by Juno Rushdan
As Willow pressed through the front doors, stepping outside, his chest loosened.
Then two men in dark gear strode in past her. They sported military high-and-tights and had a dangerous swagger.
Mercenaries. There’d be more than two.
A terrible fear seized Gideon.
He’d sent Willow to the hotel alone. Panic would handicap him if he let it bloom. He snuffed it out with reason—the two stalking in hadn’t recognized her, and maybe the others wouldn’t either.
It was possible to reach her before anyone else did. But he had to hurry.
Gideon ducked down in the crouched position and eased up next to the receptionist’s desk. The older lady recoiled, but before the question on her face slipped from her lips, he flicked on his quarterback smile. She giggled, clutching her chest, cheeks flushing.
Walters and another suit strolled in front of him, peering down with perplexed expressions. One man opened his mouth to speak, but something on the other side of the receptionist’s desk snatched the words from his lips as the older woman turned to stare in the same direction.
No guess required as to who stood on the other side.
Gideon whipped out the hammer from the back of his pants and the flathead screwdriver from his pocket, ignoring the slack-jawed faces of the bankers. Better suited to playing offense, he leapt up and slid across the side of the desk, swinging.
The hammer nailed one merc in the side of the face, shattering a cheekbone as the guy’s neck wrenched with an unnatural whip. Gideon’s feet hit the floor as the other merc reached into his jacket to draw a gun.
Gideon stabbed the man’s forearm with the screwdriver and smashed the hammer across the clavicle in a sharp one-two. Bone cracked, a guttural cry rent the air, and the man dropped to his knees. A boot heel to the face crushed the guy’s nose, knocking him out.
Not even winded, Gideon stood steady as a blade, two bloody bodies at his feet.
The bank alarm sounded.
Both security guards approached, weapons drawn. Making eye contact with Gideon, the guards faltered. Everyone else rushed back. A wave of palpable tension crested.
“Put your hands up,” one guard said. Trepidation flashed in his eyes.
Gideon waited for his opportunity, blood-stained weapons in his raised hands.
The guards eased in on him, exchanging apprehensive glances. The guns shook in their hands, and they took measured paces, each step more hesitant than the last. He was tempted to strike, but the steady ticking in his mind tempered his reflexes. The optimal window would open.
Closer.
Almost.
A little more.
He forced himself not to move, his stillness reeling them in.
“On your knees.” They closed ranks, side by side, as if there was safety in numbers.
Gideon tossed the hammer to one guard. The natural inclination was, of course, to catch it. A simple ploy wouldn’t work on a well-trained guard with honed vigilance, but he was banking these guards had dull senses.
The fool dropped his gun to catch the hammer, and Gideon smothered a laugh. Flipping the screwdriver in his hand to hold it by the metal rod, he swooped in on the other, fluid and swift as a blink.
“Stop. Stop!” The security guard aimed at Gideon’s chest, but he’d sidestepped before a bullet was fired.
A dead click. The safety was on.
How much were these guards getting paid?
Gideon popped the guy’s wrist with the handle of the screwdriver, and his fingers opened, releasing the gun. It fell into Gideon’s palm. He caught the terrified gaze of the second security guard as he went for the weapon on the floor.
“Tsk-tsk.” Gideon shook his head in warning.
Raising their hands, both guards backed away, and he picked up the second gun. Not injuring the security might go a long way with the local authorities if he had to face them.
Tucking one gun against the small of his back and holding the other, he swiped his tools from the floor. He hustled to retrieve the thumb drive, vectoring his gaze to the entrance.
No other mercs rushed inside the bank. But there were most certainly more of them. The only question was how many were outside after Willow.
He snatched her passport from a stunned Mr. Walters and plucked an earpiece from a downed merc. The sound of his pounding footsteps filled the lobby as he cleared the twenty feet to the door and bolted outside.
38
Grand Cayman
Monday, July 8, 9:37 a.m. EST/10:37 a.m. EDT
Willow darted down the street, weaving in between people. She risked a quick glance over her shoulder.
The tough-looking guy who’d been lurking in front of the bank still followed her. She couldn’t outrun him. If she put enough distance between them, maybe she’d lose him in the hotel. But could she make it to the room before he caught her?
Abject fear prickled along every nerve ending. She snapped another peek back and met the eyes of a stone-cold killer.
She whipped her face forward and gathered her courage. Hustling to the corner, her sneakers slapping on the hot pavement, she prayed for a break in traffic to cross the main street to the hotel.
Three more men stalked out of her hotel lobby, dressed in clothing dark as death. One was huge and familiar. The same husky monster shaped like a powerlifter from Ken’s.
Gideon, where are you?
Their gazes zeroed in on her. The harsh glare of their mirrored sunglasses speared her in place. She fought to swallow past the lump choking her throat.
Balmy air pressed in, licking her skin. Street noises—car radios, vehicles braking, rubber tires rolling across asphalt, pedestrians chattering—rose in an amplified crescendo, filling her ears.
Lowering her gaze, she went to turn as casually as possible, but the men leapt into action. They pounded through the traffic, tearing across the road. The other mercenary on her side of the street charged toward her.
Her pulse kicked into a wild streak. Mind spinning, she scrambled to escape. She was moving, with no sense of direction except away from the danger closing in.
Where to run? How would Gideon find her?
She needed to keep moving and to think.
Whirling left, she faced the gleaming glass doors of a mega resort on the other side of a small road. Gideon wouldn’t know to look for her in there.
Oh, God. There wasn’t time for other options. Her hand flew to her throat and she gripped her mother’s pearls—the only heirloom Willow had left.
She yanked hard on her necklace as if it were the ripcord of a parachute.
The vintage choker popped. Pink pearls rained down, scattering like last-ditch breadcrumbs. She bolted across the side street, pushing through the gut-punch of grief.
She ran to the front doors of the resort, glancing over her shoulder.
The men were almost on her, their faces those of rabid jackals thirsting for blood.
Run. Run. RUN. She took off at a sprint and burst inside the resort. The sprawling lobby teemed with droves of tourists. Chatter buzzed around her.
She threaded past people, dropping the last pearls. Three directions to choose from. She couldn’t pick an option that’d leave her cornered.
No time to deliberate, she dashed left, ripping off her sunglasses, and ran past a line of shops.
Her nerves screamed, driving her faster.
But not fast enough.
She was all alone, her lungs stalling, her legs heavy as lead when she needed to be light as a feather in a breeze.
The hat flew off her head. Her body thrummed with desperation.
To hide.
To escape.
To live.
Shouts and curses rose behind her. She dared a glance back.
Four black-clad mercenaries barreled down the w
alkway in vicious pursuit. Shoving people from their path, they devoured the distance between them and her.
Oh God. God. Please.
Two ladies strolled out of a clothing store, and she ducked inside. She spotted a bank of changing rooms in the rear beyond racks of dresses and beelined for one with an open door. A salesperson slid out of the way, eyes wide.
“Call the police!” Willow scurried into the stall and locked the door.
She pressed against a full-length mirror, heart crashing against her rib cage. She struggled to hold herself together.
There was no space between the bottom of the door and the floor to see if the men were homing in on the fitting rooms. A gap at the top was large enough to peek out. But if she stood on the bench in the stall, they’d spot her.
A woman screamed. Bam. Bam. Gunfire echoed in her bones.
She slapped a hand over her mouth and swallowed a convulsive sob.
They were in the store. They’d find her. And it wouldn’t take them long.
Her knees softened as if her legs might buckle, but pressure built in her chest. Pursing her lips to keep quiet, she pulled the backpack off so it wouldn’t scrape against the stall.
“Willow,” said a deep male voice outside the dressing room. “We have your sister Laurel. You called her last night. Touching conversation.”
Her insides shuddered in a backwash of nausea.
No, no, no, no…
“I’d hate to ruin her pretty face. Hate even more to kill her. Come out. Cooperate.”
She pinched the back of her hand, frothing with defensive anger. Cooperate? With them framing her? Killing her? Maybe they had plans for something worse.
But they had Laurel. Willow’s nieces weren’t even seven yet. Too young to lose a mother.
“Make it easy. Come out.”
She’d die to protect Laurel, who had a husband and kids, a family who needed her, but men like this couldn’t be trusted. No guarantee they wouldn’t hurt or kill her sister anyway.
If there was a way to be sure…
Boom! A loud thud followed by a splintering bang made her jump. Trepidation clogged her throat, and her lungs held air hostage.
Boom! Another crashing clunk.
They were kicking in the dressing room doors. Only five stalls. Heavy boots struck the carpet, drawing closer.
Her mind raced in circles at a frantic speed. What to do? What could she do?
Tension bubbled in her head, putting pressure on her entire skull. It was impossible to think, to breathe, with the bombardment of loud noises. Panic threatened to swamp her, and she smelled the musty stench of her own fear.
She fished her earbuds out of the bag and put them in. Forcing herself to take a slow breath, she gathered her wits like armor.
Her gaze landed on Gideon’s gun. She grabbed the weapon and dropped the bag.
She locked her sights on the door, hands trembling. The impulse to fight was a live wire running through her, overriding the anxiety.
Another whack—softer to her ears this time—was followed by the splintering thump of a door slammed open in the room next to hers.
She drew in a breath and started a controlled exhale. Focus. Aim. Fire.
Thwack! She recoiled, heart thrashing in her chest like a caged wild bird. The lock gave way. Her door swung in, smashing against the wall.
An imposing body dominated the doorway, and a savage face glared at her.
Willow pulled the trigger and—with a soft pop—blasted a hole in his skull in a flash of blood and brain matter.
A shocked cry snagged in her throat. The man keeled backward, hitting the floor.
The other three ducked out of sight.
The throbbing tension in her head eased in the unnatural silence that fell and thickened. What if they tried to sneak up on her and she couldn’t hear them moving?
She took out one earbud and tucked it in her bra.
A cold numbness bled through her, but her mind churned like a piston. If she didn’t find a way out, they were going to kill her.
The glass storefront stretched so far off, it might as well have been miles away. She aimed the gun and fired, missing her target but taking the head clean off a mannequin.
She heaved a breath, refocused, and pulled the trigger. The safety glass shattered.
If the commotion didn’t bring security or police, nothing would. But she was out of ideas.
* * *
9:49 a.m. EST/10:49 a.m. EDT
Gideon flew down the street. Adrenaline flooded his bloodstream, tingling beneath the skin. Scouring the streets, he followed the path she would’ve taken to the hotel unless forced to deviate. He fought the raging pulse in his throat. A cold sweat broke out on his brow.
There’d been five mercenaries at Ken’s. To come looking for her here, there’d be more than two. His comms equipment was in the backpack with Willow. It would’ve been too conspicuous to wear an earpiece while talking to a bank manager about an offshore account.
He put on the ear mic he’d swiped off a dead merc. Silence. He double-checked it was live. Why wasn’t there chatter? Where were those fuckers?
His gut pinched with sickening dread. He should’ve kept her pinned to his side.
If they found her, hurt her…
An unholy tangle of emotion made his heart squeeze to the point of physical pain. His rib cage throbbed and his pulse pounded at his temples.
Gideon raced toward the hotel, scanning for indicators of trouble. A lady with a stroller surrounded by a gaggle of kids slowed him for a heartbeat to avoid knocking a child down. He reached the last corner before crossing to the hotel.
Pearls strewn on the ground, rolling into the side street, caught his eye. He scooped up a handful. Faint iridescent pink. Willow’s.
Did they pop the necklace snatching her, shoving her into a car?
Bracing for every dreadful possibility, he did a hasty visual sweep of the road, burning precious seconds. There were pearls scattered in a path that led to the doors of the glitzy resort.
He charged across the street, ignoring the blaring horn from a braking car, and stormed inside the resort. People meandered throughout the lobby, strolling in three different directions.
More pearls rolled on the polished floor.
Wherever Willow was, she was in dire trouble, and it was tearing him apart. His muscles tightened to a throb, feet carrying him on instinct.
The path straight ahead led to elevators, most likely to hotel rooms. To the right, a bubbling fountain and breakfast rush at eateries. To the left, a row of boutique shops.
Sunglasses lay on the floor. Dark tint, feline flair, like the ones he’d purchased this morning. He bolted down the walkway, dodging murmuring men and women, his head on a one-eighty swivel. His blood was a roaring current of rage, but he grappled to hold tight to his sanity.
To save Willow, his professional cylinders needed to fire hot.
Gunfire shattered a storefront window ahead of him. A chorus of screams broke out from the crowd. He blasted toward the fray.
Broken glass crunched beneath his feet as he raised the bank security guard’s gun.
“Flush the bitch out,” someone said in Gideon’s earpiece. “Keep cool. No sloppy bullets in her. Needs to look like an accident or suicide.”
Gideon paused at the edge of the adjacent storefront and peeked inside.
Three mercs were in the back of the store. Looking over the top of clothing racks, he watched one kick and punch the side of a dressing room wall from within an adjacent stall. Another crept around, flanking in. Willow must be cornered.
He strained to keep his fury in check and reached for the icy calm he was accustomed to.
“Your sister is counting on you to save her life, Willow.” The big one spoke in a deep baritone, not staying in si
ght. “I could send someone to snatch those twins, bring them to mommy. Save your nieces. Come out.”
They were holding her sister hostage? Threatening children? Bastards were good at finding the right bait. He hoped Willow wouldn’t fall for it.
Crouching, he slipped inside the store. He silenced a groan at the sharp sound of glass breaking under his feet. Bye-bye advantage of surprise.
The pounding sounds stopped.
“Not cops. Omega, think it’s Stone?” another asked over the comms.
“Count on it,” the same baritone said. The one they called Omega. “Pincer.”
A maneuver to trap him. Maybe hit his flank, close in like a claw. Whichever direction the attack came from, he needed to be ready on the opposite front as well.
He crouched and wove in between the displays and racks. Maintaining cover, he duck-walked to stay low. A dark flash of clothing darted by on his right.
Halting, he listened for movement. A set of muffled footsteps shifted across the carpet, coming in an arc to cut him off. He doubled back to a clothing display and regained his bearings.
One shuffled. Quick. Quiet. Toward his eleven o’clock.
Gideon cut left past a row of mannequins. Coming up at a forty-five-degree angle behind a merc—the only one making sound—he leaned against a solid particleboard display. It limited his field of view but provided better cover.
Something heavy landed atop the display table. A shadow loomed above him. Gideon rolled out of the way as bullets popped into the patch of real estate he’d just occupied.
Drawing up on a knee, he pumped two bullets dead center in the man’s chest, one in the head.
A mass of muscle charged, tackling Gideon to the floor, and the gun slipped from his grip. He let the momentum carry him, flowing into the fall and driving his knees into the merc’s torso, flipping him overhead.
Before the merc with a Magnum PI mustache fully recovered, Gideon spun and sprang upright, kicking the weapon out of his hands. Gideon drew the second bank guard’s gun from his back, readying to shoot Mustachio, but the stealthy bruiser from Ken’s—the one called Omega—landed a blow to his forearm, throwing off his aim.
Two bullets nailed a mannequin. Gideon whirled to redirect fire, but Omega expected it and dodged, knocking the weapon loose.
