“A few more hours won’t kill anyone.”
Chapter 9
Emmaline reached over to curl into Peirce. But there was no one there. Instead there was a whisper of sound near the dresser, a quiet, metallic slide followed by an ominous click.
“Don’t move,” Peirce said, his voice so hushed she almost couldn’t hear it over the nervous pounding of her heart.
Then, faintly, from the garage, she heard the door swinging open.
Someone was in the apartment.
Peirce moved silently toward the living room, the intermittent lighting through the blinds accenting the efficient play of his muscles. She followed him without thought, wrapping the sheet tightly around herself.
He made a quick check of the front door—still locked with no sign of tampering—then moved toward the kitchen. He paused for only a moment at the edge of the half-wall. His shoulders bunched, his gun rose and he turned sharply around the corner.
She heard the gunshot, saw the flash illuminate Peirce’s face in all its deadly rage. The other man had already knocked the gun to the side, his fingers curling on Peirce’s wrist. Peirce dropped the gun and went with the movement, freeing himself in a split-second.
Their bodies met with a meaty slap, air exploding from their lungs as punches, elbows, knees hit their marks. She couldn’t follow it all between the speed and the darkness.
One second, Peirce was ducking the man’s grab, the next he was grunting as he took an elbow to the side. They crashed through the kitchen table, hit a wall. Peirce got a hold and threw the man at the half-wall, landing one-two-three fast punches to the man’s kidneys.
A low kick to the knee stopped his assault, but he was back up before the man could gain a better position on him. Dip right, feint left, dodging punches and grabs. His body was coiled, ready to explode.
He was just waiting for the right moment.
The man’s punch was a half-second too slow. A swift jerk and the man was dragged close to Peirce, who wrapped a forearm around the thigh, the other forearm a band around the man’s chest. A quick lift, a quicker drop, a deep, wet crackling and the man gave a strangled wheeze. Peirce rolled the body forward off his knee, sinking to the side, taking up his gun again, expression blank, unruffled, as he rose.
Two shots.
The man wasn’t moving. Wasn’t twitching.
Calmly, Peirce stood over him.
One more shot to the head.
Her shoulders jerked at the sound.
Peirce looked at her, battle haze fading, face tautening, anger seeping into his features.
“I told you to stay in the bedroom.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, nauseous from the heavy scent of death.
He just glared at her and ejected the clip of the pistol. A quick check and it was returned to the gun. “Go pack.”
“Okay.”
But she couldn’t move, even when he brushed past her to prepare himself for their evacuation. She watched him from the doorway, unnerved at how quickly he got combat-ready. Seeing him in the body armour took her back to their first meeting. When he was wearing his gear, he was an untouchable, arrogant prick again. Until he looked back at her and she saw the corners of his mouth soften just a bit. That was new.
He helped her get dressed. Helped her pack. Made sure he was within touching distance at all times, reassuring her with his domineering presence, even if he was still so upset he didn’t speak.
It was a comfort despite his fresh cuts, livid bruises and almost electric anger.
He took her makeshift bag—formerly his Lawman’s standard issue duffel—and her hand and led her past the man lying in a pool of his own blood on the concrete floor. They moved through the part of the garage she was familiar with into another section, one where several different vehicles were parked. She could see where the garage door had been raised just a bit, enough for the man to slip through.
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“That cost a bit,” he muttered.