by Mallory Kane
“When I say go, you count to three, then let the dogs go and I’ll make a run for the back door.”
“Your tail better be on fire, ’cause if I give my girls the word, I can’t control ’em until the frenzy dies down.”
“Count to three, Felton. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Go!”
Lucas shoved his phone in his back pocket as he pushed away from the tree and sprinted through the underbrush toward the house. He held his weapon in his right hand, ready to shoot.
A split second later he heard the unmistakable howls of seven dogs on a scent. He pumped his legs as hard as he could.
Felton had ordered the dogs to attack, and attack they would, without regard to who were the good guys and who were the bad.
He heard the sniper’s squeal and knew he’d sighted seven sets of bared teeth. Under the noise of the dogs, Lucas heard the double blast of Felton’s shotgun. It excited the dogs, who growled and howled even louder.
Just about the time the sniper’s squeal died down, Lucas spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. He was already running as fast as he could, but at the sight of three dogs bearing down on him, he pushed harder.
Growls and yelps filled his ears until he heard nothing else. Felton was probably still firing, but all Lucas heard was his own breath, the pounding of his heart and the dogs. As he crossed the last few yards toward the back steps of the cabin, he was sure he felt the hot breath of the hounds on his heels.
As he vaulted up the steps and slammed open the screen door, another sound joined the cacophony. It was the piercing squeal of sirens.
Damn it. He’d told them no sirens.
His shoulder hit the wooden porch floor first. He rolled, coming up hard against the kitchen door with a grunt of pain.
But there was no time to stop and lick his wounds. He had to get through the kitchen door before the dogs caught him. He rolled to his feet and grabbed the knob, twisting it open.
Two huge Doberman mixes slammed through the screen door as if it were paper and hit the thick wooden kitchen door just as Lucas had it almost shut. He put all his weight against it.
The Dobermans nearly outweighed him. It was pure luck that one of them backed up to charge again at the very instant he exerted his last ounce of strength to close the door.
Without stopping to glance back through the glass panes, Lucas whirled. The kitchen was empty, as he’d expected. If Picone had been in the room, Lucas wouldn’t have made it this far.
In the back of his mind he registered several separate yet almost indistinguishable sounds—sirens, screams, frenzied yelps and barks, as he moved with quiet stealth into the long hall that stretched the entire length of the house.
Where the hell are they?
He triple-checked his weapon and held it ready as he slipped from one doorway to another down the hall. He checked the rooms on the other side of the hallway—the dining room and the living room—as he made his slow way down the hall. He rounded the facings of each bedroom door as he passed, but nothing.
Finally, there was only one room left—the master bedroom. The room where he and Angela had made love just last night.
The lowlife had her in there—waiting for him. After all the commotion, he had to know that Lucas was in the house.
Lucas stopped at the edge of the door, pressing his back against the wall and holding his gun ready to angle around and take a bead on the bastard who was holding Angela—hurting her.
He stood there, trying to control his breathing as he pictured the layout of the room. Angela had screamed twice, but suddenly the house was ominously silent.
What if they weren’t in there? What if Tony had taken Angela outside? What if he was even now headed toward his vehicle?
If Tony tried to get away, he’d be facing the dogs, Felton’s shotgun and the police. But Lucas knew there was another possibility. A real, grim possibility.
What if Picone had already killed her?
A pain worse than anything Lucas had ever felt in his life pierced his chest at that thought. No. Focus!
She was alive. She had to be. He’d know if she were gone.
With a deep breath, he whirled around the door facing, his weapon pointed at the head of the bed. The image in front of him stole what little breath he had left in his body.
There, on the bed, was a grotesque sight. Angela, bound with duct tape, lay with her back against a small dark man Lucas recognized. He’d seen him at the sidewalk café. He was still dressed in that outrageous bowling shirt and blue baseball cap.
With stunning clarity, Lucas realized what had bothered him about the man when he’d seen him at the café. He’d seen a baseball cap on the table. That blue Chicago Cubs cap. And Lucas had missed it.
The little jerk held a switchblade, the point of which was inserted in Angela’s left nostril. And he was smiling.
Lucas froze with his gun pointed at Picone’s head.
“Lucas Delancey. We’ve been waiting for you. Haven’t we, Angela?”
Angela’s dark irises were completely surrounded by white. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly. But she didn’t move a muscle.
Lucas could see that if her head moved even a fraction of an inch, the switchblade would slice through her nostril.
“Oh, that’s right. You don’t want to take the chance of speaking. Do you, Angela? If you move your head, it might hurt.” He looked at Lucas. “Why don’t you relax a minute while I fill you in on what your girlfriend and I have been talking about. You’ll be more comfortable if you drop that gun.”
The man’s voice was calm, conversational—maddeningly so. Lucas’s trigger finger twitched. He wanted nothing more than to shift his gun the millimeter or two it would take to get a bead on his head and squeeze the trigger.
But Tony was poised, ready to jerk Angela’s body into position in front of him.
If Lucas tried to shoot him, he could easily shoot Angela.
“I can’t do that, Tony. I’m going to need it.”
Picone’s left arm moved on Angela’s body until it rested on her right breast.
A tear formed in her eye and slipped down her cheek. She never took her gaze off Lucas.
“If you don’t, I’ll have to slice her nose off. You’ll scream for me again, won’t you?” Picone stage-whispered in her ear.
The son of a bitch had made her scream.
Lucas wished with all his heart he had some kind of reassurance to give her, but he didn’t. He was helpless. No matter what he did, he was going to end up getting her horribly injured or killed.
“The police are outside,” he said in what he hoped was an authoritarian voice.
“I heard them. Do I look like I care?” the man replied.
“What are you planning to do? It’s not like you can just get up and walk out.”
“I’m not planning to. I’m sitting right here until I get word from Chicago that the charges have been dropped against Papa, and he has walked out of prison a free man, with—what do they call it?—jeopardy attached, so they can never try him again.”
“You know that’s not going to happen.”
Picone slid the tip of the switchblade out of Angela’s nostril.
She sighed in relief just as Picone moved the knife to rest against her neck. Lucas stared at the glistening length of steel. He hoped Angela didn’t know that the sharp blade was near her carotid artery.
She might be breathing easier, but she was in no less danger than she had been—more in fact. If Picone slit her nostril, it would be horrifying, but not lethal. If he slit her carotid, she’d die.
Lucas sighted down the barrel of his Sig and took a bead on Picone’s head. “How long do you think you can hold that knife like that?”
“As long as you can hold that gun like that.”
Lucas frowned to himself. There was something not quite right about Tony Picone. He really seemed not to care about the cops outside or Lucas’s gun pointed at his head.
“I can call ADA Harcourt and see what’s going on with your father.”
“Right. You can do that, and good old Brad’ll say anything he has to say to save his sister, right?” Picone shook his head. “No. I’m staying right here until somebody proves to me that Papa is free.”
“What then?” Lucas asked. “You’ll never get out of here. Whether you let Angela go or not, you’re either a dead man or you’re going to prison. Just put the knife down and we can all walk out there. I’ll testify that you cooperated.”
The knife pressed harder against Angela’s neck. Lucas saw infinitesimal beads of blood appear on the bright metal of the knife. Impotent fury sent nausea crawling up the back of his throat.
“Nope. Can’t do that,” Tony said. “You don’t get it, do you? I don’t care what happens to me, as long as Papa knows I’m the one who got him set free.”
“Do you care what happened to your buddy outside?”
Tony’s eyes darted past Lucas for a split second. He did.
“He’s sure good with that rifle. I heard somewhere that your brother Paulo is a crack shot.” Lucas paused. “Ah. I get it. Papa sent your big brother to babysit you.”
The black eyes snapped. Lucas had him. “Did you hear the dogs?” he said conversationally. “A friend of mine has them trained to attack.”
Picone’s gaze darted toward the back of the house, then back to meet Lucas’s.
“So if there is anything left of your brother after the dogs got through with him, the police have him in custody—or in a body bag.”
Lucas dared to meet Angela’s gaze. Her eyes flickered—could have been with abject fear, he didn’t know. He nodded his head no more than a half millimeter. He hoped Angela saw it. He hoped she believed his implied lie—that everything was okay, that he was going to save her.
“I’m tired of listening to you, Lucas,” Tony said. “You offered to call Harcourt. Do it. See if he has any news for me.”
Lucas shook his head. “I’m waiting for the police. As soon as they load up your brother, they’ll come storming in here and it’ll be all over for you.”
Tony shook his head and laughed. “Don’t you get it? It’s all over for me anyway. But you’re not going to be able to stand what will happen when the police come charging in, because at that instant, it will all be over for your girlfriend here.”
Lucas’s throat was dry as a bone. He wanted to swallow, to lick his lips, but he knew those were classic body language signs of nervousness, and the last message he wanted to send to Picone or to Ange was that he was deathly afraid that Picone was telling the truth.
The sound of heavy boots echoed on the hardwood floors.
Tony jerked and Angela cried out in pain as two more beads of blood appeared on her neck.
“That’s the police,” Lucas said, gritting his teeth. Tony Picone was going to pay for hurting her.
A shadow caught his attention from the area of the deck. He did his best not to move a muscle—not even an eye muscle. He hoped like hell Tony didn’t notice the policeman who had stepped up onto the deck. Not until Lucas was ready for him to.
Trust me, he silently begged Angela. Trust me.
“You’re surrounded, Tony. The cops are coming in the back door, and they’re all around the cabin. That means Paulo’s dead. What’s your papa going to think when he finds out you got Paulo killed?”
Tony’s eyes widened and his knife-hand shook. “That’s a lie. Paulo’s not dead. He can’t be—” he stopped as his gaze snapped to the French doors. He’d spotted the cop. Sweat popped out his forehead.
It was Lucas’s only chance. Praying for the strength to hold his hand steady, he squeezed the trigger. A tiny red hole appeared in the center of Picone’s forehead. He made a small, guttural sound and the knife nicked Angela’s skin, drawing more blood.
Wood shattered as the policeman broke in the cypress door from the deck.
A keening cry erupted from Angela’s throat. Tony’s body went slack and the switchblade tumbled to the bed beside her.
Two uniformed officers stormed through the hall door. Lucas didn’t even look at them. He vaulted toward the bed and lifted Angela away from Picone’s dead body. He carried her out of the room and down the hall to the kitchen.
Her entire body was stiff with tension, and beneath her skin, Lucas could feel the uncontrollable trembling of her muscles. He whispered to her.
“It’s okay, Ange. He’s dead. You’re safe.”
But all she did was stare at him. Then when he took out his knife to cut the duct tape, she cringed.
“Ange, don’t,” he pleaded softly. “I’ve got to get this tape off you, okay? The longer it stays the worse it will tear your skin.”
He worked quickly, dismayed that she just sat without moving, without a single protest other than a gasp of pain when he had to jerk a piece of tape as he cut and peeled the duct tape away from her skin and clothes. In several places, the adhesive abraded her skin.
He worked in silence, until one of the officers came into the kitchen and ordered him to stop.
“You’re tampering with evidence,” the officer said.
“I’m Detective Lucas Delancey, Dallas P.D.,” Lucas answered. “I’ll hold the duct tape for your forensics people, but Ange—Angela Grayson is the victim. I’m not about to make her sit her all tied up for hours.”
“Yes, sir.” The words were faintly grudging. “The crime scene investigators and the coroner are on their way. They should be here in a few minutes.”
“What about EMTs?”
The officer nodded.
“And the sniper outside?”
The officer shook his head. “Damnedest thing. We originally called the EMTs for him. Apparently he tangled with Felton’s dogs. Of course, there’s no sign of the girls or Felton out there. But if that’s what happened, he’s lucky to be alive.”
The officer glanced quickly at Angela. “How’s—”
Lucas nodded briefly. “She’ll be okay,” he said, knowing he was lying. In truth, he had no idea how she was, because she still hadn’t spoken.
Once he’d disposed of the last of the tape, her hand tentatively touched her neck, where rivulets of blood marred her skin. She met his gaze and opened her mouth to speak, but the only sound that came out was a small gasping sob.
“Shh,” he muttered, giving her an encouraging smile. “It’s just a scratch. Won’t even leave a scar.”
Then, with dread and fear clogging his throat, he took her hands in his. “Ange? Are you hurt anywhere else? Did he—hurt you?”
She met his gaze, her chocolate eyes swimming with tears.
Lucas couldn’t breathe as he waited for her answer.
She shook her head and relief washed over him. Just then, the kitchen door slammed open and an emergency medical technician carrying an emergency kit came in. Lucas moved aside as the technician pulled a chair up and began examining Angela.
Then the local police captain entered, and Lucas was forced to leave Angela with the EMT and head back to the bedroom, where he was questioned about everything that had happened.
By the time he got back to the kitchen, Angela was gone.
Chapter Seventeen
Angela stood in the middle of her living room, looking around her. Nothing was out of place, but nothing looked right, either.
She shook her head. When she’d moved in to this apartment, she’d loved it. The hardwood floors, the French doors, the quaint balcony and the view of the French Quarter.
Now, there was no way she could stay here another night. And she wasn’t sure if she was going to be able to look at that couch, or her bed, or that clock over her dresser ever again. She might as well just leave everything here and start over, with new furniture in a new place that nobody had ever watched through a spy cam.
She shuddered at the thought and touched the bandage on her neck. She’d come here to get her book bag and some clothing to take back to the hotel with her. It was unbel
ievable that it was only Sunday evening. She’d been spied on, shot at, nearly blown up, kidnapped, had a knife held to her throat and been three inches from the bullet that had killed the man who was trying to kill her, and yet she still could make her last exam tomorrow morning, if she wanted to.
A bone-cracking shudder racked her.
No. That cushy job with a premier hotel chain would have to wait. There was no way she’d be able to even hold a pen steady enough to write, much less answer questions.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, she picked up the book bag and the small suitcase she’d packed and turned toward her open hall door.
Lucas was standing there.
“May I come in?” he asked.
Angela braced herself for the familiar aching desire that accompanied her every glimpse of him. It hit her, just like always.
But this time the ache felt deeper, stronger. Not only did she lust after Lucas, as she had ever since that long-ago kiss, but now a sweet knowledge colored the sensations with richer, more complex tones. Now she knew how it felt to make love with him. And she knew, because of that, it was going to be that much harder to watch him walk away.
“Sure,” she said a little belatedly. “Are you doing okay?”
“I came here to ask you that. You look good. Those bruises almost match your pink shirt. Too bad they couldn’t have given you pink tape.”
“Yeah.” She looked down at herself. “Color-co-or-di-nated bandages. Good idea. Maybe I should go into business.”
This was awkward. Please, just say what you want to say and go. The longer he stood there, looking all handsome and strong and wounded, the more deeply his image would be implanted in her brain, and the harder it would be to forget him.
“Ange? Are you all right? Do you need me to do anything?” Lucas’s green eyes were soft as the sea as he scrutinized her.
“Fine. I’m fine. And I can—”
“Take care of yourself. I know.” A brief shadow darkened his gaze. “It’s just—you’ve been through a lot.”
“Me? What about you? I didn’t get shot or knocked down by an explosion or showered with broken glass or—”
“No. You just got pistol-whipped, trussed with tape and cut. You just got nearly killed.”