He eased out the back door of the guest house, his senses keenly attuned to every sound, every flickering shadow. Dark of the moon, he thought gratefully. He wouldn’t have much light to see, but neither would his foes. And he’d been trained by the best. The night was his ally.
He made his way around the back of the guest house, the way he, Alec and Liam had trained in their spare time, in endless variations. Knowing that if time was of the essence, they needed to be prepared to react instantly. Moving through the shadows, he quickly worked his way to the back door off the kitchen, and unlocked it with his key.
This time Trace cursed mentally when he saw the active alarm had been turned off, but he didn’t waste any seconds thinking about what that meant, just headed for the princess’s bedroom at the back of the house. Even before he got there he saw the door gaping open, and two of the princess’s Zakharian bodyguards bound, gagged and out cold beside it. He stealthily made his way toward the open door, flattening himself against the wall just outside.
Eyes flicking every which way, Trace listened intently for sounds from the room, but heard nothing...until the princess gasped. He gripped his gun with both hands to steady his aim, and swung into the open doorway in a two-handed firing stance, confronting the room’s occupants. “Federal agent—freeze!”
Two lithe men dressed all in black, with hoods over their heads that concealed everything except for slits for their eyes, stood beside the princess’s bed. But she wasn’t in it. One of the men easily held her captive with a gun to her head. The second man was crossing her wrists and binding her hands.
Then a third man stepped forward from the shadows beside the bed, taller than the other two but dressed exactly like them. Drawing a knife that glittered in the faint light. Eight inches of wicked steel.
“Drop the gun,” the third man hissed at Trace.
“No!” The princess struggled against the arms holding her until the barrel of the gun was pressed against her temple. Trace couldn’t see her expression in the darkness, but despite her brave front he knew she had to be terrified.
He considered his options in the space of three heartbeats, and discarded them all except one. He raised his hands in a universal gesture of surrender, then flicked the safety back on his gun and slowly lowered his gun hand until he could drop his weapon on the carpeted floor.
“Kick it away,” the man with the knife ordered, still in that whispered hiss, and Trace obeyed. The gun was still threatening the princess, but Trace knew this wasn’t an assassination attempt. If it was the princess would be dead already. Kidnapping, he thought, his mind going on autopilot. But that was bad enough. When trapped, kidnappers could be just as deadly as assassins. And if they managed to escape with their victim the odds of recovering the victim alive weren’t good. Especially not when the victim was an adult and able to testify.
The problem was, he didn’t know how many of them there were besides these three. And the meaning of the disabled alarm was flashing a warning signal in his mind. Inside job. He remembered the princess saying, “There is always a chance that this man is not loyal, or that man carries a secret agenda. Even within my own household, within my own bodyguards, who can say for sure?”
But the Boulder police were on the way. Time, Trace thought. If I can stall them long enough...
“You’re not taking her out of here,” he told the man with the knife, his voice cold and determined.
“Who is to stop us?” the man hissed. “You?”
Trace didn’t answer. He merely moved fractionally so the men would have to pass him to get to the door, but at the same time making sure he could see if someone else tried to enter the room.
A shadowy movement from the open doorway and a pssst drew the attention of the three kidnappers as well as Trace. The sound was followed by one word in Zakharan, “Police!”
The taller man, obviously the leader, slipped into place behind the princess and took control, one powerful arm encircling her waist. He still held the knife in his other hand—not directly touching the princess anywhere, but a definite threat. He made a motion with his head and the other two men slid obediently from the room. Trace let them go, his attention riveted on the princess and the man holding her prisoner.
When the others were safely out of reach, their faint footsteps no longer audible, the third man moved blindingly fast. He pushed the princess toward the bed and darted for the door, but Trace was already waiting for him. The knife slashed once and Trace danced back out of range, then closed on the man, grasping the man’s knife hand above the wrist in an iron grip. The two men were equally matched in strength and determination. And while the black garbed man had the knife, Trace had seen a gun held to the head of the woman he loved and had seen her threatened with the knife held by this man—his repressed fury over those images coalesced into a steely resolve not to let this man escape, too.