Rage almost propelled him forward to rip Ivan’s arm from his body and beat him with the appendage. Instinct placed a leash on his rage. Ivan wasn’t a threat to Bailey, at least not until Rogers had a turn at her.
Bailey was a lot of things. Stupid wasn’t one of them. She had a plan. He’d give her an opportunity to let her plan play out and pray her sacrificial lamb routine didn’t get her killed.
Something thudded upstairs, a struggle of some sort, then the doors to the library opened. “Bring her up, I want to enjoy this reunion before I gut her,” Rogers shouted from inside the room, not giving Emmet a shot from his location.
Library, second floor to the right. Hank had converted two bedrooms a few months ago to make the space. Entrance in the hallway and entrance through the sitting room in the master bedroom. All this information flashed at lightning speed through Emmet's brain, though he wasn't entirely sure of the interior layout of the room.
Ivan released Bailey and stepped back with his gun lowered because she wasn't a threat. Emmet knew better.
Bailey groaned and slid off the table, except the table tilted with her, which shouldn’t have happened, not with how sturdy it was built. Her one hundred and twenty pounds shouldn’t have budged the thing, unless…
“Dumb ass, don’t get yourself killed before I have a chance to fuck you,” Ivan grumbled and watched the table and Bailey hit the floor. She rolled, seemed to get tangled in her coat, and came up with the gun Emmet had tucked into the small of her back.
Firing at a target on a range never prepared you for firing at a human being close up, in your face. Bailey paused, the gun steady in her hand, though her eyes were wide, frozen, along with the rest of her. Ivan didn’t freeze. He was already diving to the ground and bringing up his own gun.
Emmet stormed into the foyer. Two bullets: one to the temple, the other to the neck, and Ivan dropped. Emmet stood over the body, in case Ivan played possum. He risked a glance at Bailey.
Gunfire erupted from the second floor—from two different directions. Rogers had more than Ivan as backup. From her position still on the damn floor, Bailey aimed at someone over Emmet’s head on the second floor. “Move, Emmet!” She fired, the cold-blooded intensity on her face was a definite turn on.
He ducked and kept moving forward, reaching for her.
“I want her alive!” Rogers shouted from the library. “Alive gets you an extra million. Bring me Emmet’s corpse.” Which bought Bailey more breathing time and Emmet, not so much.
Gunfire came from the living room behind Bailey. A bullet grazed Emmet’s ear. He let himself fall to the side, his weapon on the body rushing from the living room. Two to the head and the body dropped in a messy sprawl.
Behind him, something tumbled down the staircase as Bailey lunged to her feet.
“You’re hit,” she said above the buzzing in his ear.
“Grazed. Not hit.” He glued her to his side and headed for the living room. Once clear of the archway, he shoved her against the nearest wall and took a quick scan, grateful for the moonlight infusing the room. “Where is your vest?” he demanded.
She threw up her hands. "Well, I couldn't stroll in here like a sacrificial lamb with a bulletproof vest on."
All those flying bullets could’ve killed her. That’s what lodged in his brain. He grabbed her by the collar, shook her hard— “I should’ve hogtied you,” he said harshly and smashed their lips together for a fierce kiss. “Guard my back.”
Emmet peered out of the archway at the two bodies leaking blood on the marble floor. “Two dead. Did you get the one you aimed at?”
“Yes.”
“Good job.” On your first kill, he didn’t add.
Behind him, she exhaled on the back of his neck. “He would’ve killed you if I hadn’t.”
He wanted to hug her, let her know he was grateful. Now wasn’t the time.
Gun went off upstairs, followed by a harsh groan. “That was a flesh wound to his thigh. He already has a knife stuck in his wrist on the hand with two fingers missing. How much more do you think he can take? I plan on finding out. Let me take off his gag so they can hear you scream.”
“Go. To. Hell,” Hank choked out ten seconds later.
“Only after you pave the way.” Rogers laughed, followed by Hank’s groan.
“Five men in total, Emmet!” Hank got out.
“You’re gonna pay for that.”
A garbled cry came from Hank, then cut off. Bailey fisted Emmet’s shirt and buried her head in his shoulder.
“Two million to the one who brings me his daughter’s head.”
She gasped, and her entire body trembled against his. “Not going to happen, babe. He’s not even gonna get close to you.”
“He’s gonna kill him,” she whispered furiously. “What are we gonna do?”
He had no fucking idea. They had to get upstairs, which left them as sitting ducks, a risk he could take, but a risk he wouldn’t place Bailey in.
A shadow moved to the right and melted into the theatre room. He pointed his guns in that direction only to have Bailey knock his arm out of her way. A grenade in her hand with the damn pin out, she lobbed it into the theatre room.
“Jesus!” He snatched her back and together, they headed in the opposite direction. The explosion rocked the entire house and pitched them back into the hallway. Together they skidded back into the foyer and slammed into the side of the staircase. The first explosion was followed by a second one that collapsed the ceiling and caused the Jacuzzi bathtub and shower in the master bathroom to fall through.
“What’s going on? I didn’t think it would be that powerful,” she screamed as they struggled to their feet.
“It’s not. The house is rigged.”
“Rigged with what?”
“Rigged to explode.”
“Why?” Single word.
“Contingency plan. Plan of last resort.”
“You should’ve told me that before I threw the grenade!”
“I didn’t know you had a grenade!”
“Grenades. Plural. I have one more.”
Great! She was as crazy as Hank.
Another explosion destroyed the front of the house, blocking the exit and flinging them to their knees. A fourth explosion took out the lanai porch, destroying any chance of escaping through the rear of the house.
“The tunnel.” Hands clasped, they rushed to their feet. Emmet dragged her behind him, only to stop in front of the demolished great room. There wasn’t another way to the kitchen, the tunnel leading to the shed, not even to the garage.
But something wasn't right. With all the damage, the house should've collapsed already. They should've been buried. There was nothing random about the destruction. Each explosion was timed to trap the invaders. Hank may have planned to kill Rogers and himself, but initially, when he had the house rigged for a possible invasion, he planned on surviving.
“The panic room! Upstairs inside of Hank’s closet.” They may be able to survive inside the reinforced steel room.
He pushed her in front of him toward the staircase. Two at a time with Emmet on Bailey’s heels, they climbed. A gunman appeared below. Emmet fired and missed when the staircase shifted beneath his feet.
Bailey screamed and plastered herself against the wall.
“Keep going!” he ordered as he kept firing, aware any second another explosion could kill them both.
A bullet pierced his thigh. The pain brought him down to one knee, even as his bullet took a chunk out of the gunman’s neck.
Bailey rushed back to him. “Lean on me.” She hooked him under his arm. The stairs rocked, about to give way.
He pushed toward the second floor and gritted between clench teeth, “Go. The stairs about to collapse.”
“I’m not leaving you.” She wedged herself beneath his arm.
“Go, I’m right behind you.” A grating, tearing sound, and the entire staircase dipped. With the last of his strength, Emmet shoved Bailey
away.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The staircase crumbled beneath Bailey’s feet. She didn’t have time to think, never mind scream. Instinct and a hard shove from Emmet had her flying over the expanding gap created between the last stair and the second floor. She tossed her gun and grabbed onto the jagged piece of wood jutting out from the landing.
Bailey held on while the world crashed around her and a dust cloud rose. “Emmet!” She choked.
Dangling in the air, she twisted around enough to see the destruction below. It wasn’t easy through blurry, gritty, eyes. Where was he? She couldn’t see him amongst the debris, and then she found him. “Emmet,” she croaked. He lay on his side, tucked into a fetal position. Not moving. She couldn’t even tell if he was breathing.
He’s not dead. He’s not.
"Emmet!" If she let go, she'd fall and be in the same predicament if not worse. But what choice did she have? Through the debris that used to be the front of the house, the sweet sound of sirens reached her. "Hold on! Please! I'm coming for you."
He didn’t utter a single sound.
She pulled herself up, shoulders burning from the strain, and— Fingers sunk into her hair, caressed her head. For a split second, she thought it was Hank, more like hoped it was Hank having a paternal moment before he saved her.
She was so wrong. A hand fisted her coat and pulled her up. Slowly, she rose, and the person holding her came into view.
“Ah,” he sighed. “We finally meet. I’m Kevin Rogers. Rogers to those who know me. And you are Hank’s daughter, correct?”
He was a big man. Taller than Emmet and judging by the breadth of his chest, more muscular. He held all one hundred and twenty pounds of her in mid-air as if she weighed nothing. "Emmet's dead, huh? Goodman to have at your six, too bad he picked the wrong side."
Blond mustache, close-cropped dirty blond hair. Dark, pitiless eyes. She took all this in before he flung her into the wall. Her back merged with the plaster and drywall. Shit, she hit with enough force she thought he’d flung her through the wall.
Every bone in her body rattled, and she let loose a groan, but she didn't crumble. Bailey pulled herself out of the mini crater and landed on her feet with another grenade in her hand. She'd only brought two, and she didn't hesitate to pull the pin.
Rogers aimed his gun at her chest. “I shoot. You drop where you stand. I live.”
She backed up a bit to give herself some room, her grip held tight around the safety lever and grenade. “Maybe. Maybe that happens. First, you should take a look at your surroundings. One more explosion and this house will collapse.”
His eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head to the side, sizing her up. “You sure about that? It seems to be holding together pretty well. Either way, I don’t really care. Your father took my reason for living. He killed the woman I loved and ruined any chance I had with the agency. Now, I’m getting payback.”
Step by step, she kept backing up as Rogers closed in. “Sorry to burst your revenge bubble, but if you think that’ll hurt Hank, you’re wrong. He never wanted me. He doesn’t love me.”
“You’re wrong, Bailey. I’ve always loved you.”
She couldn't pinpoint where Hank's voice came from and neither could Rogers who raced toward her. Why when a single shot would end her? Then she understood. Shooting her wasn't enough. Rogers wanted Hank to suffer, and her quick death wouldn't suffice.
To hell with that shit.
If he expected her to freeze, she disappointed him. She shoved the pin back in the grenade and ducked the fist aimed at her head. She came back with a chop to his windpipe and a knee to his groin. No blow was too low when survival was at stake. He doubled over, his free hand cupped his bruised bits, while she grabbed the wrist of the hand with the gun. Unable to breathe, pain radiating from his crotch, both injuries halted any plans he had for her. Now, if she could get the gun away from him.
Rogers was strong and easily broke her hold. He also recovered quickly and pinned her to the wall by her shoulders. Enraged, he wheezed in her face, “I’m gonna enjoy carving you up.”
Bailey went limp. She slid to her knees, registered the sharp bite of something pointy digging into her flesh and delivered two hard blows to his diaphragm. Stunned, he exhaled sharply out and smashed his knee into her chest.
Fuck, I think my heart skipped a few beats. Now she was the one who couldn’t breathe as pain exploded in her chest. She slumped, gravity pulling her sideways to the floor. Rogers grabbed another fistful of hair. He yanked her upright, wrapped his hand around her throat, and squeezed.
A blur in the corner of her eye caught her attention. Out of nowhere, Hank barreled into Rogers, and both went tumbling out of her field of view.
Thimbles of air she managed to sip kept her from passing out, which turned into hard gulps. Hand pressed to her chest, Bailey climbed to her feet. Jesus! Everything hurt, but that was beside the point. Hank and Rogers weren’t in the half-destroyed hallway anymore. From the sounds of destruction, they’d traveled to the master suite. Her aching chest wanted her to stay put. Staggering, she made her way across a floor that was no longer level with the tilted doorjamb.
She would've thought Rogers would've lost the gun, but the bastard had a vice grip on the weapon. And Hank, he was a seven-fingered, bloody mess. Shirtless, cuts dissected his torso but didn't stop the fury of his attack. One hand held onto the gun in Roger's hand, while both men slugged it out with their free hand. Hank couldn't win. After a few hits, his strength waned. He struggled to hold onto Rogers' hand and block the body blows. The blood loss, Bailey surmised.
She stepped into the room and their gazes collided. Hank’s eyes widened in surprise, or horror, she couldn’t tell which. But then, his expression changed, and all the love she’d missed filled his eyes and reached across the distance separating them to fill her heart. Tears she hadn’t shed in seven years ran down her cheeks because she understood. This was his goodbye. “Run!”
Bailey wasn't ready to say goodbye, and she was done running.
She launched herself onto Rogers’ back and wrapped her arm around his throat. He bucked and head-butted Hank, who released Rogers’ hand and went down to his knees. Rogers brought the gun around and pointed it at her father’s head.
Bailey slapped her hand to Rogers’ forehead and yanked as a shot echoed. She screamed along with Hank. How bad! Was he dying? She couldn’t see him. She had to see him, but she couldn’t release Rogers. Not if she didn’t want both of them dead.
Rogers reached around and pressed the gun to the side of her ear, the hot muzzle dug into the outer shell until she let go of her hold on his neck and slid off his back. As he turned to face her, she rotated around his body to stand between him and Hank sprawled on the ground. In her hand, the grenade with the pin out again.
“That’s not going to stop me.”
If a grenade wasn't going to stop him, what would because she had nothing else left? The sound of an ambulance and fire department sirens filtered in from the outside. Relief poured into her bloodstream. "It's over. You're going to jail."
Rogers snorted, shook his head, and supplied darkly, “Jail? People like me, Emmet, and Hank don’t go to jail. We’re too valuable. Our skill set is a commodity governments line up to pay for. Plus, I came here with the expectation of dying. Going quickly in a ball of flames with both of you…there is no downside to that.”
I’m going to die.
On the ground next to her, Hank coughed, a wet, garbled sound that gave her a smidgen of hope for him and herself.
This ain’t over.
She needed time, time for the police to get in here and help her. Maybe talk him down and give her a chance to—what? She couldn’t leave without Hank and Emmet. Even if that meant leaving with their bodies. A whimper threatened to crawl up her throat, but she swallowed it back down. Unraveling now would help none of them. It was up to her to get them out of this mess.
“I don’t believe you. Once you’ve
finished killing us, you’d want to live, as any man would. You want to take Hank’s place. Be top dog in the agency. Have men you’ve trained follow your every word. The money, the wealth, the infamy. Have everything that Hank has and more, along with Hank’s head mounted on your wall. You can have all of that.” She held up the grenade. “If you’re not dead.”
Something gave way downstairs and the entire second floor tipped, parts unseen sounded like it was being ripped away. Bailey stumbled and tripped over Hank. She fell. The dresser, a bulky contraption that probably took four muscle-bound men to bring it into the house, slid toward her. The pin went flying when she stretched out her hand as if she could ward off the inevitable. Even as she braced, she tucked the grenade close, her hand depressing the safety lever. At the last second, the dresser got hung up on a rug and spun. Instead of head-on, she absorbed a glancing blow to her shoulder.
The mantra in her head, Hold on! Hold on! Hold on! Directed at Hank, Emmet, and the grenade.
What the hell possessed her into thinking a standoff with a grenade was a good idea? She didn’t have to worry about Rogers killing her when she was going to do the job for him.
The room dipped, tilting twenty-five degrees or more. She kept rolling through the ongoing destruction of the room and into the walk-in closet filled with suits. She tried to stop the skid, hard to do with one hand. At least all his suits cushioned the landing as she crashed into Hank's designer duds. And continued through the clothes and into a hidden room beyond. A room stocked with food, clothing, and weapons, nestled in custom foam inserts, safely locked away behind glass cabinets embedded in the walls, similar to the weapons cache below the shed next door, though lacking the volume of weaponry.
Metal cot bolted to the metal floor. Metal toilet in the corner. Five-gallon water jugs tipped over and rolled toward her, along with everything else he had stored beneath the last shelf. With one hand, she latched onto a leg of the shelf bolted to the floor, which stopped her slide into the toilet and prevented the jugs from smashing into her. She wasn't so lucky with the two Rubbermaid storage containers. They slammed into her and continued until they wedged under the sink. A metal foot locker inched toward her, and she prayed it stayed in place. On more hit and she wouldn't be able to hold on. She'd join the avalanche.
Plain Jane and the Hitman Page 22