“Was that gunfire?”
“Damn right. He has more men than we figured at first—a second car. We need more backup.”
“Goddamn it! On my way,” he said, and the line went dead. He pounded the steering wheel with his fist. He wasn’t sure if Oscar heard him.
He threw his phone in the console and found his father looking at him.
“They’re under attack at the house, I take it. And Sophia?”
“She’s ‘under wraps’ but it didn’t sound good,” he said. “Damn.” For now, he thought. He needed to be there. He’d blocked out of his mind the possibility that she would be in danger or get hurt while he was gone, but now his worst fear had come to pass. She was in trouble and he wasn’t there to protect her.
They were only two blocks away now. Sirens wailed in the distance. He pushed the gas pedal further and wheeled the car around. They bounced up on the curb and came to a stop two houses down. He saw flashes and heard the noise. He looked around and saw no one outside but plenty of nervous faces through the neighbor’s curtains. He hit the pavement running toward his yard and scaled the hedge.
“Look out,” his father shouted from somewhere behind him, and he turned in time to see a man take aim with a big gun in his direction. But he was quicker. His shot hit the man in the head and slammed him back in a gruesome splash of blood. Most importantly, the man’s gun dropped from his grip and his shot went wide. He paused and turned back toward his father, waving him off as he neared.
Chauncey approached the house in a stealthy crouch, headed around the side of the house and toward the back door. Gut instinct and his knowledge of Pixie told him she’d be at the back of the house, possibly in the basement. He didn’t know where the hell Oscar or the men from the Yard were holed up and he had no intention of walking in on a spray of bullets and getting hit in the crossfire.
The sound of gunfire died down as he reached the back. He slid along the house toward the door. The sirens were getting closer. He peered in the door and saw no one. Most importantly, Pixie was nowhere in sight. This was about when he’d expect Azzam and his band to grab someone if they could and start running, so he took up a position in hiding near the door. He heard footsteps and a man whining in Arabic about being wounded. Then came the distinctive cold voice of Azzam. Tensing, Chauncey set his gun with his finger on the trigger. He cleared everything from his head so all he could hear was the hammering of his heart. One of Azzam’s remaining men walked through the door and hastily rushed outside. He let the man go. He wanted Azzam. Hearing his enemy’s low voice as he approached the doorway, he watched the man step through. Azzam was dead in his sights. As if he had a sixth sense, Azzam turned his head to face him. The man laughed—a low and chilling sound—and spoke to him in English.
“So we meet again at last. Are you going to arrest me or murder me in cold blood like you did my brother?” Azzam held his gun at his side aimed down, while Chauncey held his in a vice grip, steady as the White Cliffs, aimed at the man’s eyes.
“I’d love to shoot you. Give me a reason. Move one millimeter or breathe the wrong way and I will pull the trigger.”
He laughed again. “It pleases me to know that even in my death you will suffer the loss of your woman and your traitor’s child.”
“Don’t be so sure.” He clenched every muscle in his body to keep from reacting to the man’s words. “You don’t have her. You took the wrong woman.” You incompetent asshole. He held his control as his heartbeat crescendoed to parade-like proportions. Sweat trickled down his temples. He watched Azzam’s face for his reaction but kept the man’s gun hand in his peripheral vision.
“I know exactly where she is. Do you?” The man smiled, trying for wicked, but Chauncey could see him waver. He also noticed Azzam’s trigger finger tense. As if in slow motion, Azzam gave a hearty laugh while he raised his gun hand to take a shot.
Chauncey pulled his trigger. Azzam’s shot went wide and the man lunged forward toward him. Chauncey’s shot had hit him in the shoulder. He shot again as he moved backwards and to his left to avoid Azzam’s second shot. Damn if this man would not go down easy.
Chauncey pulled the trigger a third time and hit his target in the forehead above his left eye. Azzam fell back this time and hit the floor, but before he even hit, there was a cacophony of shouting and a rush from the men following him. Oscar’s voice rose above the gunfire. One of the men fell through the doorway and another came through shooting.
Chauncey took cover, but all he could think about was finding Sophia and seeing that she was in one piece.
One of the detectives flew through the door and dropped the last gunman. Chauncey shouted, “Detective Miller here.” The man spun around toward him with his gun raised. Chauncey put his hands in the air.
“Take it easy. I’m with you.”
“So it’s you—Miller Man in the flesh, finally.” The man glanced around and saw Azzam lying prone on the floor. “I suppose you got him?”
“Yes. But one got away—ran out back.” He gestured toward the backyard.
“I’m on it. How much of a lead?”
“Two minutes. You can catch him if you know the neighborhood. Look for a man carrying a large gun.”
The detective laughed and ran out the back door with his gun drawn. Chauncey went inside the hallway and toward the kitchen.
“Oscar…Sophia,” he called. He didn’t care if the house was cleared yet.
Oscar appeared in the doorway. “A sight for sore eyes. We’re going through the house now and it appears we’ve got Azzam’s troops—six in all—under control. Either dead, captive or run off. No sign of Azzam so far…”
“He’s dead.”
“You saw his body?”
“I shot his body. He’s out back in the mudroom. Now where’s Sophia?”
“She ran out this way toward the back. If you didn’t see her then she must be out—”
“Shit.” Chauncey turned and ran outside to the garden. He hoped to hell she didn’t run into Azzam’s man with the gun. He turned and found Oscar on his heels.
“What’s the problem?” Oscar asked between labored breaths.
“There’s a man loose with a gun out back. One of our detectives is out looking for him. Sophia’s not safe.”
“Damn. We have to find her before she gets her head blown off.”
They heard a shot on the other side of a hedge out back and Chauncey skidded in that direction, coming to a halt when he saw Pixie in the arms of the wrong man with a gun to her head.
All the blood in his body seemed to rush to his brain at once. He felt like a lightning bolt hit him and instead of shaking with fear or dropping to the ground, he felt galvanized. He lifted his gun and held his arm ramrod straight, aiming at this unlucky man’s head.
The man spoke in Arabic and said something to the effect of don’t shoot or I’ll shoot your woman. Only he didn’t use nice words. Chauncey feared looking at Pixie’s eyes. He knew he needed to. A fraction of him didn’t want to feel the pain of seeing her frightened to death. But he knew what he needed to do. His role was to galvanize her confidence and ease that fear—and to ignore the fact that the stakes were higher than he’d ever imagined they could be—higher than the stakes when he was twelve years old and seeing his own mother held hostage. He drew a stinging breath through his nostrils and flicked his gaze to her face. He focused all the cold steel confidence of years of training and success that he had to stare into her eyes. She blinked and he saw her give herself over to him. Saw her lose her fear in that split second. He could do this. And she knew he could do this.
The blood pumping fiercely through his veins turned to ice. He shifted his eyes back to the crazed maniac who held her now. Without glancing at her again, he focused on the man’s frightened eyes. He spoke to the man in Arabic in a calm voice. He used soothing words as he maintained his aim.
Then when he saw the man relax a fraction, Chauncey pulled the trigger and shot a hole through his foreh
ead.
Pixie dropped to the ground. Her ears rang with the shot and she fought to keep whatever she’d eaten for dinner inside her stomach. Her hair covered her face, and with her hands pressed into the dirt, she got herself up from the ground at the speed of a ninety-year-old woman doing a push-up. She felt her captor’s body behind her. Something warm and sticky leaked into her shoe. But before she could dwell on it, she was grabbed around the middle and hefted from her knees into a sturdy chest.
His scent enveloped her before she looked up into his eyes, knowing it was her man holding her. She moaned. He squeezed her and nuzzled her ear, murmuring endearments. The ringing dizziness from the gunshot so close prevented her from understanding his words, but she felt comforted all the same.
Pixie let him carry her away. Sure, like she was in a position to stop him. But then, why would she? She forgot all about the myriad reasons that had once circled around in her thick head. Everything had disappeared now except his sweaty gunpowder scent, the solid feel of him and his strong heartbeat thumping against her ear, and the swift cadence of his sure stride as he carried her. She let herself feel like the fair maiden being rescued by the rakish noble.
He didn’t care if he looked like a wild man straight out of a George of the Jungle movie; he needed to carry Sophia away from there—get her far away from that horrible place. She was his to protect. He felt the drumming of his heart in his ears and pressed his lips to her chopped black hair, usually so orderly and now in total disarray. He’d done a sloppy, yet successful job of it. One of the uniforms held the back door open as Chauncey strode through with his precious bundle. The man looked grim. He didn’t enlighten anyone as to who she was or why he was carrying her. The moment was too private and belonged to them alone, so he carried her upstairs to his bedroom, murmuring soft reassurance and nibbling on her delicate earlobes as he took each step up. He reached his room and pushed inside, kicking the door only halfway closed behind him. He wasn’t sure if anyone had followed him or watched him and he didn’t much care.
He was taking this time for him and his Pixie, whether or not she was really his after all. For now she belonged to him and he needed to have this time alone in their own world. The ache he felt as he laid her on his bed had only to do with his need to belong to her and to protect her forever. Somehow.
Bangs and crashes wafted up through the doorway, momentarily distracting Chauncey from her lips. He lifted his head enough to look into those sparkly green eyes. They made her look like a genuine mischievous Pixie.
“Shouldn’t you be downstairs running the show or throwing the handcuffs on the bad guy and getting your picture taken by the press as the conquering hero…or…something?” she said with that worshipping look on her usually skeptical face.
“Probably. But let them stumble around and come looking for me. My first priority is you.”
He only knew the moment of his words when he saw the effect of them on her face. Startled, she opened her mouth. Then she smiled a supreme smile.
“What would your father think?” She grinned with that naughty grin now, her mischief given full reign.
“Is no subject taboo for you?”
“What kind of answer is that?”
He pushed himself off the bed. His heart pounded a bit faster now that the specter of his father had been raised. Sir Miller was an old man and he’d been through a shock. He should be at least equally concerned about the man’s well-being.
But gazing at the wild array of her spiky hair that made her look like a devil queen and that adoring look on her face with the unmistakable passion pooling in her eyes caused him to lean over her. He brought his lips close and with his heart thudding he couldn’t stop the words dashing from his mouth as if they were escaping from prison.
“Even with all I’ve been through, there’s been no terror greater for me than the specter of losing you tonight. The fear and anxiety drove me nearly to madness and I frankly don’t know how I managed to think straight. Maybe I didn’t think—I acted without thought—and only because I’m trained. My instincts got me through the night without getting us both killed.
“How reassuring.” She breathed the words. “If you’re going to talk, say something romantic, Chauncey. Otherwise I’m going to kiss you.” She grabbed him behind the neck and would have made good on her kiss promise, but he spoke again in a bare whisper.
“I’m madly in love with you, Pixie…” He caressed her lips with his and she pulled him in tight to devour him in return.
When he heard the clichéd British harrumph from the door, it could have been either one of two men standing there watching this most intimate of moments with his Pixie. He groaned and gave her one last wisp of a kiss before he disengaged himself from her warmth and sat upright on the bed, still touching her, caressing her arm. He turned and faced them.
“Sorry for the interruption, old boy, but we have business to wrap up here.” David looked apologetic and Chauncey let out a sigh, grateful that it wasn’t his father who’d witnessed what the old man would certainly judge to be a lapse in professionalism.
But then the old man appeared in the doorway, somewhat breathless as he pushed past David. Chauncey stood and Pixie sat up. His father looked livid from the exercise of rushing up the stairs—or from the entire evening’s excitement.
“Sir Miller, I’m so glad to see you’re all right.” Pixie sounded breathless herself, as she leapt from the bed toward the old man.
Chauncey moved forward with her as she launched herself at his father. Sir Miller withstood her onslaught well and even returned Pixie’s fervent embrace. Chauncey studied his face intently looking for signs of…something. Stress, anxiety, concern… he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want to find pain there. And that’s what he found.
“Father, you should sit—or maybe lie down a minute.” Chauncey hustled him to the bed without waiting for a response. Sir Miller was in no position to oppose him, especially with Pixie double-teaming him.
Sir Miller sat, but he looked blasted uncomfortable. “Son, you need to go with David and identify Azzam and wrap this up. Accompany the squad with the perpetrators back to HQ.” He paused and took a deep breath.
His father had not called him “son” since he was eight years old. He felt himself warm and he wasn’t sure if it was from fondness or embarrassment. Both. Pixie turned to him before he could respond and said, “I’ll stay with him a minute while you do your official duty.”
“You, my darling little Pixie, need attention yourself.” Chauncey felt paralyzed knowing he should do something and for the first time ever, he felt truly torn between duty and need—a need that tore at his insides making it impossible to leave the sides of those he loved. And he did love them. Both of them, he realized.
“I quite agree,” David piped in. “The danger is over, man. We can leave Sir Miller in his own home—although he won’t be able to stay long since it is a crime scene. He’ll be all right for now.”
While Chauncey processed the words—or tried to, because frankly he couldn’t get past processing his feelings and the acknowledgement of exactly how in love he was with his Pixie—Oscar stormed through the door.
“We’re waiting for you blokes downstairs. I’ve been covering for you and ordering the lot of blasted Scotland Yard detectives about as if I had rank—and I won’t lie: it feels damn good—but I’m starting to get those ‘who the hell are you’ looks in spite of my impromptu act and quick study adoption of the this British lingo. Not sure I can keep it up. I’m running low on Britishisms and starting to sound odd—even to myself.”
“I get the picture.” Chauncey smiled at the hulking American who was possibly the only person who had truly enjoyed and even flourished with the escalation of events. He knew it was less complicated for Oscar somehow and he forced himself to take a deep breath, conscious of his pounding heart slowing as the adrenaline abated. “I’m ready to wrap this up.” He turned to Pixie. “But you’re coming with me.” He pulled her
close to him and away from his father, but not without a glance at the old man. His father nodded.
“I’ll take Sir Miller with me back to HQ in due time.” David used his commanding voice in case anyone might argue, but no one did.
Most of the remainder of the night was spent sleepless at HQ with a quick trip to the hospital to check the protesting Pixie for mental soundness more than anything. If she’d experienced any shock, she was well over it by the time Chauncey left her at David and Grace’s hotel door for a few hours sleep. He kissed the top of her head and breathed in her scent deeply as if he would need to make it last a long, long time.
Chapter 15
At the airport, Pixie clung to Grace and David as they re-entered the dreaded international terminal. It had only been hours since she’d been held at gunpoint, but it felt like a long ago nightmare that had never been real. God bless him, David escorted her and Grace straight through to the VIP lounge where he arranged for them to wait for their flight home. She suspected after recent events the airport security people were only too happy to keep them sequestered away where they couldn’t cause more havoc.
“Noodles must be frantic with worry about us. I can’t wait to get home,” Grace said.
“Noodles is still a dog, right?” Sophia asked in her eye-roll voice. She didn’t have a Noodles waiting for her, but going home still felt good, didn’t it?
There was no reason to stay here any longer. Her decorating show audition had been rescheduled for two days from now. She felt dizzy thinking about it. She’d need to work at getting her decorator hat back in place. She’d never make it with multiple personalities. The disorientation of bridging the worlds of decorating and crazy terrorists had her head pounding—or maybe it was her heart. Something wasn’t right. Where was Chauncey? He’d disappeared at about three in the morning after leaving her at the hotel. Sophia shook herself from thinking about the previous evening’s events. She couldn’t bear to go down that memory lane right now. One thing she’d learned recently was that she was most definitely not Bond-girl material.
The Scotland Yard Exchange Series Page 88