She might have tried to grab for the pistol in the hopes of stopping him without causing him further pain. She might have, if he hadn’t muttered his next words: “I’m coming soon, Mother. We all are. To serve you on Mount Olympus.”
That clinched it.
Self-preservation took over. So did her Krav Maga training.
Fisting her left hand, Sloane delivered a devastating blow to the back of Luke’s neck where his brain stem lay beneath the skin. Without pausing, she followed her left punch with a strike from her right elbow to the same spot on his neck. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew her abilities. She’d knocked him momentarily unconscious.
As if on cue, Luke slumped to the floor, making her job that much easier. She caught his shoulders as he went down. There was no time to waste. She had no idea how long he’d stay unconscious.
Using the core strength she’d built up over years of training, Sloane pulled Luke toward the post at the foot of Lillian’s bed. She forced him into an upright position, propping his back against the bed. She then untied the rope that was looped around her waist as a chiton belt. Fortunately, it was thick and sturdy. Yanking it off, she used it to tie Luke’s feet securely together. Then she pulled both of his arms behind him and around the bedpost. Once they were in position, she untied the rope belt from his chiton, and used it to bind his wrists together.
She rose, surveying her handiwork. Even if Luke came to, he wouldn’t be able to get out of here, not without taking the whole bed with him.
Swiftly, she reached down to where Luke had been standing and picked up his combat knife and pistol. As an extra precaution, she dashed quickly down to Luke’s room. Sure enough, the room keys were on his night table, where he’d placed them after he’d changed into his ceremonial garb. Sloane took the whole ring of them and ran back to Lillian’s room.
Luke was still out cold.
Sloane paused for a brief second next to Lillian’s body. “Rest in peace, Lillian,” she murmured. “Luke will get the help he needs.”
With that, Sloane turned and left the room, shutting the door behind her. Placing the knife and the pistol on the floor, she rapidly tried each key on Luke’s key ring until she found the one that fit the lock on Lillian’s door.
She slipped it in and turned it, listening for the click that assured her the bolt had engaged. Once she heard that, she jiggled the door handle just to make sure it was locked.
Retrieving the two weapons, she dashed down the first flight of stairs. She had no idea when Luke had set the timer for. But she had to get those women out of here before the place blew up.
As she neared the first-floor landing, there was an enormous thundering crash, and the entire house shook. The front door practically exploded from the impact of the ram, and SWAT breached the entry, pouring inside.
“Gas,” someone yelled.
The SABTs were immediately on it, heading toward the basement steps and, ultimately, to the furnace area, where experience told them the bomb would most likely be.
“Half of you go with them and free the victims,” John McLeod said to his SWAT team as the muffled cries of female voices begging for help reached their ears. “The rest of us will split up so we can secure the remainder of the house—this level and upstairs.”
“The upstairs is clear,” Sloane announced, reaching the bottom of the stairs and addressing SSA McLeod as she raised her hands high—pistol and key ring in one, combat knife in the other—to demonstrate her non-threatening status. “I’m Sloane Burbank,” she said. “The subject is unconscious, tied up, and locked in the first bedroom upstairs on your left. I have the exact key isolated.” She jiggled her appropriate hand. “May I?”
“Of course.” It was Derek’s voice, and she’d never heard a more welcome sound in her life. “Lower your hands, Sloane.”
“Thanks.” She managed a weary grin. She then placed the weapons on the floor and handed the SWAT team leader Luke’s key ring, gripping the key to Lillian’s room between her fingers to keep it isolated.
“You said the subject was unconscious?” McLeod asked.
“When I left him, yes. My guess is, he’ll be out for a while. I slammed his brain stem pretty hard—twice.”
“With his weapon?”
“With my fist and my elbow.”
“I see.” McLeod looked a little taken aback, and Sloane could see Derek’s lips twitch.
“The only other upstairs occupant is the subject’s mother, Lillian Doyle,” Sloane continued. “She’s deceased. Natural causes; end-stage cancer. Her body is in the same room where you’ll find her son.”
“Nice work,” McLeod commented, gesturing for several of his men to go upstairs and carry out the secured subject and his deceased mother. His gaze returned to Sloane. “Are you hurt? Or is that a stupid question?”
“I’m fine.” Sloane was already heading for the basement. “But there are seven hysterical captives down there, who’ve been sedated, and are terrified they’re about to be carved up.”
“Sloane, stay the hell away from there,” Derek ordered as he and the rest of the team blew by her. “Let us do our job. We’ll evacuate the victims. The SABTs will take care of the bomb. And you’ll get your ass out of this house.”
“I don’t know how much time is left,” Sloane called after him, ignoring his command to leave.