Going In Blind_Brotherhood Protectors World

by Kris Norris

  “Shit.”

  Why hadn’t he thought about a sniper? That maybe the person or people hunting her might be done trying to make it look like a random murder? That they would come at her with every resource at their disposal? He had measures in place—more than what he’d admitted to—but they wouldn’t be much help unless the shooter tried to access the property—come inside the damn house.

  Another shot. Closer than the last. Lower.

  Rigs slid off Addison, grabbing her hand as he leaned down. “Whoever wants you dead isn’t stopping. And your walls aren’t going to offer much protection. Bastard’s slicing through them like butter. We need to get out here.”

  “I have a Beretta in a lockbox in my bedroom.”

  “I’m fully loaded already, but your window might be the exit point we need. We can grab your weapon in the process.” He helped her onto her knees. “Stick to me like glue, sweetheart. And stay low.”

  She nodded, then they were off, crouching low, staying out of any sight lines from the windows. More bullets tracked their progress—had they gotten close enough to use a Range-R? Maybe a drone overhead beaming them information—and he had to grab her and launch them both through the doorway when one nearly clipped her arm.

  Rigs cushioned her fall as much as possible, ensuring her head didn’t hit the floor. “Stay here a second.”

  He darted to the dresser, tipped it over then angled it in front of them. It wasn’t much, but it might be enough to prevent full penetration.

  She turned toward him when he ducked down next to her. “Not sure the dresser will be enough.”

  Damn, she was good at reading his actions by sound. “Might make any hit non-fatal. Where’s your Beretta?”

  “Closet, top shelf on the right.”

  “Wait here.”

  He raced over, grabbed the box then returned, hitting hard when another bullet crashed through one of the walls. “Shit. There’re just too many external walls. What’s the code?”

  She rattled it off, and he opened the box, loading in a magazine then handing her the gun. She arched a brow, but he merely touched her hand.

  “You’ll have more accuracy with a weapon you’re familiar with. And after the way you took that creep down at the auction, I’ll trust you to have my back any day.”

  Her mouth hinged open, but she didn’t answer, cocking the gun then nodding at him.

  He looked at the window. It opened onto the opposite side of the house. Would hopefully give them enough time to get around to the front and in sight of his truck.

  He took her hand, again. “Okay, we’ll go out the window. You’ll focus on listening for anything behind us. We’ll head straight for the driveway. My truck’s not that far, and I can give us enough cover we should be able to reach it.”

  “Cover?”

  “I’ll explain once we’re there, just… Don’t stop moving, and do exactly what I say, when I say it. Understand?”

  “Crystal clear.”

  “That’s my girl. Okay. Let’s go.”

  He tugged her against his back, then he was moving. Five steps, and they were at the window, off to one side, bodies low. He checked the area then opened it, kicking out the screen and scanning the yard before lifting Addison and jumping through with her still in her arms. She gasped but didn’t resist, quickly gaining her balance once he’d placed her on his feet.

  He squeezed her hand, then they were off, again. Six seconds, and they’d reached the corner, backs against the wall, her body trapped behind his. He surveyed the walkway up the side of the house then started along it, already working through the steps he’d take if someone jumped out at them.

  Addison followed behind him, silent. Her body moving with ease despite the death grip he had on her hand. The quick pace. He silently reminded himself to praise her later as they made their way to a gate. He lifted the latch when she inhaled.

  He didn’t wait for her to warn him—spinning them both around, catching the guy racing across the backyard—the one who’d obviously disarmed Rigs’ trip wire. Who was quickly narrowing in on the walkway—pistol tucked at his shoulder, mask covering his face. The guy jerked, feet flying forward as he landed on his back. Motionless.

  Rigs took a step, searching for more tangos, when the gate flung open behind him. He tried to turn, but Addison was already moving—ducking low then stepping into the guy—swinging her arm up then around, knocking the guy off-balance. A quick sweep of one leg, and she had him onto his hands and knees, startled gasp sounding around him. She kicked the guy in the ass, landing on his back and smashing the butt of her Beretta across the back of his neck.

  Rigs moved in beside her, snagging her arm then helping her up. “Remind me not to piss you off. Let’s go.”

  He guided her through the gate, knocking the guy back down with a firm boot to the head when he tried to push onto his elbows. The bastard stilled.

  Another few seconds, and they’d made it to the front corner of the house. Rigs checked the area—nothing sounding around them but the wind blowing through the trees—rustling the leaves.

  No birds. No crickets.

  That was never a good sign. He’d been tracking time—twenty seconds. That’s how long it had been since the last shot. Which meant the fucker was probably on the move, too. Had figured out they were fleeing and was actively hunting them. And when his buddies didn’t check in…

  Not a problem. Getting to the driveway had been the hard part, but now… Now, the bastards were in Rigs’ playground. And Rigs didn’t play nice.

  He pulled out his phone, tugging Addison closer. “It’s about thirty feet to my truck. I’ll activate some countermeasures, then we’ll run. We’ll get in my side. Once I toss you in, you get low and stay low, got it? I’ll tell you when it’s clear.”

  “Countermeasures? I thought you only wired the place for visual effects?”

  “I may have forgotten to mention every detail.”

  “You didn’t forget.”

  “No. I didn’t. Ready?”

  He hit the number, pocked the cell, then waited.

  Two seconds, and a series of smoke grenades ignited along the driveway, quickly covering the area in a green haze.

  Four seconds, and the small charges he’d planted around the yard exploded, shooting chunks of dirt and rock into the air. Shouts rose above the other noises, followed by sirens blaring in the backyard as lights flashed in the setting sun.

  “Movement behind us. Run, now.”

  He took off, still staying low, gun at the ready, Addison’s hand firm in his. He followed a zigzagging pattern, unlocking the door several feet back. They hit the truck as shots rang out behind them, ricocheting off the grill.

  Rigs opened the door then bodily threw Addison in, ensuring her head was down before starting the truck. More bullets cracked the windshield, one breaking through and impacting the seat rest next to his head.

  He hit the gas pedal, squealing the tires as the truck shot backwards, smoke billowing out from the friction. He spun the wheel, executing a full one-eighty, then accelerated forward, jumping onto the road as the truck fishtailed to the left.

  The street was deserted, nothing but the setting sun glinting off the hood of the truck. He floored it, rounded the next bend then kept on going. This stretch was long. Nothing in the way of cover. He reached for Addison when a truck squealed out behind him, skidding onto the pavement in a spray of mud from some dirt path off to the left.

  He glanced in the rearview. The vehicle was black, tinted windows obscuring his view of the interior. The front bumper was bare, which meant the bastards had either stolen it or it wasn’t licensed.

  Had to be at cleanup crew—a second set of hired thugs sent to ensure no one survived. Or maybe for this exact situation. If they knew Rigs was shadowing Addison—that he hadn’t left her side. That he was ex-Special Forces. It might have changed their strategy. Might be the reason they’d disposed of the stealthy route—were attacking head on.

&
nbsp; It also meant it there was at least one mole in her department—someone who was privy to information that hadn’t been made public.

  A ping, then a shower of glass as the rear window shattered. Had to be at least two people in the truck—armed with a rifle if Rigs was correct.

  He glanced at Addy. “Bastards are persistent. I’ll grant them that much. Addison. I need you to take the wheel for a moment.”

  Addy shot up beside him, eyes wide, mouth hinged open. “You want me to what?”

  “I need you to hold it steady. So I can take out one of their tires.”

  “Great idea. Let the blind girl drive.”

  “Just for a few seconds. The road’s straight for at least a mile.” He squeezed her hand. “You’ve got this.”

  “Wait. Kent.”

  He placed her hands on the wheel then turned, lowering his window. Leaning out. Addison gasped, her knuckles blanching white around the leather wrapping. The truck shimmied, veering left then shifting back over.

  He ignored the motion. As long as she didn’t steer them into a ditch, he could adapt. And she wouldn’t. She might doubt herself, but he didn’t.

  Addy mumbled something in the background—probably cursing at him—the truck shimmying, again, before steadying. Rigs focused on the other truck. On the tires spinning across the pavement. The direction the wind tipped the bushes over on the other side of the road. Anticipating any possible redirection as he lined up his target.

  The bastards kept firing, hitting his tailgate. The mirror just off to his right. A couple more flying through the cabin. God, if one of them hit Addison…

  Rigs steadied his hand then fired. Hit wide the first time when the driver veered right—sending a chunk of dirt into the air. The next shot blew a hole in the grill, tendrils of steam rising out of the hood.

  “Kent.”

  Damn, he hated the hint of fear in her voice, not that he could blame her. He’d be shitting his pants if their positions were reversed. Which just made him love her more. “You’re doing great. Just another couple of seconds, sweetheart.”

  Rigs aimed, again—waiting for the bastard behind him to shift in anticipation—then squeezed the trigger. The front tire popped then flattened, careening the truck off the side and across a stretch of gravel.

  Kent didn’t waste time watching. Didn’t entertain the thought of stopping—confronting the men here. Now. Not when he couldn’t guarantee Addison’s safety. When others could be on the way—trailing behind. Ready to attack as soon as he turned around.

  Instead, he slipped back in, taking the wheel from Addison. Her fingers stayed locked beside his, her harsh pants filling the cabin.

  Rigs placed one hand over hers. “It’s okay, Addy. You can let go.”

  She sucked in a few gasping breaths then uncurled her fingers. It seemed to take her a few tries before she finally let go, clasping her hands in her lap.

  He reached for her. “You did great.”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t tip the damn truck over.” She focused on him, color high on her cheekbones. “Don’t do that, again. I could have leaned out the window. Taken a few shots. At least, I wouldn’t have risked your life.”

  “Not chancing they would fire directly at you.”

  “Right, because killing us both was a much better plan. And what the hell happened to Russel’s theory that my survival instincts kicked in whenever I was in mortal danger? How was this not life-threatening enough to make me see?”

  “Guess you were more confident than you thought.” He frowned when she huffed, then hissed as she grabbed her side. “You okay?”

  “Fine. My side just stings a bit.”

  Dread settled in his stomach as he looked down. “Lift your arm.”

  “Kent. I’m fine. Concentrate on the road.”

  “Addison. Please, lift your arm.”

  He considered it a miracle he’d kept his tone even. That he hadn’t yelled—pulled the truck over—because if his suspicions were right…

  Addison grunted but obeyed, revealing a slash of red against her blue tank.

  “Fuck.”

  “What?”

  “You’re hit. Lift your tank.”

  “Hit? I don’t remember…” Her breath left as a raspy curse. “Damn.”

  Rigs stared at the long line across her ribs—the one oozing blood down her creamy skin—and had to fight not to scream. Not to turn around—finish off the bastards in the truck because he was going to make them pay.

  Addison touched the area. “It’s just a graze.”

  “It’s a fucking bullet wound. Shit!”

  “I barely feel it. Honestly.”

  “Don’t care. I swore you wouldn’t get a scratch, and…” And he’d fucking failed.

  Her hand settled on his. “You were incredible.”

  He grunted, knowing if he answered he’d say all the wrong things. Instead, he pulled out his phone—hit Ice’s number.

  His buddy answered on the second ring. “We were just heading out. Wanted to give you and Addison a bit of alone time.” Ice cleared his throat. “You did make up, right?”

  “They’ve switched tactics. They’re using snipers. A crew of men.”

  “Report.” Any lightness had left the man’s voice.

  “Got pinned down inside her house. We managed to make it to the truck. Left a couple on the ground at her place. A few more on the side of the road in an unmarked black truck, but Addison’s been hit.”

  “Lay it out for me, Rigs.”

  “Left side. Doesn’t look life-threatening, but…” But he’d allowed her to get hurt. And that ate at him.

  Addison found his hand—took his phone. “Russel? It’s Addison. I’m fine, just a scratch down my ribs. I’m not even sure it’s from a bullet. I probably cut myself on some glass.”

  Rigs huffed, easing the phone out of her hand. “It’s a bullet wound. She’s just being…stubborn.”

  Russel sighed. “Where are you guys?”

  “Headed your way. I’ll make sure no one’s following us, but… We need intel. Something to go on. I can adapt, keep eliminating the threats, but…” But her getting grazed was a direct result of having to constantly shift gears. And with her not being able to see anything coming until it was on top of her… Like it or not, she was at greater risk. Despite taking the guy out. Holding her own.

  He blew out an exasperated breath. “Whoever’s after her has far more resources than we thought. First, C4. Now, sniper rifles and suspected thermal or UWB imaging resources. Probable drones. Vehicles I’m betting can’t be traced. And they’ve obviously been watching her place. Waited until there were only the two of us there—gave us just enough time to get cocky.”

  “Cannon’s on his way. Hank and Sam are already here. We’ll figure this out. But either way, we’ll find you someplace safe. You risked your ass for Harlequin. For me. We’ve got your back. In the meantime, keep pressure on the wound. I’ll take care of everything once you get here. How long?”

  “Twenty minutes. But I’ll make it in just over ten.”

  “Roger. And Rigs… We’ll keep Addison safe.”

  Rigs cut off the call. He didn’t want to be reminded how he’d already let Addison down.

  “Kent. Stop.”

  He frowned, glancing over at her, before removing his shirt. He never bared his chest outside, but Addison’s welfare was more important than someone seeing his scars. Reacting to them.

  He wadded it up, pressing it against her wound. “Hold that tight. And we can’t stop.”

  She hissed out a breath as she took the shirt from him. “I meant stop blaming yourself. We’re both fine—”

  “You were shot.”

  She sighed, then slid over, resting her head on his shoulder. “And I thought cops were stubborn. You were amazing. But you can’t cover every angle, every second we’re at risk. If my damn sight had just kicked in—”

  “You took that bastard down without missing a beat. Couldn’t be prouder,
sweetheart.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Keep the pressure on. We’ll be at Russel’s soon. And he’s real good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m the lucky one. Rest, like Ice said. We’ll figure this out.”

  If it took Rigs venturing out—taking the fight to them, he was ready. They’d made it personal. And not just for him. Russel. Sam. Hank. Even Cannon. They were brothers. Family that went deeper than blood. And they wouldn’t stop until the men were caught—dead or alive.

  Chapter 16

  Addison sat in a chair, one arm braced on Russel’s kitchen counter, the other snugged to her chest. Kent had insisted on carrying her inside—muttering something about blood loss. About her saving her strength. Despite the fact it wasn’t even that bad. After being shot three times—getting caught in an explosion—a four-inch groove down her side barely registered. Sure, it stung, but not the way Kent had worked it up inside his head.

  Though, she suspected he would have reacted like that to any kind of injury. A bump on the head. A bruised elbow. A damn splinter. Somehow, he would have found a way to take the blame. To find fault in his actions. When in reality, he’d saved her ass.

  Again.

  Addison groaned inwardly. The situation had quickly gotten out-of-hand. How she’d ended up on someone’s hit list, she wasn’t sure. She stuck to her original argument. She still didn’t remember what had happened the night of the raid. Couldn’t have outed anyone, even if there was a fellow officer or group of people abusing their power—acting as if they were above the law. It would have made more sense if she’d been targeted shortly afterwards—when the chances of regaining her memory, her vision, had been fairly high. But after all this time…

  Despite the flashes, the possibility of a full recovery, she was losing faith. If Russel was right, her damn vision should have kicked in while they were running to Kent’s truck. Or at least, when he’d asked her to take the wheel. Over fifteen years of driving under her belt, and she’d never been so terrified trying to steer a vehicle. Though she’d locked her arms as best she could, lest she risk inadvertently redirecting the truck, all she’d been able to do was picture what would happen if she drove off the road. All the ways Kent could die.