“Bernie’s hit. Wounded, at least.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
Thatcher knew that wasn’t true. He was breathing like a man who’d been hit. But where? How bad? He couldn’t ask without also giving Croft the advantage of knowing.
“Bill, can you cover me?”
There was a grunt, then, “Ready.”
Thatcher sprang up and sprinted over to the staircase.
There was no sign of Laurel. Not below, midway, or above.
* * *
She tumbled. On her way down, one body part or another struck every tread of the steep staircase. She landed hard. The wind was knocked out of her.
“Laurel!”
The first time Thatcher had called out to her, Hennessy’s hand had been over her mouth. She couldn’t respond this time, either, because she hadn’t regained her breath. And Gert had been waiting for her at the bottom of the staircase.
She crammed a sour dishcloth into Laurel’s mouth and lifted her off the floor. The madam was more solidly built even than Hennessy and seemed twice as strong. She was certainly as mean and merciless.
Laurel struggled, but without the use of her arms, and with every inch of her body pulsing in pain, she was virtually defenseless. But she’d be damned before she gave up.
In an attempt to get Thatcher’s attention, she banged her heels against the hardwood floor. But, as she did, gunfire exploded, seeming to come from all directions at once and drowning out the sound.
Gert hit her on the temple with the barrel of the shotgun, dazing her. She had the will but not the coordination to resist when she was dragged past the bar, into a narrow passage, and through a door. The area into which Gert shoved her was darker, cooler, and smelled of booze.
Head still reeling, she realized that she was in Lefty’s infamous back room.
In the front room, Thatcher was in a gunfight. Thatcher could die.
That prospect was more terrifying to her than the actuality of Gert, who was standing over her, loading shells into her shotgun. When she snapped it closed, she crammed the barrels beneath Laurel’s chin.
And Laurel’s last thought: I love Thatcher.
* * *
Thatcher stared at the emptiness at the bottom of the staircase.
Laurel was unhurt. She’d gotten herself to safety.
No. If she’d been able to respond to his shouts, she would have. Unless she hadn’t wanted to give away her position to…Gert.
Gert hadn’t been behind the bar reloading. She’d abandoned Bernie to fight it out with Bill while she was settling her grudge against Laurel.
But if Gert had fired the shotgun, he would have heard it. Laurel would be dead at the bottom of the stairs. Gert had a reason for keeping Laurel alive.
Hostage.
Okay, so where had Gert taken her?
The back room. Had to be.
Thatcher processed all this within a millisecond. By the time he’d completed the last thought, he was already moving in the direction of the back room. But as he reached the open space at the end of the bar, he was met with a hail of bullets.