Deadly Attraction

by Misty Evans

  Chapter Nineteen

  Emma stood in the center of the yard, turning circles, aiming the shotgun at the woods, the collapsing barn, the fenced pasture. “Come out and show yourselves!” she yelled.

  As her gaze ventured past the house, she thought she saw the glint of Will’s rifle in the upstairs bedroom window. Good. All she had to do was pray Mitch was okay and keep their attackers focused on her.

  Second Chance had journeyed to the edge of the drive where she lingered near the juvenile detention van. Hope was by her side, nursing. The other two horses had disappeared into the woods, scared off by the fire, and then Emma’s shotgun blast.

  The rest of the burning barn collapsed and Emma flinched, praying hard that Mitch was okay. She and Will had seen him stagger out in a swirl of smoke and collapse between his truck and the barn. They’d lost sight of him at that point and that’s when Emma had gone from scared to raging angry. The moment Mitch had bailed out the kitchen door, she’d needed more than a chocolate fix.

  She’d stuck her S&W in its holder and grabbed her shotgun. When Will asked what she was doing, she’d told him to find a spot where he could train that rifle on the center of the property and be prepared to shoot.

  “You know what a terrorist is?” she yelled at the tree line now as she continued to slowly pivot. “A weak SOB. You’re not smart or brave or a martyr if you terrorize someone, no matter your beliefs. You’re nothing but a sorry excuse. A pussy in my book.”

  She never used vulgar language, but in her time working with criminals, she’d learned a few from them. Sometimes, in order to get a point across, you had to meet the devil on his own terms.

  She just hoped her display of bravado had the intended effect. Mitch had to be suffering from smoke inhalation and burns. Half the barn had crumbled while he was in there; she suspected he might be injured from falling debris as well.

  She needed to distract her tormentors, keep them away from Mitch. He’d saved her precious horses; now she needed to do a bit of saving herself.

  Will had tried to keep her inside, but she was done waiting for Mitch’s teammates to arrive or for someone to catch Chris and Linda and end this ridiculous, dangerous charade.

  If Sean Gordon and the man working with him wanted her, they could come out and face her like real men.

  She could feel eyes on her as she swept the shotgun past Mitch’s truck, now covered in dust and ash from the building. Rain began to fall in earnest again, sprinkled her face, but even at this distance, she could feel heat from the burning barn.

  Bastards. They’d killed an innocent guard to get to her. Nearly killed Danika and Mitch in their desire to get to her. They’d burned down her barn and nearly killed four horses to get to her.

  Well, here I am. What are you waiting for, you worthless scumbags?

  She pivoted again, waiting, taunting them. Igor had come back to the tree line and was chewing on some grass.

  “You’ve done all this to get to me.” She stopped circling and lowered the gun so it hung at her side. “You succeeded. I give up.”

  Nothing moved. No one emerged from the trees. Igor didn’t even lift his head. Behind her, all she could hear was the crackling of the fire, the patter and sizzle of rain.

  Tears threatened to break free, and really, why the hell was she holding them back? This ranch meant everything to her. The dogs, the horses, Will. She’d built a life here, helped young men and women here, recovered from her own emotional wounds.

  And now these men, at the direction of Chris Goodsman and his number one fan, had ripped off the bandages she’d so carefully placed around her heart. They’d made her vulnerable again.

  How had that happened?

  Danika and Carla had paid the price. The horses had been terrified and nearly died. And Mitch—he hadn’t emerged from behind his truck; hadn’t even made a sound when the barn collapsed. What if he was over there dying? What if he was already…

  No. Do not go there! Mitch was full of life and he had turned her world on its head, made her believe again in happiness, peace…love? Maybe. All she knew was that she couldn’t imagine her life now without him.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  The low, irritated voice hissed from behind her. Turning, she nearly sagged with relief. Mitch, face covered with dirt and smudged with smoke, glared at her. His gun was drawn, his arms locked into position as he sidled up to her and put his back to hers.

  “You trying to get yourself killed, woman?”

  “I’m trying to draw them out so Will can shoot them. He’s upstairs with a rifle.”

  “Jesus! Raise that shotgun. We’re going to move in tandem back to the house. If I tell you to duck, your ass better hit the dirt, you understand?”

  The relief swirling inside her made her giddy, lightheaded. “I like it when you get all bossy.”

  Her levity was lost on him. “Move,” he growled.

  She did, liking the way his bigger body tag-teamed hers, shielding her, protecting her.

  Putting him in their enemies’ line of sight wasn’t what she wanted, however, and it sort of pissed her off that she wasn’t going to get to shoot someone.

  “If you dare hurt my horses,” she threatened the invisible men, “I will personally shove this shotgun up your ass and blow you away!”

  She meant it too. She was tired of placating people, not letting them see how they upset her, provoked her. She was done taking other people’s shit, especially anyone connected to Chris Goodsman.

  Yelling at them was cathartic. It seemed to release the valve inside her where she kept everything pushed down and contained. “I’m going to make sure they fry your ass, Goodsman,” she added as Mitch prodded her toward the porch, his back against hers. “If you’re out there having a laugh about this, or planning even more fanatical activities, you should know I’m ready for you.”

  Mitch knocked his shoulder into her. “Will you quit already? Get in the house, for fuck’s sake.”

  But she wasn’t done. They hit the porch and Emma whirled around, both hands on her shotgun and the anger inside her boiling. “I don’t care what it takes, Chris. I’m going to make sure you go down, one way or— Eeep!”

  Before she could finish, Mitch snatched the shotgun from her hand and shoved her inside.

  At the same time, a shot rang out, shattering the window next to her.

  She fell to the floor, hands landing in glass as a hundred pieces fell around her. More gunshots peppered her front porch, the door, the siding. Curling in a ball, she ignored the stinging cuts in her hands and covered her head, her heart seizing in her chest.

  Bang, bang, bang. The gunfire didn’t stop.

  She peeked through her fingers. Luckily the dogs were nowhere to be seen. She hoped they were safe upstairs with Will.

  All around her, bullets flew through the broken window, embedding themselves in her living room, breaking her lamp, exploding a couch cushion, knocking a picture from the wall. She rolled away from the door.

  “Mitch!” she yelled over the noise. She couldn’t see him, didn’t know where he’d gone. He had nowhere to hide in the front of the house since he’d moved his truck. It was just open yard, the steps, and the porch.

  Oh God, don’t let him be dead.

  She was about to risk shifting back toward the door to peek out when he came hauling in from the kitchen.

  “Stay down,” he commanded, crouched as he ran over to the blown out window and put his back against the wall. He had his handgun in one hand, the shotgun in the other. One booted foot reached out and kicked the door closed.

  Blood bloomed on his left shirt sleeve. More streamed from a cut near his temple.

  “Are you shot?” she asked, digging her elbows into the old wooden floor and pulling herself across the floor toward him. “You’re bleeding.”

  He stuck his handgun in his waistband and reached out with his free hand. Grabbing hold of the back of her shirt, he hauled her over to the wall next to h
im. His gaze landed on her hands and he frowned. “You’re bleeding too. Are you all right?”

  Her body shook with the force of a California earthquake. Her hands stung from the glass and she could see small pieces still embedded in her skin. “I’ll live. You didn’t answer my question. Are you hurt?”

  Will came thundering down the stairs and pressed himself up against the far wall, rifle in hand. He glanced at Emma, then nodded at Mitch. “You done good out there with the horses.”

  The shooting from outside stopped.

  Mitch cocked his chin at Emma and said in a low voice, “Why the hell did you let her out of your sight?”

  “Stubborn woman wouldn’t listen,” Will said at the same time Emma said, “It’s not his fault.”

  Mitch glared between them. His face was covered with soot. His gaze finally came to rest on Emma. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  “Look who’s talking,” she snapped. “You go running into a burning barn by yourself and it nearly collapses on you. I thought you were dead!”

  Her voice had risen and without the gunfire to compete with, it sounded shrill and panicky in the confines of her destroyed living room.

  “She thought if she could draw them out, I could shoot them,” Will added sheepishly.

  Mitch banged the back of his head into the wall, once, twice, three times, then sagged against it, resignation at their cross-purposes shadowing his features. “You took ten years off my life, Emma.”

  His voice was flat, unemotional. She knew he had a clamp on his emotions because he cared for her, but it was still difficult not to fly off again. Couldn’t he see she’d done what she had to in order to try and stop these bullies? To stop anyone else from dying?

  “Ditto, Agent Holden.” She wiped her wet face with her hands. “I’m forever thankful you saved my horses, but I thought I’d lost you.”

  His jaw worked and his Adam’s apple went up and down. “Still only two men?” he said to Will, subtly shifting to eye the yard through the broken window.

  Will took ammunition from a pocket, reloaded his rifle. He grinned an evil grin. “Actually, I took one out of commission while you were dancing around the back of the house. The short, bald one.”

  “Gordon,” Mitch said. Emma echoed him. “Sean.”

  Mitch gave Will a tight smile back. “That only leaves one, then. Between the two of us, we should be able to take out this last POS without too much difficulty.”

  Except the one left was the brutal killer.

  A nod from Will. “You want me to flush him out for you?”

  Mitch hesitated a second and Emma reached up to twine her fingers in his. He felt warm; her hands were cold as ice.

  She saw him swallow hard, then he took his fingers away from hers and motioned at the stairs. “Go upstairs and lock yourself and the dogs in your bathroom, Emma. Don’t let anyone in and don’t come out until I tell you to.”

  What? He was sending her away?

  She retorted but the rapid, ping, ping, ping of bullets peppering the front of her house again drowned out her words.

  As if this day could get any worse, Will’s body snapped back and down he went too.

  “Shit!” Lucky shot or skilled killer? Mitch didn’t have time to figure it out. The man shooting at the house went silent, probably reloading, so Mitch dropped to his knees and grabbed Emma’s bleeding hands, pulling her to her feet.

  Glass crunched under his boots. He tried to be gentle, but the adrenaline blasting though his system and the memory of Mac caught in that building five years ago made him want to throw her over his shoulder and run.

  He gripped her too hard, spots dancing at the edge of his vision. His body swayed. Mac’s face flashed across his mind.

  Not now. A flashback now could kill him and Emma both. “Stay low but get to the stairs, Doc. Now!”

  He sent her scurrying but she pulled up short two steps later when she realized Will was down, the big man swearing and swiping at his upper arm where blood flowed.

  His right arm.

  Mitch’s sharp shooter was out of commission.

  “Go!” Will yelled at Emma. “I’m fine.”

  He wasn’t, and she knew it, but she set her mouth in a firm line and crab-crawled to the stairs. Mitch could tell even from this distance and seeing her only in profile she was scared but also pissed. Good. Being pissed might keep her alive if she didn’t do something stupid again.

  Will scooted on his butt so his back was to the wall between the door and the window, the rifle lying on the floor at his feet. He tore a strip off his shirt and started winding it around his arm, his left hand shaking. “Just let me wrap this up and I’m good to go. Our guy is on the northeast side. I’ll head around back and come at him from the south. Flush him out for you.”

  Wounded or not, Mitch needed him. He withdrew his handgun and held it out. “Trade?”

  The rifle wasn’t going to work for Will, but he accepted the Glock with his left hand and used his foot to slide the rifle toward Mitch. “Better than nothing, right?” he said, rising to his feet.

  A grimace stole over his features and his face went gray. Pain could do that to you. “Watch your back,” Mitch said.

  Will nodded, then ducked and made his way to the kitchen, his gait slightly unsteady as he held his injured arm close to his body.

  Upstairs, Mitch heard a door shut.

  How about that? Emma had listened to him for once.

  All was quiet out front. Too quiet. Had their shooter run out of bullets? Was he moving to a new location?

  Will’s fresh blood spotted the floor near the door. Emma’s blood was intermixed with glass near his boots.

  Have to keep her alive.

  If he did one goddamn thing right in his life, it had to be that.

  Rain plunked in the puddles, oozed over the landscape. His gaze kept going back to the blood on the floor. Mac’s blood was on his hands. Emma and Will were both injured because he’d chosen to save a couple of horses.

  He kicked the wall, huffing, then yelled out the broken window. “Come on, you sack of shit. What are you waiting for?”

  Nothing happened.

  There was no good answer, no easy solution. Creeping under the window, he locked the door. Not much good that would do since their bad guy could still get in, but he wasn’t about to let the asshole just walk in through the door. If he tried to come in, he’d have to crawl through the jagged glass of the broken window.

  Mitch crouched and ran to the kitchen.

  Once there, he went to the window, checking the area. No Will and no one else either. Second Chance and Hope had moved away from the juvie center van and Mitch could no longer see them either.

  He checked the lock on the back door, then went by the mudroom and pantry, circling back out to the living room. The window on the other side of the room was curtained and he peeked out, scanning the area toward the pasture and woods.

  A flash of black caught his eye, but it was only Igor among the trees.

  Where was Will? Had he lost too much blood and passed out? Had their assailant moved positions? Mitch went back to the front window, every nerve on edge as he carefully eyed the area from the frame.

  A noise over the falling rain met his ears and he tipped his head, listening closer but still not seeing anything out of place. As the sound became louder, he recognized the familiar clomp, clomp, clomp of a horse’s hooves. The horse was moving toward him at a fairly fast clip.

  Second Chance. Their assailant was making a break for it.

  Mitch tried to calm the sudden rage inside him, flaring to life like a flash fire. But it wouldn’t be calmed. This asshole wasn’t going anywhere.

  Snatching the rifle from the floor and tuning his ears to carefully listen to the cadence of the hooves, he went to his knees and used the gun to clear the jagged glass from the sill. Propping the gun on the ledge, he steadied his pounding pulse.

  Before he could blink, a man riding Second Chance
came into view, his body hunkered down over the horse’s mane as he dug his heels into her side, urging her to go faster toward the gate.

  Mitch lined up the scope, following the fleeing form. If he missed and hit the horse…

  Not happening.

  But hitting the man atop the horse going at that speed would be challenging for a sharp shooter like Will. Mitch was good, but he wasn’t a sniper and his military days were long behind him. He’d always been better with a handgun; he wasn’t a marksman with a rifle.

  No choice. Do it.

  God and Emma forgive me if I miss.

  The horse and rider had already passed the front of the house. He lined up the man’s back, put his finger on the trigger and let the weight of it press the trigger the slightest amount.

  Then he took a deep breath, let it out halfway, and…

  Boom!

  The rifle kicked, the blast echoing in the room. His ears buzzed, a fine match to his gritty eyes and the taste of ash in his mouth. He heard a scream—horse or man?

  He was almost scared to look.

  Taking his eye away from the scope, he saw Second Chance continuing toward the gate at a much slower pace, red blood running down her side.

  But it wasn’t her blood.

  At least he didn’t think so.

  The man riding her bareback slumped over her neck, a clear bullet wound in his upper left side spurting blood. As Mitch watched, the man slid off the horse and hit the ground.

  From nowhere, Will came running. “Hot damn,” he yelled, sending a look toward the house where Mitch was emerging. “Bulls-eye!”

  Mitch joined him, walking across the grounds to the spot where the man lay face down. Will handed Mitch back his Glock and rolled the body over.

  The man blinked up at them, rain dotting his face and plastering his hair to his head. The man’s lips worked, but nothing came out. He lost his struggle with consciousness, and Mitch fought the urge to kick the son-of-a-bitch.

  “What do you want to do with him?” Will said.

  Mitch’s pulse still beat erratically, tiny dots dancing in his peripheral vision again. What the hell was wrong with him?