I’m nervous when an ambulance shows up next, worried the perp’s going to be whisked away, but right behind it is a dark, unmarked car. Two Secret Service agents emerge from it. I don’t recognize either, but they have a short conversation with the EMT workers before heading toward the cops.
Their conversation is remarkably brief, and the police turn astonished eyes toward me.
Next, the handcuffs are removed and I’m meeting SS Agent Mike Hamricher. We shake hands, and he tells me, “I was sent here on orders of the president. The ambulance will take that guy wherever you want.”
Said guy is being loaded into the back of the vehicle. I ask Hamricher, “Will he survive a trip to Pittsburgh?”
Shrugging, he gestures to the EMTs “Let’s find out.”
Turns out, the bullet went clean through the muscle of his thigh, although I certainly wasn’t trying for that. Just wanted to bring him down without using a kill shot. I leave Hamricher in charge of the final details of what will go in the police report and directing the transport of the suspect to the Jameson offices in Pittsburgh. If Hamricher thinks any of this is strange or intriguing, he doesn’t show it. I have no clue what President Alexander ordered him to do, but I’m grateful for Kynan’s quick work getting this organized.
After retrieving my pistol from the police, I give a final handshake to Hamricher and head to Barrett’s brownstone.
One thing is for sure—she’s not safe here anymore.CHAPTER 7BarrettSitting at my desk in my living room office, I stare at my folded hands. One of the Jameson guys is at the front door, peering out the side window with his gun drawn. The other is somewhere at the back of the house.
For the first time in what seems to be forever, I’m not even thinking about work. No interest in my formulas or dreaming about energy.
Nope. All I can think about is the crack of a gunshot that drowned out the music in my ears and a man falling helplessly to my feet with a hole in his leg. When I’d looked over my shoulder at Cruce, I’d been terrified by the expression on his face.
Cold, hard, vindictive.
He shot that man.
Deep down, I know he did it to protect me, and there is comfort in that. But the fact I am in serious danger comes crashing down on me. I don’t think I actually believed it until now.
I focus on my fingers, which are tightly laced. When I loosen them, my hands immediately start shaking, so I clasp them hard together once again.
The front door opens, the Jameson man steps backward, and Cruce enters. I can’t even appreciate how great he looks in a gray t-shirt and loose shorts with his strong, tanned legs. When he sweeps his gaze around, it finally lands on me.
He jerks his head, indicating I should come to him. “We need to get packed up.”
I slowly rise from my desk, my legs feeling rubbery. “Packed up?”
“You can’t stay here,” he says, impatiently striding toward me. He grabs my arm, then leads me from the room and up the staircase while my head spins with the implications.
“But I can’t leave,” I mutter as I blindly follow. “My work.”
“You can work from your laptop,” he snaps, steering me right into my bedroom. He releases his hold on me, rifles through my closet, and pulls out a suitcase, which he tosses on my bed. When he sees I’m not moving, he barks, “Let’s go, Barrett. Get whatever shit you need from the bathroom.”
I feel like I’m in a dream, things swirling slowly through my fogged brain. I’m having a tough time comprehending the situation. I watch as Cruce goes to my drawers and starts pulling clothes out, tossing them in the suitcase.
He snaps his head up, eyebrows furrowed, and growls. “Barrett… let’s go. Move.”
“Don’t bark at me like I’m a soldier in your army,” I finally manage to say, although my feet start moving toward the bathroom.
He doesn’t reply, and I let it go. I have no clue what the rush is, but what I do know is Cruce just most likely saved my life, so if he’s feeling an urgency to leave, I need to respect that.
I bend over to grab my makeup case from under the cabinet. Suddenly, pain slices across my left rib cage.
“Damn,” I hiss as I straighten, pulling my tank up so I can see what in the blazes caused it.
The entire left side of my ribs is scraped with mottled bruising underneath. It all comes back in a rush—when Cruce shot the man and he fell into my path, I’d careened out of control and ran into a cement porch railing. I’m not sure I felt it then, but I can clearly see—and feel—the results of the impact now.