She turned back to Ginny. “Why don’t you check the fridge, see what we have. I’ll help as soon as I’ve finished folding the boys’ clothes.”
With that, she pivoted and headed straight for the laundry room. Mac stepped out from behind the doorjamb to meet her.
Once she was hidden from view, her pace picked up. She dumped the t-shirt on top of the dryer and punched the button to start the machine. The rhythmic rumble of tumbling clothes filled the air. The sound would mask any talking and the excuse of folding laundry had bought her some time.
Maybe not such a nitwit after all.
He crossed his arms, rocked back on his heels and watched her approach, his gaze lingering on the bruise shadowing one cheekbone and her raw, swollen lips. Something tightened inside him. Shook with rage. He battened it down.
She halted maybe a foot from him, pointed at the gun in his hand and wiggled her fingers.
“Where are the kids?” He kept his voice low voice, ignoring her silent demand.
“Locked in the bedroom.” Her gaze didn’t budge from his .357 SIG. “I need a gun.”
“What kind of weapons are the guards carrying?” Little Mike had told them the guards were all equipped with submachine guns. Joey, unfortunately, had been carrying a 9mm. They sure could have used one of those MP5s.
“Submachines,” she said in a flat voice. “Now give me the damn gun.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Give it to her,” Cosky whispered from behind.
That bright head of hers snapped up. Mac wasn’t sure what he’d find in her eyes. Maybe shame. She had to know they’d found her through the video. Maybe rage; a burning need for revenge. And while she had every right to blow that motherfucker straight to hell, if he handed the gun over and she used it on the target in the dining room, they’d lose any chance they had of getting those kids out alive.
But when her hazel eyes locked on his, he found calmness. Resolve. Cool intelligence.
She stepped closer, so close her body heat registered against the bare skin of his arms. The hair at the back of his neck lifted. His scalp tingled. Something stirred inside him. Something ravenous. Shaken, Mac jerked back and stomped on Cosky’s foot.
A curse echoed behind him.
Her gaze narrowed and an unfamiliar heat exploded in his face. Jesus fucking Christ. What the hell was the matter with him?
She stepped forward again, her heat burning down the entire length of his body. A chain reaction started deep within him. A loosening. A thick, raw prickle. This time Mac forced himself to remain still.
“The boys aren’t allowed out of the bedrooms, which are on the opposite end of the house,” she told them in a low voice. “There’s a hall between us and them. Guards at the end of the hall. Guards on the bedrooms. The moment you move, they’ll kill the kids. You won’t have time to stop them, but I can get into that bedroom. With the gun, I can protect them. It’s the only shot we have of getting them out alive.”
Mac scowled down at his weapon.
“You give me a gun and three minutes and I’ll get the kids into a defendable position.”
Mac transferred his scowl to her face and tried to think past the completely irrational—not to mention inappropriate—changes taking place under his skin.
“You did bring a backup weapon?” she asked dryly, one ember-red eyebrow arching.
He searched her eyes, and found no hint that she sensed the implosion taking place inside him. Thank God. Instead, calm focus filled her gaze. Intelligence.
She was right. The best shot they had of getting everyone out alive was by planting someone in the bedroom to protect those kids. She’d been FBI before her marriage. She knew how to handle a weapon, knew when to turn off emotion and focus on the situation. She’d also be able to enter the room, no questions asked.
With a quick motion, he thumbed on the safety, reversed the gun and handed it to her butt first, making sure they didn’t brush skin as the weapon changed hands.
She accepted the SIG without a word, lifted the hem of her navy blue turtleneck, and shoved the weapon into the waistband of her jeans. He caught a glimpse of luminescent skin marred by ugly brackish bruises.
Ice swamped the heat churning through him. That fucking video flashed through his mind, her eyes locked on the white ceiling. The fixed set to her face.
Endurance. Silent courage.
Rage stirred, coiled around his chest.
“You’ve got a guard to your right, in the dining room,” she whispered, adjusting her shirt until the soft fall of cotton hid the slight bulge against her waist.
The neck of her turtleneck dipped and row of dark smudges caught Mac’s eye. Fingerprints. A fucking choke chain of fingerprints. Fury ignited in his gut, rolled out in waves. He’d see every last one of those motherfuckers dead.
She caught and held his gaze. “You’ve got one guy in the wind, though. He left an hour ago to hit the store. Should be back any minute.”
The news cleared Mac’s mind like a face full of pepper spray. “How will he access the house?”
“He’ll call Joey.”
Mac swore silently. Joey wouldn’t be answering.
“Give me three minutes to get the kids covered.” Beneath the whisper, her voice remained cool. Collected.
Admiration tugged. He scrubbed a hand down his face and watched her pivot. She headed back down the laundry room with a no-nonsense stride.
“You might want to arm yourself and move into position,” Cosky hissed behind him. “Or better yet, trade places with me.”
Fuck. He yanked his backup piece out of his waistband, clicked off the safety and moved up, taking position next to the entrance to the hallway.
Amy joined Ginny in front of the sink. He waited for the women to offer some excuse that would get them out of the kitchen and into the boys’ bedroom. Instead, Amy glanced at the food sitting on the kitchen counter and turned toward the refrigerator. “You forgot the ketchup. Brendan won’t eat anything unless it’s drenched in ketchup.”
“Maybe if you stopped spoiling the little brat, he’d eat what he was told,” their guard said, the edge back in his voice.
Mac frowned as she opened the refrigerator. What the hell was the woman up to?
Once the door blocked the guard’s view, she lifted her shirt and yanked out the SIG.
Ah, hell. Fuck no.
“Hey,” she said to Ginny. “Can you come grab this for me?”
Ginny hesitated, and then stepped forward, joining her housemate behind the cover of the refrigerator’s door. Chastain’s wife yanked up the woman’s sweater and shoved the gun into the waistband of her slacks.
“Son of a bitch,” Cosky whispered. The words sounded like they’d been forced through his teeth. “What the fuck does she think she’s doing?”
Mac shook his head. What she was doing was pretty obvious. Why was the question.
You didn’t arm civilians and send them into battle. He’d passed the gun to Chastain’s wife because she had the training and expertise.
Of course, he’d based that decision on the assumption that she wasn’t batshit crazy. Ginny slowly bent and listened as Amy whispered in her ear. The two straightened. In unison, they backed out of the refrigerator.
“Why don’t you get the boys ready for dinner? I’ll finish up here,” Amy said, her voice the epitome of casual.
“Sure.” Ginny placed the ketchup on the counter and smoothed a strand of sleek red hair behind her ear. Mac watched those slender fingers quake, and shook his head in disgust.
“Make sure Brendan washes his hands.” Amy closed the fridge door and slid over to the sink.
“You better not make grilled cheese again,” the voice in the dining room said. “I don’t give a shit if it is the only thing those spoiled brats of yours will eat. Make some adult food for a change.”
Clancy’s wife passed so close on her way down the hall, Mac could have snagged her elbow and dragged her to safety. At least they’d have one o
f the damn fools safe. But they’d lose the kids.
She hurried past, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. A minute ticked by. Amy fussed with various jars. Unscrewed lids. Picked up a butter knife. Another minute ticked by.
“Where the fuck’s Joey? And Gustav?” The guard suddenly snapped, tension sharpening his voice. “It shouldn’t take this long to get Chino out of the car.”
Amy put down the knife and turned. “I can check, if you want.”
“You stay put.”
Shrugging, she bent and pulled open the bottom cupboard.
“What the fuck are you doing?” the guy snapped.
When she straightened, her right hand grasped a cast iron skillet. She arched a slender eyebrow.
“Cooking dinner,” she said in a non-confrontational tone, “like you told me to.”
“Go back to the bedroom. You can finish dinner after I’ve checked the garage.”
A hiss of static echoed down the hall and then the guard was speaking again, his voice flat. Professional. “I’m sending the second bitch back. I need to check the garage. Gustav and Joey have been gone too long. Copy?”
Another burst of static, followed by a distant, metallic voice. “Copy.”
They were officially out of time. If they launched an attack, they’d face immediate fatalities. The target was suspicious, his eyes likely fixed on the laundry room. To line up a shot, they’d have to expose themselves long enough to sight on the target. An MP5 held dozens of rounds. They’d be riddled with bullets in seconds.
There wasn’t room for Cosky to slide up beside him and provide cover. Amy Chastain no longer had a gun. They could toss one to her, but the bastard would see it. Nor would she be able to get her head above the counter to line up a shot.
Fuck. If they moved now, they’d be dead the moment they left the protection of the laundry room wall. They needed a distraction. He looked down at the bottle tucked beneath his armpit. Throwing the Molotov cocktail would prove useless since he couldn’t sight on the target.
He glanced at Chastain’s wife, waiting for her to follow the guard’s order and split for the bedroom. This time he’d snag her as she passed.
Instead of leaving, she grabbed hold of the skillet with her left hand, wrapping her fingers around the handle just above the grip her right hand held. Instantly, Mac knew what she had in mind. He flowed in sync with her movements, so even as she rocked back, and then forward and sailed that skillet across the room like a fucking Frisbee, he rolled up, exposing just enough of his face to line up his shot.
“What the—” The guard’s attention was completely focused on the skillet. He jumped to the side, just before the cast-iron pan slammed into the wall inches from his face.
“You fucking—”
Mac locked onto the target’s sternum and squeezed off two quick shots.
At the last possible millisecond, the guard spun and dropped to one knee. The rounds plunged into the wall above his head, with a hollow thwack-thwack.
Son of a fucking bitch.
Amy Chastain shot him one disgusted, disbelieving look and dropped to the ground.
Before he could line up a second shot, the bastard sprayed the surrounding area—from the kitchen to the laundry room—with a burst of submachine fire. Mac ducked out of sight.
“Jesus Christ,” Cosky roared from behind him. “You fucking missed?”
Mac glanced to the left, in the general direction of the living room. There went their stealthy infiltration. Those bastards guarding the kids would be on the move now.
He hoped to God that Amy knew what she’d been doing when she’d passed the SIG off. Because, sure as hell, Ginny was going to need it.
* * *
“And this is the library,” Mrs. Simcosky said, leading Beth into a generous room with a fire flickering in a river rock fireplace. “Or, as Mason liked to call it, my love den.” She drifted to one of the floor to ceiling book shelves and trailed her fingers down a bevy of colorful spines. “He used to call my books ‘the other men’.”
When she turned to Beth, there was a mixture of bittersweet amusement and loss on her face. Beth reached for her hostess’s hand and gave it a comforting squeeze before stepping farther into the room. The cherry finish of the bookcases glowed beneath the firelight.
Although her condo served her needs for the moment, eventually she’d intended to buy a bigger place. A home with some character and a lot more space. She’d planned to convert one of the rooms into a sanctuary, where she could sink into an overstuffed couch and read those cold, rainy days away.
Her dream library had looked much like this, with the same big-screen television stashed in the corner and well-worn furniture just waiting to welcome someone into their comfortable depths. Not to mention the bookcases, with their row upon row of colorful spines.
Drawn to the overflowing shelves, Beth stared at the rainbow assortment of books. She recognized many of the titles, even more of the authors. It felt like arriving at a new acquaintance’s party, and discovering a dozen good friends. Except… the familiar titles, and authors didn’t offer the same appeal as they had in the past.
Somehow, immersing herself in a fantasy didn’t hold the same allure. Maybe because she’d tasted the real thing. Felt the press of Zane’s hard body against hers. Breathed in his smoky, musky scent. Listened to his deep, calm voice.
She swayed as the realization hit. She missed him.
Missed his heated presence beside her, warming her from the inside out. Missed that steady, confident tone. The tingles his touch set off. The fire in those molten kisses.
How was that possible? How she could miss a man she’d hadn’t even known a full day? A man she had nothing in common with? A man she had no real relationship with?
Even more insidious was the worry for him. Fear of what he might be facing, what they might be facing. She tried to shake it aside. If anyone could take care of himself, it was Zane. He and his buddies were trained for hostage situations. They’d faced combat and emerged unscathed. Look how easily they’d taken down the hijackers at the airport.
Except—a sneaky voice whispered—the hijackers at the airport had been unarmed. God only knew what kind of weapons they were facing at the moment.
Beth turned back to the bookshelves in the hope of distracting herself. It wasn’t fair to let her fear infect Marion. Zane wasn’t the only one risking his life out there. Three other men were right there beside him, and one of them was this woman’s son.
“Try not to worry,” Marion said, her gray eyes as dark and turbulent as storm clouds just before the thunder rolled. “If you give in to it—the fear—it will chew you up inside.”
So much for her determination not to worry the woman. Beth stared at the rows of colorful titles occupying the shelves. At least half of the books were romantic suspense. Love and danger, they went hand in hand in such books. But in real life, the mix wasn’t nearly as satisfying.
“Does it get any easier? Watching that door close behind them?”
A pulse of silence fell.
“No,” Marion finally said. “If anything it gets worse, as you start calculating the odds. The smart woman learns how to deal with it.”
Beth stared at the hundreds of books lining the walls. Hundreds of covers full of happily-ever-afters. Was this how Marion had coped? By sinking into imaginary worlds every time her husband walked out the door? Every time her son walked out it now? Had she buried herself in a mirror reality in the hope of escaping the ugly one surrounding her? Buried herself in imaginary worlds where she could count on the bad guys being defeated, and the good girls getting their man, and everyone living happily ever after? Where she could count on the literary hero walking through the door at the end of the book, even if she couldn’t count on her own hero doing so at the end of his shift?
A familiar cover caught her attention. Beth gently wiggled the book free. Mackenzie’s Mountain, one of her favorite books. A comfort read. One she’d read so m
any times her copy was tattered and torn. Yet, it offered no comfort now. She put the book back.
“Was he a SEAL, like Cosky? Your husband, I mean?”
“No,” Mrs. Simcosky said, her voice thick with grief. “He was a cop when I met him. A detective when he died.”
“How did he die?”
The laugh that echoed through the room was raw with irony. “Not in the line of duty, if that’s what you’re wondering. Cancer took him. Lung cancer. Even though he’d quit smoking years earlier, long before I met him.” She walked over to Beth, and stared at the dusted and polished shelves. “All those years of worrying,” she murmured, “of terrifying myself every time a knock sounded on the door. Only to lose him in a hospital. In a bed.”
The echo of past fears seemed to swell in the room, the pulse of fresh grief.
Suddenly, all those colorful spines seemed to suck the oxygen from the air. She was suffocating. Suffocating beneath the knowledge that somewhere across town four good men were most likely under fire. Possibly injured, or even dying.
Because in real life, people died who didn’t deserve it. Women were raped. Sons lost their fathers, and wives their husbands. In the real world, life wasn’t fair and you couldn’t count on a happy ending. Good men died. Families were fractured. Whether because of cancer, or a bullet in the family van, or submachine fire in some crappy little tract house across town, they died.
As though she understood Beth’s sudden panic, Marion Simcosky linked their arms and drew her into the warm kitchen, fragrant with the aroma of baking brownies.
“They’re Marcus’s favorite,” Marion confided, dropping Beth’s arm and picking up a pot holder. “The timing should be perfect. They’ll have cooled enough to eat by the time the boys return. No doubt they’ll have worked up an appetite.”
A bubble of hysteria formed in Beth’s throat. Worked up an appetite? As though they’d participated in some kind of extreme sports competition?
As Marion focused on the brownies, Beth turned to the sink. Her eyes were drawn to the window looking out over the backyard. On the other side of the glass, above a round table carved from some kind of reddish wood, hung a spiral set of metal wind chimes. They spun in the light breeze, rotating in and out, and an airy melody drifted through the kitchen window.
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