No Mercy (25 page)

Dylan crouched beside Joe and spoke to him in a low voice. Joe stopped barking and snarling

but his body remained rigid, hair raised. His gaze remained focused on Salvatore.

A low growl rumbled in Joe’s throat. The big dog was obeying, but he clearly didn’t like it.

What was that all about? Joe had never exhibited that kind of behavior since she’d been around

him.

Belle looked at Christie. Something was clearly wrong that had nothing to do with Joe. Hair at

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Belle’s nape prickled. Christie looked pale and drawn, her gaze focused on something that Belle

couldn’t see. She refused to make eye contact with Belle, and she didn’t seem to notice what was

happening with the dog nearly attacking her husband.

A chil went through Belle as her thoughts turned back to how she’d been unable to make eye

contact after Harvey had abused her. It had been so difficult to pretend everything was all right when

she was with Dylan or anyone else in the CoS.

“Are you okay, honey?” Belle went to Christie and knelt at her side. “You don’t look well.” When

Christie didn’t respond, Belle put her hand on her friend’s arm.

Christie jerked her arm away from Belle, as if she’d been burned.

Belle drew her hand away. Her chest tightened. “Christie?”

Christie’s eyes were fil ed with fear as she met Belle’s gaze.

“What’s wrong?” The concern in Belle’s gut rose like an angry wave.

Comprehension and recognition dawned in Christie’s eyes. “Belle.” Her throat worked. She

seemed about to say something else but looked down at her lap.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” Belle put her hand on Christie’s arm again.

Christie flinched but didn’t jerk her hand away. She glanced at her husband, then back at her

lap. “Everything is fine. I’m—I’m just a little worried is all.” She mumbled the words.

“You don’t look okay.” Belle turned her attention from Christie to meet Salvatore’s gaze. He

appeared concerned, but at the same time she felt something was off. Like his eyes were saying

something different than the expression he wore. Maybe it was the fact that a German shepherd had

almost attacked him.

Salvatore smiled but his smile made her uneasy. “She has simply had a scare with all that has

happened.”

“Of course.” Belle would have liked to sit next to Christie, but the loveseat was clearly made for

two. Belle chose a seat that was closest to Christie’s side of the couch.

“Why don’t we have a cup of coffee?” Belle looked over her shoulder at Agent Davidson. “You

do have coffee?”

Trace nodded. He was looking at Christie, his expression concerned. “I’l make a pot.”

“I can do it.” Belle got to her feet. “Christie, why don’t you help me?”

Salvatore put his arm around Christie’s shoulders. She seemed to stiffen, but didn’t pul away.

“My wife wil feel safer with me.”

“Safer from what?” Belle cocked her head. “We’re in a safe house no one knows about with

three agents. What’s to be afraid of?”

Dylan watched the exchange between Belle and Salvatore who held Christie, his arm around

her shoulders in a protective, loving way. But Christie, pale and drawn, had her head down again

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and was looking at her hands in her lap.

“Hi, Christie.” Dylan tried to speak in a normal, casual tone.

She raised her head and he saw hurt and pain in her eyes. “Hi, Dylan.” Her voice quavered.

Dylan couldn’t help but frown. He’d known Christie most of her life and he’d never seen her like

this. It was beyond fear…someone had caused her pain. His gaze moved to Salvatore and Dylan

knew in his gut that her husband was the cause of that pain.

An urge to beat the shit out of Salvatore rushed over Dylan. He held back his anger and stared

at the man. “How are you doing?”

Salvatore scowled. “Why are we being kept here like prisoners?”

“Prisoners?” Dylan stepped closer to the pair on the couch. “Your protective custody is voluntary.

You can leave at any time.”

A look of surprise flashed across Salvatore’s face. “Then we will go now. Take us back to our

home.”

Dylan shook his head. “You can go. If Christie wants to stay, then she wil remain in protective

custody. Of course we’l have to move her.”

Relief was obvious in Christie’s expression, but Salvatore’s scowl deepened. “My wife goes with

me.”

“Doesn’t work that way.” Dylan focused squarely on Salvatore. “If Christie wants to, she stays.”

Salvatore snapped his gaze to Christie’s, his arm stil around her shoulders. “You
do
want to

come with me.”

Her expression turned from withdrawn to angry. “I’m staying.” Her tone was defiant as she tried

to pull out of her husband’s grasp.

The living room window shattered.

Glass showered the room.

One of the women screamed.

An object was tossed in through the broken window.

With a clatter, a small metal canister landed on the floor, spewing smoke. The heavy white fog

began to fill the room from the smoke grenade, obscuring everything almost instantly. Dylan couldn’t

tell where anyone was but Belle and Christie who were close.

“Shit,” Trace shouted.

G.I. Joe started snarled and barked with an intense viciousness as he yanked his leash from

Dylan’s grip and leapt toward the window.

Dylan’s heart thudded as he coughed. His throat burned and his eyes watered.

“Get down on the floor.” Dylan got the words out between coughs as he went to Belle and

Christie.

Salvatore was no longer sitting on the couch as far as Dylan could tell. Had Joe gotten to him?

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But Joe had headed to the broken window.

The women’s terrified faces quickly vanished behind a screen of smoke as they coughed and

choked.

He grabbed them by their arms and dragged them to the floor. “Crawl behind the couch.”

With his weapon drawn, he kept low and stayed near the women as they used their hands to

feel along the couch to find their way to the back.

Dylan’s eyes continued to water from the smoke and he couldn’t hold back the coughs.

“I’ve got Belle and Christie.” Dylan’s words seemed to bounce around the room. He had to

protect the women at all costs and he intended to stay close to them.

“I got rid of the canister through the window,” Trace shouted. “I’l get the back door through the

kitchen.”

Jennie Ortega yelled, “I’ve got the front—”

The door exploded inward.

Jennie’s scream of pain immediately followed.

Debris rained down where Dylan, Belle, and Christie knelt behind the couch. Rage tore through

Dylan. He rose and peered over the cushions. Smoke hung in the air, but the fog in the room was

starting to thin.

Through wisps of smoke, Dylan saw Jennie on her back. She rose and pressed her left hand

down on her right side, near a jagged piece of wood lodged in her body, where blood spread too

quickly. With her teeth clenched, she raised her right arm, aiming her service weapon at the

obliterated doorway. Even through the remaining fog, Dylan saw her arm shaking.

Dylan moved to the end of the couch, leaving Christie and Belle behind it.

A man rushed through the doorway and pointed a rifle at Jennie. Before Dylan got a shot off,

Jennie hit the bastard in the neck. Blood sprayed from the wound. Jennie had clearly hit something

vital and the man fell to his knees, his gun clattering to the floor as he brought his hands to his neck,

his eyes wide.

Joe came out of nowhere and grabbed the man by his neck. Joe shook the man like a wild

animal set to kil its prey. The man’s body went slack, his eyes wide. The German shepherd dropped

him and leapt toward the door.

Through the smoke, Dylan saw men entering, guns drawn. In the chaos that ensued, Dylan took

down three more men while Jennie managed to get a second before she passed out.

Joe snarled, barked, growled, and took down more than one man. He attacked the men with a

feral ferocity.

Just as Dylan shot a third man in the chest, dropping him, Belle screamed. He whirled to see

Belle being carried over a fourth man’s shoulder. Dylan hadn’t seen the man go behind the couch

through the remnants of the still hazy smoke.

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Dylan set his jaw and aimed for the man’s knee. The man screamed as his knee exploded and

he went down with Belle. Dylan leapt over the arm of the couch as Belle scrambled away and the

man started to roll over. Dylan shot the man in the chest.

When Dylan turned, he saw the room was quiet, bodies on the floor and no one moving. Jennie

was in the same place, completely still. He hoped to God she was only passed out and that she was

still alive.

“I stopped three men coming in through the kitchen.” Trace spoke from behind Dylan. A sharp

note of concern entered his voice as he added, “Where’s Christie?”

Dylan spun to look at Trace as threads of smoke floated by him. Dylan’s gaze swept the room.

“She was here—”

A cry was in Belle’s voice. “She’s gone. Christie’s gone!”

Trace gritted his teeth. “And so is Salvatore.”

“Sonofabitch.” Dylan pointed toward the bedrooms. “Check to see if she made it to another

room,” he said to Trace, who nodded and strode to the hal way, his weapon ready in case any of the

attackers had gotten past them.

Joe stood beside Belle as if protecting her, his fur on end.

Dylan turned back to Belle. “Are you all right?”

“Christie? Where’s Christie?” She flung herself into his arms.

“You’re okay?” He wrapped her in his embrace.

“I’m not hurt.” She leaned back, her face streaked with tears. “They got Christie.”

He held her tightly to him one more time for a just a moment before releasing her. Belle was all

right from what he could tell and from what she’d said.

“I’l check on Jennie.” Trace walked past them and strode to where Jennie lay. He checked her

pulse. “She’s alive but she’s losing blood. She needs an ambulance. Now.”

One of the bodies twitched. Dylan wanted to shoot the man out of pure rage, but went to his

side to question him. By the time Dylan reached the bastard, his eyes were wide in death. Dylan

knelt and checked the man’s pulse. Nothing.

With a growl, Dylan stood and looked at the devastation around him. He thanked God that Belle

was all right and that Jennie was alive. But they had to find Christie. And fast.

***

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Christie’s head pounded and ached. She tried opening her eyes, but her eyelids were so heavy

she couldn’t raise them. Drugged. She felt drugged.

A hard slap across her face caused her head to snap to the side. Pain shot through her cheek

and head. Her eyes opened with shock and through blurry vision she saw a form in front of her.

She tried to raise her hand to her stinging cheek but found she couldn’t move her arm. Dazed,

she attempted to move her other arm, but it was tightly bound. She tried to move her legs and they

were tied, too. Through the fog in her head, she realized she was tied to a chair. Her mouth felt dry

and she felt tape over her mouth. She couldn’t move her lips or her jaw. Lank strands of hair fell

across her cheeks as she hung her head.

Memories rushed back and the terror that rose through her was swift and powerful. Her body

trembled and her breathing started to come faster. She could only breathe through her nose and she

thought she was going to hyperventilate.

The safe house. Belle. Dylan. Agents Trace Davidson and Jennie Ortega. The attack. Was

everyone dead? Did they have Belle and Dylan?

Did they
kill
Belle and Dylan?

God, no.

Her thoughts spun as she tried to put puzzle pieces together. Where was she? She’d been

grabbed, a hand clamped over her mouth as she was dragged out of the house. She didn’t know

how they’d found her in the smoke-filled room, but they had.

Did they get Belle, too?

Or had they killed her?

A sob rose up in her throat but it had nowhere to go with the tape over her mouth. She thought

she’d choke like she had done when the living room of the safe house had fil ed with smoke.

She felt the remnants of a sting on her skin where a needle had pierced her flesh when she’d

been drugged. She could remember fighting the man who had her, the prick of the needle as another

man bent over her, and then everything fading to black.