“You got it.” Andre slung his rifle over his back, slipped his gear bag over his shoulder and slid his Glock pistol out of the holster he’d put on while he drove. He popped his earbud in, and turned on the bone mic at his neck. It nestled against his voice box, so all he’d need to do was speak and his whole team could hear him. Then, he was on the move.
He ran around the corner of the office building, Glock ready in case one of the gunmen decided to try to rabbit out the back. Then he spotted the half-hidden trail Scott had mentioned and jogged onto it, increasing his pace even as the incline up the hill got more and more steep. Every minute counted for the hostages inside.
“I cleared you a spot,” Scott said, not taking his eyes off the scope as Andre settled into the patch of dirt his partner indicated.
Andre dropped his gear beside him and set up his rifle, dialing in the specifics for wind and altitude that Scott read off to him. And then he was peering through his own rifle scope, into the third floor of the office building.
He scanned from left to right across the whole floor, taking in the situation. A gunman stood in the front room, a Bluetooth receiver in his ear and tattoos climbing out the top of his shirt. He clutched a semiautomatic pistol with both hands, but he kept checking the paper he held crumpled against the stock of his gun. On the floor around him were eight men and women in business clothes. Some held on to one another, two were in tears, and they were all avoiding the gunman’s gaze as though he’d already warned them not to look at him. But no one appeared to be injured. Not yet.
Andre pulled back up to the gunman, dialing in a little closer, trying to see what was on the paper that was so interesting. He was speaking angrily, but Andre didn’t think he was talking to the hostages.
“Phone’s on,” Scott said, seeming to read Andre’s mind.
They’d been partners for two years now, and Scott had become practically a third brother to Andre. Half the time on missions, they didn’t need words at all. “We know who he’s talking to?”
“I think it’s the second gunman.”
Andre swung farther right and found the other guy. He, too, had a cell phone, clipped to his waist, with an earphone in one ear. He held a semiautomatic, and he kept glaring down at a piece of paper as he wrenched open one door after the next, clearly searching for someone.
He pulled open another door and aimed his weapon at the woman cowering inside on the floor, surrounded by stacks of paper and printer cartridges. She yanked her hands up over her head, a phone dropping to the floor.
“Shit,” Scott said as the gunman’s grip shifted and Andre was able to zoom in closer and get a glimpse of what was on the paper he held.
“It’s not her he’s looking for,” Andre said, keying his mic so the rest of the team could hear. “This guy’s carrying a picture of a woman. Mid-to late-twenties, blondish-brown hair.” A beautiful woman, with a sad smile. Not an easy face to miss. “She’s not one of the hostages in the front room.”
Andre widened his view again as the gunman waved the woman in the storage closet toward the other hostages. She scurried out of the room, then dropped down next to her coworkers, as the second guy continued to open doors, looking angrier and more frustrated with every empty room.
“I thought the secretary told us there were at least three shooters,” Andre said, continuing his search.
“She did, but I’ve only seen two. We’ve got operators in place right outside the front door. They’re ready to storm the building if these guys start shooting, but ideally we identify the location of all the shooters first. If this goes bad, I’ve got the one with the hostages, okay? You take the other guy.”
“Got it,” Andre affirmed. But only Froggy could give the word to take any shots. If that happened, he’d have to shoot through the window and time it when the second gunman was in his line of sight, which could get dicey. The guy was heading into the back of the office now, where Andre didn’t have an angle on him.
Scott swore and Andre asked what was wrong at the same time as Froggy.
“I found the last gunman.”
“Where is he?” Andre asked, continuing his methodical search.
“He slipped out the back door. He’s heading up the trail right now, straight for us. And the woman they were hunting for? She’s with him, and he’s got a gun pointed at her head.”
He’d found her. After all this time, she’d finally started to feel safe again, as if she didn’t have to constantly look over her shoulder. But somehow, he’d found her and sent his goons after her.
These stupefied thoughts ran through Juliette Lawson’s mind as she put one foot in front of the other. Her body had gone numb, but she could still feel the exact spot where the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against her head.
The thug walking behind her had grabbed her just when she’d thought she was going to escape. She’d been in the bathroom when she’d heard screaming that morning. She’d peeked out in time to see three men enter, holding pictures of her. She’d never seen any of them before, but she knew why they’d come.
Initially, she’d darted back into the bathroom, hoping to hide, praying they wouldn’t find her, that they’d just leave. But it soon became clear hiding wouldn’t work, so she’d tried to slip down the back stairs. Just as she’d been reaching for the door to the exit, this one had come up behind her and put a gun to her head. He’d led her out the back door, out of sight of the police officers gathered in the distance and farther away from help.
She’d considered screaming, but fear had trapped it in her throat and then she’d realized if she did yell for help, he’d probably shoot.
Now, the gunman jabbed her with his weapon every few steps, pressuring her to move faster up the little dirt trail through the woods. But they were moving uphill at a steep angle, and she was wearing heels. If she picked up her pace any more, she was going to stumble. And the faster she walked, the less chance she had of figuring out a way to escape before he reached the next step of his plan.
Juliette knew the next step of his plan was to do one of two things: either get her somewhere secluded and kill her, or take her back to Dylan. It was like comparing a death sentence to life behind bars. She wasn’t sure which was worse.
But she did know that if Dylan had hired him, this guy had training. Even if by some miracle, she managed to wrestle the gun away from him, he’d be able to take her down. If she ran, he’d probably shoot. And he wouldn’t miss.
She tried to push aside all the regrets she felt, to focus on survival, but one regret kept surfacing. If only she’d never met Dylan Keane. Then maybe she’d still be back in Pennsylvania, still trying to sell the paintings she loved in galleries, instead of trying to be invisible as a graphic designer and spending her days buried in a cubicle.
Now there was a very good chance she wouldn’t even be buried in a shallow grave. There was a good chance she was about to bleed out in the woods, and those cops who’d surrounded the office would eventually find her body. She prayed she’d be the only casualty, and the other gunmen wouldn’t hurt her colleagues.
They had no idea who she really was, no idea what danger they were in just being near her. She’d never thought she’d been putting them in harm’s way, because she’d never expected Dylan would send goons to her work. She’d always figured that if he tracked her down, he’d simply grab her out of her apartment one day and drag her back. Force her to live in that house again, like a prisoner. Or just kill her right there and leave her dead in her apartment until one of her neighbors noticed the smell.
Stop it, Juliette told herself. Morose thoughts weren’t going to