“Yes,” Sloan said.
“The house is surrounded. I advise you both not to do anything stupid.”
Sloan’s face flushed dark red. “Son of a bitch.”
“I’ll come willingly,” Sam said. “You don’t need Mac Hunter to force me.”
“It’s too late to negotiate, my dear Samantha, and I’m certain that I require him to ensure that you behave. We’ll see you soon.”
An audible click indicated he’d disconnected the call.
“Fuck,” Sloan said under his breath.
She didn’t get a chance to respond. Two camo-clad soldiers busted through the French doors, sending glass flying, and the front door blew inward, admitting two more huge guys. Sloan yanked his Glock nine mil from his shoulder holster and took out the closest men, the two who’d smashed through the glass doors.
Sam dove into the kitchen, scrambling behind the island and pressing her back against the cabinet doors while a volley of gunfire rang in her ears.
Sloan joined her an instant later, swearing under his breath and trailing a stream of blood on the worn off-white tile. He leaned against the island beside her, breathing hard, and reloaded his weapon.
Scanning him, Sam spotted the hole in the left side of his black shirt, just above his hip bone, emitting a steady rush of blood. He knocked her helping hands away and thrust his weapon at her. “Take my Glock and go! I’ll try to hold them off as long as I can.”
“Without a weapon?” Disbelief made her voice high and squeaky.
“They don’t know I don’t have one. I’ve taken half of them out already. They’re going to come through the door with more caution now. You need to go. Now!”
“They’ll kill you.”
“I know that,” he growled at her, catching a bloody hand in the front of her shirt and tugging her toward him. Sweat made his unnatural pallor look greasy. “Go and don’t look back. Don’t stop, don’t turn around, don’t let them use me to blackmail you into giving yourself up. Got it?”
“No, we can—”
“You’re the one he wants, Sam. Whatever happens here, they’re going to kill me.”
She knew he spoke the truth. She also knew she had no choice but to let them take her. If they didn’t, Flinn would kill Mac just to punish her.
She put one hand on Sloan’s shoulder and squeezed. “Stay alive. Do your damnedest.”
He flashed her a pain-sharp grin, his breath gasping now, his eyes trying to roll back. “You, too.”
Sam slipped out the back door, but instead of making a run for it, she eased around the side of the house to the front and maneuvered her way through the front door and over its scattered debris. She could see the two remaining thugs consulting each other in the dining room, using furious hand signals but making no move to rush the kitchen. One, a hulk of a man clad in a tight military-green T-shirt, keyed a radio mounted on his shoulder and spoke into it.
Calling in reinforcements.
Damn it.
She didn’t recognize these guys. She’d killed Watson, Deke and Tom, so Flinn had hired some nastier replacements. Mercenaries, more than likely. Not that it mattered. Muscle was muscle. Mean for a buck. Dead for working for the wrong guy.
Feet braced apart under the arch of the dining room door, she aimed Sloan’s nine mil at the head of the thug farthest from where she stood. One shot, and he toppled over. The last man standing straightened and whirled toward her, gun ready and waiting. Mexican standoff.
“Hold it,” she said in a steady, firm voice. “Nobody else has to get hurt.”
His grim, determined expression didn’t change. Nor did the grip on his SIG. His camo pants, tucked into combat boots, hugged massive thighs. Muscle indeed.
“Call off the reinforcements,” she said.
His lips twitched. He didn’t have to say what he was thinking: Not a chance.
“Call them off, and I’ll put down my weapon and come with you.”
Dark bushy brows furrowed, and he nodded at her gun. “Then drop it.”
“Call off your men.”
Black eyes narrowed, assessed. Then he shrugged and keyed his radio. “Cancel that last request. Situation is under control.”
A disembodied voice responded, “Target is secured?”
“Target is secured and ready for transport.”
“Roger that.”
Sam tossed the gun so that it landed at his feet, praying Sloan would stay put behind the island and not give himself away. Too much to ask for, probably. When he didn’t show himself, she figured that meant he’d passed out from blood loss. That worked, too. As long as help arrived before he bled out.
Lips curving into a hard smile, the soldier shoved her around to face the wall and kicked her feet apart. He roughly patted her down. She gritted her teeth until his hands paused to fondle her breasts, and then she jerked her hips back, trying to bump him back a step but encountering a wall of hard muscle.
His hands got cruel, fingers pinching until she threw back an elbow as hard as she could and caught him in the ribs. “Don’t,” she hissed.
He grasped her arm and hauled her around. “You and your friend just killed three of my buddies,” he said in a gravelly voice, eyes black with hate.
Her heart kicked into her throat. Oh, crap. “Flinn wants me alive,” she reminded him.
“He didn’t say anything about a few bruises.”
He swung a meaty fist at her.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
M
ac took in as much of the lay of the land as he could as Marco nudged him forward with the barrel of his gun in his lower back. They had parked in the overgrown parking lot of Caring Paws Veterinary Hospital, based on the sign dangling from one corner on the small, dilapidated building.
Last summer, a hurricane had swept through the region, flooding this older, less-affluent area of Lake Avalon and leaving most of its buildings condemned. The city council had been arguing for months about whether to level what was left and help reeling business owners start fresh or just let it all rot. It’s not as if the neighborhood drew tourists, and therefore tax revenue, so why bother to hurry with the decisions?
Inside, Marco gave Mac another rough nudge, into a large, open room with counters lining the walls. Storage for vet supplies. The air smelled of mold and must, and grit crunched under their shoes as they traversed the filthy tile floor.
Mac’s steps faltered when he saw the shiny new steel table set up in the center of the room, complete with stirrups and restraints. A tray of surgical instruments sat next to it.
“Keep moving, asshole,” Marco growled.
“What’s with the OR setup?”
“You’ll see soon enough.”
His stomach twisted, and he strained his wrists yet again against the plastic restraints binding his hands.
Marco said, “Stop.”
Mac stopped. His head throbbed where Marco had struck him at AnnaCoreen’s. Brutal bastard.
“On your knees.”
Mac hesitated. Facing the surgical table? Like it was a stage and he was the audience? “Why?”
Marco’s hard first slammed into Mac’s ribs. The air burst from his lungs, and as he doubled over, Marco kicked the back of his knee and shoved him down onto his knees.
Mac gasped for breath, tasting blood and seeing stars. “You don’t have to be so rough, you know. Odds are good I’m going to do whatever you tell me, what with the gun and all.”
“Shut it, shithead.”
Mac sat back on his haunches. “Look, I know you’re ticked about the shooting-you-in-the-arm thing. But, honestly, I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t been going after Sam. I was feeling protective.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“It’s just that . . . well, under different circumstances, I get the sense that we could be friends. You know, beer and football, NASCAR, naked girls and pole-dancing. We just got off on the wrong foot is all.”
Marco punched him in the jaw, and while little birdies sang a chirpy tune around his head, Mac spat blood onto the floor.
“I’d listen to him, if I were you, Mr. Hunter,” Ford drawled as he ambled over to the surgical table and looked it over with a small smile of approval.
“Are we shooting a scene from
Grey’s Anatomy
or something?” Mac asked. The thought of those stirrups made his guts cramp.
Ford grinned at him. “Samantha has something I want.”
“Like what? Your balls?”
Ford chuckled as he cast Marco an amused look. “Mr. Hunter seems intent on angering me, does he not?”
Mac feigned a surprised expression. “I thought we were having a conversation.”
Marco grunted. “Just give the word, sir, and I’ll shut him up.”
Ford arched a brow at Mac. “Sounds like Marco’s not your biggest fan.”
Mac managed a one-shouldered shrug. “I’m sure I can win him over given the time.”
Ford sauntered over to where Mac knelt on the dirt-strewn floor. “Samantha is not who you think she is, Mr. Hunter. She’s a consummate liar, able to deceive the most rational of men.”
Mac snorted. “Do you actually think you’re going to turn me against her?”
Ford leaned down and spoke into Mac’s ear. “Samantha is pregnant. With my child. Did she tell you that?”
Holy shit. Holy
shit
. “It would have been difficult, considering she’s spent the past several days with amnesia.”
“You’ve missed my point, as usual. Is that deliberate?”
“Maybe you just didn’t make your point clearly enough.”
“Samantha and I have been lovers for years. She’s devoted to me and to my cause. Her memory loss was an unfortunate mistake. Now that her memory has returned, I’m going to welcome her back into N3, no strings attached. She’ll come willingly. Eagerly. You’ll see.”
Mac met the other man’s stare with a level one of his own. “You’re not a very good liar.”
Ford straightened. “Soon enough, you’ll regret helping her to deceive me.”
Mac kept his mouth shut and, instead of freaking out, tried to focus on figuring out a way out of this. But his brain kept circling what Ford had said:
Samantha is pregnant.
Had he really just spent the past three days helping her run from the father of her child?
No.
No
.
He
knew
Sam. Well, maybe not the Sam she was before the memory loss, but he knew the Sam she was deep down, without the trappings of spydom and bad guys with shiny heads. She loved her family, had stayed away to protect them. He
did
know her, damn it. And this bastard had turned her into something that went against her very nature.
Ford’s cell phone rang, and Mac watched him answer it.
“Talk to me.” A grin bloomed on his too-tan face. “That’s excellent news. Did she give you much trouble? . . . I’m sorry to hear that. What’s your ETA? . . . Good deal. We’ll see you soon.”
He lowered the phone and punched in a different number. After a few moments, he said, “We have a go. When can you get here? . . . I need you sooner than that . . . You were the one who insisted time is of the essence . . . I don’t care if another hour or two makes no difference. Get your ass over here now.”
He disconnected the call and turned toward Mac, his impatience vanishing beneath a beaming smile. “This will all be over soon, Mr. Hunter.”
Twenty minutes later, the back door opened, and an even more goon-like goon than Marco walked in, Sam’s limp body slung carelessly over his shoulder, her arms and hair swinging.
Mac sucked in a sharp breath. She was unconscious. Which meant that bastard had hurt her. He jerked futilely at his restraints—he needed to get to her, check on her, help her—and ended up doing nothing more than gritting his teeth when the plastic cut into his wrists.
Turned out, he wasn’t the only one outraged at Sam’s condition.
“What the hell is this?” Ford stalked over to the new guy with murder on his face. “I told you she was not to be harmed.”
The thug smirked. “She resisted.”
Ford gestured at the shiny table. “Put her over there. If you damaged her . . .” He let the threat mingle with the tension thickening the air.
Mac watched every move as the large man carefully laid Sam on the table, a huge hand cradling her head as he settled her, as though it wasn’t too late to handle her with care. Blood trickled from her nose and the corner of her mouth, washing his vision red.
Fucking son of a fucking bitch fucker.
Ford saw the blood, too, and turned a lethal glare on his errant henchman. “Marco,” he said without looking away from the object of his anger, “please take Mr. Spellman outside and pay him for his work. We won’t be needing his services any longer.”
“Yes, sir.” Marco all but tapped his heels together. Heil, Hitler.
While the thugs exited out the back door—at least one of them looking slightly concerned—Ford leaned over Sam’s still body and pressed two fingers to the side of her neck.
Spots danced before Mac’s eyes until some of the stiffness left Ford’s shoulders. She was alive. For now, that’s all that mattered.
Ford patted the back of his hand lightly against her cheek. “Samantha? Come on now, it’s time to wake up.”
He sounded for all the world like a concerned lover. Mac wanted to rip his head off. After he ripped off the head of the bastard who’d bloodied her.
Ford kept lightly tapping her cheek. “Samantha, dear, you need to open your eyes now. We have much to talk about.”
Nothing.
A gunshot cracked outside, and Mac flinched.
Shit!
And then he glimpsed the smile of satisfaction curving Ford’s lips. Evil bastard indeed. And, for once, Mac was in total agreement.
Marco returned from outside, face expressionless as he gave Ford a curt nod.
On the table, Sam’s eyelids fluttered.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
S
am blinked several times, disoriented, while her eyes tried to adjust to the dim light. Where was she? Why did her head feel as though someone had tried to crack it open with a sledgehammer?