Without Restraint

by Angela Knight

  “Are you trying to get cute?” Bruce snapped from upstairs, no longer amused. “Because I’m standing here with a gun pointed at your parents’ heads. At this range, a bullet would go through both of them.”

  I’ve got to keep him talking. Talking was a hell of a lot better than shooting. “I’m coming, dammit.” Alex bolted up the stairs two at a time, then slowed down, moving more cautiously toward the master bedroom. Judging by the sounds, that’s where they were.

  Alex ducked to come through the doorway in a low crouch, hoping that if he fired, he’d aim where her head should be, rather than where it was.

  The first thing she saw was Bruce standing over her parents with his gun aimed at their heads. “Throw it down, Alex.”

  Neither of the hostages moved. Something about their stillness iced her blood.

  “Fuck off.” Instead she brought her weapon to bear on him. She swept a quick glance over her parents. They lay back to back on the bed, arms linked, wrists handcuffed with two sets of cuffs. Getting them off the bed would be awkward and slow. Then she looked closer, and anger iced her blood. “What have you done?”

  But she could see the answer, and it fill her with rage. He’d used his fists on them.

  One of her mother’s eyes was swollen shut, and blood had dried on the Coach’s nose and swollen lip. She’d shoot the fucker if she hadn’t been afraid his gun would go off and hit one of her parents.

  “Put the gun down, Alex. I’d hate to have to blow someone’s brains out by accident.”

  She didn’t move, her weapon still pointed squarely at his skull. “Fuck off.”

  “Alex. Put. The gun. Down.”

  She really, really didn’t want to give up her weapon. All her training insisted it was the worst possible thing she could do. She also didn’t have one damn bit of choice. It was time for the best acting job she’d ever given in her life.

  Alex began to cry, letting the tears come slowly at first, until she was heaving in sobbing breaths. Drawing on all the pain and terror she felt, she let it all boil up and stream down her face in hot tears.

  And judging by the contempt on Bruce’s face, he was buying it.

  Despite how well he knew her, he was still his father’s son. And his father had had nothing but contempt for women.

  Steve Greer expressed that contempt throughout her childhood on his wife’s vulnerable body. Now, her only hope was to use that emotion to make his son forget everything he’d learned about Alex on the street. Make him forget she was the Coach’s daughter.

  And Ted’s, too, in every way that counted.

  Tears streaming down her face, Alex reeled toward the bed. Dropping the gun at Bruce’s feet, she bent over her parents’ handcuffed bodies, letting weak tears fall in fat droplets. “Oh, God! Dad, Mom, I’m so sorry about all this! I’m so sorry this bastard involved you in this. I love you, I—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Bruce’s voice rang with all the disdain and male superiority she’d hoped for. “Get the hell away from them, you stupid cunt!”

  Alex lifted her head and glared through her tears. “You get away from them!” Under the cover of her body, she grabbed the Coach’s hand, sliding her thumb under the handcuff key she’d taped to her palm. Flicking the key into his hand, she raged at Bruce, “You cocksucking bastard! You killed Ted! Why? How many times did he back you up when you were getting your ass kicked?” Her hand tightened on the Coach’s, gave it an encouraging squeeze. Even with the key, it wouldn’t be easy for him to free them. Not trying to unlock an unfamiliar mechanism with his hands bound behind his back.

  From the corner of one eye, she saw the Coach’s startled expression become comprehension. His lips twitched in something that was almost a smile, and his eyes narrowed in determination. She hid her own satisfied smile. If anybody could free him and her mother, it would be the Coach.

  A male fist hit the side of her head in an explosion of light and pain. Alex reeled, fell sideways, and turned to glare at Bruce. “Asshole!”

  “When I give you an order, slut, I expect you to obey it!” Bruce glared at her with what he probably thought was a Dominant’s icy stare.

  Alex had known a real Dominant, and she wasn’t impressed. Now she had to distract him while the Coach and Frank played their parts. Her job was to be sufficiently distracting to let them get away with it.

  Channeling her inner Angelina Jolie, she snarled, “Why? Why kill Ted and Sergeant Gaffney?” She gestured at her parents. “Why do this?”

  Not that she gave a shit about his reasons. He was a murderer and a psychopath just like his father. His upbringing didn’t matter. Frank had had one every bit as bad, but he’d overcome it.

  Frank was a hero. Bruce was just an asshole.

  The asshole’s eyes narrowed in rage. “Your dad is getting exactly what he has coming to him! He set my parents up. If he hadn’t stuck his nose in, convinced my mother to leave Dad, none of it would’ve happened! My father—”

  “Your father would have murdered her anyway. Probably the same day, the same way. That’s what murdering pricks do.”

  Bruce’s gaze slid away from the certainty in hers. “He’d only knocked her around a little. He wouldn’t have—”

  “He choked her. He’d put his hands around her throat and started squeezing. You told me yourself that if you hadn’t hit him in the head with one of his own whiskey bottles, he’d have choked her to death that afternoon!”

  “And maybe she had it coming!” His voice went shrill. “She was always setting him off, never doing things the way he wanted them done. When he blew up and hit her a few times, she’d do better for a few days. If—”

  “Are you listening to yourself? What utter bullshit! Amy was a victim. I always thought you were a victim, too, but I guess the asshole really didn’t fall that far from the tree after all.”

  On the bed, her mother made a muffled cry of protest behind her gag that sounded like “Shut up!”

  Alex found herself staring down the barrel of a gun a fraction of an inch from her face. “Yeah, Alex,” Bruce snarled. “Shut up.” He took a step closer.

  “Don’t!” Alex raised her hands in a Don’t shoot gesture as she let the fear she felt fill her eyes.

  “This is your fault, Alex! I wouldn’t have done any of this if that prick you were fucking hadn’t run off at the mouth!”

  “Who, Frank?”

  “Not Frank! That other prick. Gary. The one who beat you!” He was breathing hard, his gaze wild. “I couldn’t let him just get away with that, could I? All I planned to do was hit him a couple of times, show him what it felt like . . .”

  “It was you.” Alex stared at him in astonishment. “You were the one who beat Gary to death.”

  “He gave you a black eye, Alex! I only meant to punch him a couple of times, only enough to teach him not to do that to another woman.” His eyes narrowed to deadly slits. “Then he told me I’d never have a prayer with you. That you all laughed at me, you and Ted and Gary. You said I was a vanilla bean! I couldn’t ignore that, could I?”

  “You beat him to death because he said I said you were a vanilla bean?”

  “I was defending you! I couldn’t let him get away with saying that kind of sick shit about you! I had hit him with my fist, but then when he started mocking me, I grabbed my flash—” For an instant, anguish flashed through his furious gaze. “Then it was just too fucking late.”

  Alex became conscious of her mother’s green huge eyes over the gag, flashing from her to Bruce and back again. She knew what Mary was thinking—that Bruce had lost control and beaten Gary to death. And Alex was goading him just as hard, risking the same kind of deadly explosion. She had to avoid driving him into that kind of frenzy.

  “I didn’t intend to kill him. Not like that. But he kept laughing at me, talking about how you and Ted played kinky sex games . . .”

  “I didn’t play anything with Ted.”

  “Of course not, because Ted was a homo! He was a fruit,
and he lied to me, fooled me into thinking he was normal . . .”

  “He was normal! Just because he—”

  “He wasn’t normal!” Reaching into a pocket with his free hand, he jerked out something metallic and gleaming. Ted’s badge. “He didn’t deserve this! That’s why I took it away!” His mouth twisted. “Just like I’m going to take yours when you’re dead. You’re a blot on the badge.”

  “You’re the blot, you murdering psychopath!”

  “And you’re a perverted freak. You like gettin’ your ass beat during sex!’ His eyes narrowed, taking on a rabid wolf gleam. “Maybe I should give you what you like right in front of your folks. Show them what kind of freak you are . . .” Throwing Ted’s badge aside, he lunged for her, reaching with one hand as he kept the gun trained on her with the other.

  Alex surged forward in a move she’d drilled with Ted over and over and over again. Ducking under the gun’s line of fire, she drove her joined hands upward, thumbs catching under the weapon’s muzzle and shoving it toward the ceiling. It went off with a thundering boom.

  Bruce reacted just as Ted had taught her an attacker would, instinctively recoiling from the blast he hadn’t expected.

  Alex wrapped her fingers around the gun, jerked it down, and rammed it into his belly, breaking his grip. Simultaneously, she drove a knee toward his groin. He twisted, and her knee hit his thigh instead. But now she had the gun in her hands, and she danced back, bringing it up.

  Something hit her back hard, rattling her teeth. She staggered, knocked off balance. Fuck, hit the wall . . .

  Bruce attacked, backhanding the gun aside even as she fired at him. The weapon went flying at the side wall and bounced to the floor. He lunged at her, his hands wrapping around her throat as he slammed her into the back wall. His big hands tightened, choking off her air.

  Seconds. She only had seconds before he crushed her trachea . . .

  * * *

  Frank’s instincts howled that he’d gotten Alex killed by letting her go in alone. He roundly ignored the thought, knowing it would instill panic he couldn’t afford. He needed to be as cool and emotionless as dry ice.

  The sun was going down and the house’s interior lights were on, so Frank could see Bruce and his hostages through the sniper scope. They occupied the second floor, at a bad angle for a shot from ground level.

  He needed to be at a better angle to shoot through the sliding glass doors and take the fucker out. Frank had taken his share of sniper shots in Afghanistan. He . . .

  The first shot was clearly audible, even through the closed glass door. Frank slung the rifle over his shoulder, and ran like hell for the house. If bullets were flying, he was going to have to be a hell of a lot more up close and personal if he wanted to save Alex and her parents.

  Bang! Another pistol shot, the sound thinned by glass.

  He didn’t break step, throwing himself upward and grabbing for the balcony, with its wrought-iron railing. His hands slapped the balcony ledge, and he grabbed hold of the railing support, using his momentum to swing upward until he got a knee on the ledge.

  Staring between the rails through the glass door beyond, he saw Alex and Bruce struggling for the Glock. With a roar of fury, the big bastard slapped the gun out of her hand and lunged, slamming Alex against the wall with both hands clamped around her throat.

  Snarling, Frank swung his body upward with a wrench of effort, swarming up and over the balcony railing without quite noticing how he managed it. Dropping to one knee, he tossed the rifle off his shoulder and brought it around to sight on Bruce’s skull. They only had seconds before the bastard crushed her trachea and she suffocated.

  Alex ducked, rolling against the wall, the quick jerking leverage of the move loosening Bruce’s grip and taking him by surprise. Simultaneously, she threw one arm up over her head and brought her elbow smashing downward into the killer’s arms. The maneuver levered his hands free from her throat. Twisting, Alex rammed her elbow toward his chin. He blocked it, but she exploded off the wall in a flurry of blows so fast Frank didn’t dare take a shot.

  Instead, he leaped to his feet, ran forward, and drove the butt of his rifle into the glass door. The glass spider-webbed, but didn’t break. He hit it again, and glass showering into the room, raining down on the carpet and leaving jagged fragments behind.

  The killer glanced around, saw him, and his eyes widened with panic. Before Frank could bring his weapon up again, Bruce hit Alex so hard, her knees buckled. She would have fallen, but the killer grabbed her by her uniform shirt and duty belt and dumped her on top of her parents.

  Frank crashed through the glass, ignoring the icy sensation of shards raking across his skin. All he cared about was getting to her.

  Bruce dropped to his knees, using the bodies of Alex and her parents as cover as he snatched up a gun that had fallen to the floor. He shoved it against Alex’s face. “Drop the weapon, Murphy! Drop it now!”

  “Fuck off, you murderous coward.” But he couldn’t get a shot. All he needed was one good shot. He strode forward, trying to angle the rifle downward over Bruce’s human shields.

  Bruce ducked lower behind them, fisted a hand in Alex’s hair, and dug the gun into her cheekbone. “Drop it, or I’ll—”

  Mary Rogers, caught under her daughter’s unconscious body, jerked the pepper spray canister off Alex’s duty belt and shot Bruce in the face. The killer recoiled with a roar of pain as the capsicum spray began swelling his eyes shut.

  Frank exhaled, his finger tightened on the trigger, and fired.

  The sound of the rifle was deafening in the confined space of the bedroom. Bruce fell, a hole gaping red in his forehead.

  He was dead before his body bounced on the carpeted floor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Is he dead?” Mary demanded.

  Frank crabbed his way cautiously around the bed, his rifle still raised.

  Bruce lay sprawled on his side. Frank planted his boot on the man’s shoulder and flipped him over.

  Greer’s eyes were fixed, a hole just above his brows. The back of his head was more of a mess, judging by the spray of gore across the bureau behind him. Frank didn’t even have to check his pulse. “He’s dead.”

  “Good riddance,” Mary snapped, raising her head to study her daughter, who lay across her hips. “Is Alex all right?”

  “Mom?” Alex lifted her head and began to stir, frowning in confusion. “’M all . . . I’m all right. What . . . what happened? Where’s Bruce?”

  “Down, thank God.” The Coach rolled off the bed and moved around to reach for her. Frank slung his rifle back over his shoulder, bent, and lifted Alex off her mother. Cradling her in his arms, he savored her warm weight.

  Ken helped his wife slide off the bed on the other, avoiding Bruce’s body. Frank scanned them. They were battered and bloodied, but both of them seemed all right. “You’ve still got a handcuff on,” he pointed out.

  The Coach grimaced and pulled off the cuff that dangled from one chafed, reddened wrist. There was a reason you didn’t use real handcuffs in BDSM. “I thought I’d never get these damn things unlocked.” He studied Alex as Frank cuddled her. “She all right?”

  “She’s fine. I think she just got her bell rung. He hit her pretty hard.”

  “Frank?” Alex slurred. She lifted her head and looked woozily around. “Where’s—” Her gaze landed on the body, and she stiffened, seeming to jolt instantly to full consciousness. “Oh. Ah, yeah. Frank, put me down. We need to get off the evidence.”

  “God, you are such a cop.” Mary didn’t sound as if she minded; there was a note of admiring affection in her tone.

  Frank stepped clear of the body before he put her on her feet, supporting her when she stumbled. “You sure you’re okay?” He frowned, suspecting she had a concussion, considering how long she’d been out. Catching her chin between his fingers, he lifted her face. “You’ve already got a good little shiner coming up there.” Along with a bruise on her cheek and
a fat lip.

  The good news was that her pupils were the same size as they shrank in reaction to the ceiling light. He was tempted to kiss her, but with her father standing right there, he decided against pushing his luck.

  “I’m fine,” she told him, not convincingly. Then she frowned, looking up into his face. “But you look like shit. You’re pale. You’re really pale . . .”

  “You’re bleeding.” Mary swept a gaze down his body. “Your pants are wet.”

  Frank looked down and cursed. She was right. There were slashes and tears in his uniform pants and across his shirt, revealing the bulletproof vest underneath. “Shit.” He glanced at Mary with a Southern boy’s automatic courtesy. “Excuse me, ma’am.” Frowning, he looked around for the source of the cuts and spotted the glass door. A chilly October wind blew though the huge hole he’d made bulling through it. Jagged blades of glass jutted around the opening, several of them red and wet. More glass littered the floor and crunched underfoot. Spotting a glint of silver among the glass, he walked over and picked it up. The room spun around him as he rose, and he steadied himself on the bedpost. “It’s a badge.”

  “It’s Ted’s.” Alex’s eyes narrowed and her lip curled in a snarl. “Bastard taunted me with it.”

  “You should give it to his mother.” He walked over and fumbled it into her hand. Flecks of gray danced at the edge of his vision, and he realized dimly that was a bad sign. He staggered.

  The Coach was suddenly there, grabbing his arm and steadying him. “Cut yourself up coming through the glass door, Frank. Did a pretty good job of it, too. You were pumping so much adrenaline, you never even felt it.” To his wife he added, “Watch it, Mary. Don’t cut yourself.”

  “Let’s get out of all this glass and bandage you up,” Alex said, sliding an arm around Frank’s waist and helping her father guide him toward the door. “Mom, can you call 911? Tell them to send an ambulance and the cops.”