her down, crushing her into submission, both of her hands locked in his above her head. She glared up at him, making no attempt to hide her contempt.
“You’re a vicious little thing,” he accused. “Someone needs to teach you some manners.”
She arched a mocking brow. “And I suppose that someone is you? Don’t flatter yourself. You may have won the battle, but, yadda, yadda, yadda. I’m not defeated quite yet.”
The steel bands of his fingers around her wrists tightened even more. Good grief, he was strong. Her hands were going numb. And he’d learned from his previous mistakes, positioning his body so that she couldn’t knee his bad leg yet again.
“This ends here.” His voice carried the sharp bite of authority. “This ends tonight.”
Her hands jerked at the unexpected feel of cold steel circling her right wrist. Handcuffs. Panic surged through her. Trying to buck and twist beneath him, she desperately attempted to get free. But with him pressing her body down so tightly against the floor, her attempts seemed puny at best.
Click. The first cuff locked around her wrist. With ridiculous ease, he jerked her other hand close to the first and just like that, both wrists were cuffed together. But he’d moved a fraction sideways to do it, giving her the opening she needed.
She twisted violently and brought her hands up, swinging her clasped fists toward the side of his head.
He jerked back with surprising speed and she missed him completely. But he’d moved to avoid being hit. She took full advantage of the unexpected opening and rolled away from him. Bracing her cuffed hands on the floor, she lunged to her feet and sprinted for the archway.
“Bailey, damn it, stop!”
His command startled her and she fell against the side of the archway, hands scrabbling for purchase against the wall. Some kind of slick paper came off in her hands. Realizing what it was, she shoved it into her front pocket as she rushed through the opening into the other room. The Ghost’s limping gait thumped behind her on the wood floor.
“Bailey!”
He was close, too close. She put on a frantic burst of speed, whirling around the couch, swinging her closed fists against the bookshelf. Knickknacks went flying behind her. Renewed cursing told her at least one of the projectiles had hit her intended target.
She didn’t even slow down for the French doors, using her momentum to slam one of them open with her shoulder. It banged against the side of the house, glass exploding and pinging down onto the concrete porch like a bowlful of marbles spilling onto the floor. The force of the impact pulled her up short and she staggered for balance even as a blast of rain pummeled her and soaked her all over again.
“Don’t move.”
A man in black wearing a déjà-vu-inducing FBI flak jacket stood twenty feet away, pointing a pistol at her—one of the same men that she’d seen in her bedroom earlier tonight. She froze, then gasped in shock at the red laser light dancing across her chest, the unmistakable signature of a rifle aimed at her by some hidden sniper.
Wham! The Ghost tackled her from behind, throwing her to the ground a split second before a muffled cracking sound echoed through the yard. A gunshot. He rolled with her and immediately shoved to his feet, then cursed as his bad leg folded beneath him. He dropped to his knees, valiantly crouching in front of her, blocking anyone from getting a clear shot.
“Lower your weapons,” he shouted, holding up his hands to signal both the man in front of him and the hidden sniper. “She’s unarmed.”
Bailey pulled her arms in against her chest behind him, trying to make herself less of a target. The Ghost had surprised her, yet again. And she could tell that he was in terrible pain. He was barely able to crouch on his knees, and yet he did. Sacrificing his own body to keep her safe, even though she was the one who’d hurt him. Twice. Why would he do that? It made no sense.
She glanced back at the house, looking for an escape route, and saw an impressive bullet hole from the sniper’s rifle in the wood trim by the back doors—right where she’d been standing moments before. If the Ghost hadn’t tackled her, she’d be seriously injured, or dead right now.
“Bailey,” a man’s almost imperceptible whisper sounded behind her. From inside the house.
“I’m an Equalizer. I work with Buchanan,” the whisper continued. “Back up.”
She stiffened in shock. Buchanan. He had to mean Devlin Buchanan, the leader of the Equalizers. Had Buchanan sent this man to help her?
Damn it, Hawke. I told you not to call them.
On the heel of that thought was the sickening fear that Hawke might have risked his own safety to make a desperate plea for hers. Had his call to Buchanan been his last action before being caught by the team that was closing in on him? Or had he managed to escape but for some reason couldn’t contact her to let her know he was safe?
“Bailey,” the voice whispered again. “Trust me, if you want to live, you need to get your ass inside the house. Now.”
He was right about one thing—the odds of her getting out of this on her own, alive, were hovering around the “I wouldn’t bet my life’s savings on it” territory. But trust him? Someone working for Buchanan? A man who’d once been known as “The Enforcer” because he was in charge of killing other Enforcers if he deemed they’d gone rogue? How was she supposed to trust the man in the dark behind her when he worked for another man she definitely didn’t trust?
The argument between the Ghost and the sniper had escalated. Apparently the man had finally stepped out of his hiding place and was now being berated for shooting at an unarmed woman, or something along those lines. Bailey hadn’t paid much attention to what he was saying because she was so focused on the stranger in the shadows behind her.
Every instinct screamed for her not to trust Buchanan’s lackey. Then again, compared to almost certain death, dealing with one of his men was starting to sound appealing. And if he could give her an update on Hawke, dealing with Equalizer-scum could be the best thing to happen to her all day.
Using the Ghost and the darkness for cover, she duckwalked backward to the open doorway. An arm clamped around her waist and yanked her inside.
Once they were away from the doorway, she whirled around, shoving at the man’s arm. But he was already letting go and gesturing for her to follow him to the archway. He was dressed all in black, including a baseball cap pulled down low to conceal his features.
“That’s a dead end,” she whispered, as she wiped the dripping rainwater off her face with her clasped hands. “We should use the side door. It leads to the driveway.”
“My van’s across the street. We’ll use the front.”
“But—”
“It’s not a dead end. I came in that way. The side door is too exposed.”
“Wait.” She could barely make out the frown on his face in the dimly lit room. He was tall, probably as tall as the Ghost. And almost as intimidating.
“What is it?” he whispered impatiently.
“You said you’re an Equalizer?”
He nodded, his gaze flitting to the open French door. “Jace Atwell. I’m a former Navy SEAL and a bodyguard after that. Stick with me and you’ll make it out of here alive.”
“Have you always suffered from this lack of confidence?”
He didn’t even crack a sm
ile. The man had no sense of humor.
“I’m confident about one thing,” he said. “The only chance you have to make it out of here alive is with me. But I’m not going to get myself killed waiting for you to make up your mind. If you want to live, follow me. If not—” he shrugged “—I gave you a chance. If you choose not to take it, that’s on you.”
Without waiting for her reply, he hurried into the front room.
The arguments on the back porch had stopped. Silence, in this case, couldn’t be good. She took off for the front room. When she sprinted through the archway, a moment of panic slammed through her. The room was empty.
“Over here.”
A harsh whisper had her turning to the right. Atwell had a backpack slung over his shoulder now and it looked heavy. What was he doing, robbing the place?
He slid a panel open, revealing the front door—a perfectly working front door. The Ghost had fooled her once again. The panel must have been for extra security, like the one in the back. But it hadn’t done its job tonight.
“Hurry,” Atwell snapped.
And just like that, she rushed to obey, as if he were a general and she his new recruit. The man did have a way of giving orders. Which had her resenting the hell out of him.
As soon as she reached the sliding panel, he killed the lights. He shoved the door open, and hurried outside, gesturing for her to crouch down and follow him. They headed away from the driveway side, running between the brick façade and the mature shrubs.
When he reached the end of the house, he pulled her up short. A single gold band winked in the moonlight on his left hand. Somehow, the knowledge that he was married made him seem more human. But only a little. She raised her brows in question.
He pointed toward a dark-colored minivan parked on the other side of the street. She hesitated for the briefest moment before nodding. Hawke trusted the Equalizers. And she trusted Hawke. She had to keep reminding herself of that.
The barest hint of a smile curved his lips, as if he knew the dilemma she was in and found it amusing.
They both peeked out through the bushes to see if they had company. Sure enough, a shadow moved off to their left, a man dressed in black with yet another flak jacket on. The white letters FBI were clearly stamped across the back.
“FBI my ass,” Atwell muttered.
She shot him a surprised glance. Did he have the same suspicions about the Ghost’s team that she had?
The man in the flak jacket ducked through the open front door, oblivious that they were hiding twenty feet away. How long before he met up with the others and told them the door was open?
Bailey peered around the brick wall, checking the side yard. She ducked back and held up one finger, letting Atwell know there was another gunman coming up fast.
He shoved her behind him, taking her place at the corner. Normally she wouldn’t have stood for something like that, but he was armed and she wasn’t, not to mention her hands were still cuffed together. And, well, she just didn’t feel like challenging a brooding giant of a man tonight, especially if he was willing to risk his neck for her.
After he rushed into the side yard, she counted silently to six before he reappeared, giving her a curt nod. He’d taken care of the gunman.
“Go,” he mouthed silently, pointing toward the van.
She immediately took off running. Soon, his footsteps pounded on the ground behind her. When they were almost to the van, he passed her and yanked open the sliding side door.
“Get in.”
After she hopped inside, he shoved a gun between her clasped hands and threw open the driver’s side sliding door. She knew the drill. He’d drive. She’d cover them both. She knelt down on the rough, carpeted floor of the van, facing the house with the pistol in her clasped fists, her finger on the trigger ready to shoot anyone who threatened them.
A large shadow emerged from the backyard. She steadied the gun dead center on the man’s chest, then hesitated. She knew that silhouette, recognized the off-kilter stance as he favored his left leg.
The Ghost.
Somehow he’d managed to hobble after her and was pointing a gun toward the van. He appeared to be struggling to remain upright, no doubt because she’d hurt him. And yet he’d still risked his life to save her from a sniper’s bullet. She couldn’t seem to get past that.
Doesn’t matter. He’s the enemy. And he has a gun.
She tightened her finger on the trigger as the van’s engine roared to life. The Ghost suddenly brought his free arm up, knocking a gun out of another man’s hand that Bailey hadn’t even noticed in the dark. He’d just saved her, and possibly Atwell as well.
The van took off, tires squealing. Bailey balanced her weight on her knees to keep from falling and steadied her gun. But the Ghost lowered his pistol to his side, aiming at the ground.
He was letting them go.
You’ve been searching for him for weeks. Shoot him. End this.
But she couldn’t. She lowered her gun, staring at him in an odd truce of sorts as he faded from view.
“Bailey, you okay back there?”
It sounded more like a demand than a question as he pitched his baseball cap onto the passenger seat behind him. He slowed for a curve in the road and then punched the gas again.
“I’m good,” she called back, even though she wasn’t.
She was confused as hell. Two men she didn’t trust had just saved her life. Go figure.
She pitched the pistol onto the bench seat so she could grasp the door handle. After sliding the door closed, she grabbed the pistol again, then used the back of one hand to swipe at the dribbles of water running down her cheeks. It figured that the one time it rained in the past two months would be tonight. Just her luck.
“If any of them catch up to us, I’ll have to do some fancy driving. And this van doesn’t exactly do fancy. You need to keep an eye out for a tail and cover us.” He glanced over his shoulder and motioned toward her cuffed hands. “Is that a problem?”
She shook her head. “Not until the magazine runs out and I need to reload.”
“Hopefully it won’t come to that. I left them a surprise, or eight, back at the house to give us a better head start.” He slowed to take a turn, then accelerated again.
Bailey turned around and leaned over the bench seat, aiming her pistol at the back window. A few minutes later, a set of headlights pulled around a curve and began racing toward them.
Chapter Six
Saturday, 3:01 a.m.
Kade stood in the driveway with his team, surveying the damage. All four of the Caddy’s tires had been slashed. The SUV, parked a few feet away, had suffered the same fate. Eight flat tires. Whoever had helped Bailey escape had made sure they’d have one hell of a head start.
Nichols rubbed the back of his head. He had an impressive goose egg coming up from where the intruder had ambushed him in the side yard. But at least he hadn’t been killed. He swore and dropped his hands to his sides. “How on earth did someone manage to do all that without at least one of us seeing them?”
Kade quirked a brow.
Nichols’s face turned red.
The obvious reason hung in the air unspoken. Secure the perimeter was a basic tenet of their training. When the team had arrived, they knew Kade was supposed to be inside with the prisoner. The first thing they should have done was post someone to watch the Suburban, in case the target escaped and the team had to take off in pursuit.
But that’s not what they’d done.
Instead, the entire team had performed a quick circuit around the outside of the house, decided to enter from the back, and had just gotten into position to cover each other when Bailey did her swan dive through one of the French doors. The only team member who hadn’t screwed up was Reese, and that was only because he was still back at the cottage trying to figure out how Bailey had escaped the first time.
“Cord,” Kade called out, looking around.
“Behind you.” The agent made his
way to the front. “Sir?”
“The security system’s surveillance footage can be viewed on the computer in the main room.” He gave him the password. “When you get a good, clear frame of our tire slasher, print copies of his picture for everyone here. We can’t find him if we don’t know what he looks like.”
“Or she,” Alice called out from the other side of Nichols.
“Or she,” Kade agreed.
“Yes, sir.” Cord hurried back into the house.
“Can’t believe we had her within reach twice tonight and still lost her.” Nichols shook his head.
“Could be worse,” Alice piped up in a voice that had an unfortunate likeness to Minnie Mouse.
“Yeah? How?” Nichols asked.
“It could still be raining.”
Nichols rolled his eyes and gave her a good-natured shove. She grinned and shoved him back.
Kade scrubbed the stubble on his chin and silently prayed to the FBI gods to save him from this ragtag group.
“Pack up the gear while I arrange for a replacement vehicle.” He motioned toward the SUV and pulled out his cell phone.
As if relieved to have something constructive to do, the team surged forward. They began boxing up the various pieces of equipment they regularly hauled around for their missions and began stuffing them into duffel bags.
Kade leaned against the house to give his leg a much-needed rest while he made the call. And to give him a better vantage point. He wanted to keep an eye on the two members of the team that had him wondering if Bailey’s getting away tonight was actually a good thing—Special Agent Dominic Wales and Special Agent Jack Martinelli.
They’d always been different from the others. But Kade had never had any pressing reason to figure out why, until tonight.
When they’d both tried to murder Bailey.
Jack had targeted her with his laser scope.
Dominic had been about to shoot her as she escaped in the van.
If Kade hadn’t stopped them, Bailey would be dead. Why? Both men knew the team’s objective on every single mission was to take the Enforcers alive, to use lethal force only if absolutely necessary to save their own lives, or the lives of others. Maybe Dominic could argue that he was worried about Kade getting shot if he hadn’t acted—maybe. But what was Jack’s justification?