Devereaux released her and flipped his hand in a shooing motion. “Go sit on the sofa and wait for me.”
Sloan nodded and turned away.
The twenty-by-thirty room held a massive four-poster bed that looked like something out of a castle, carved out of dark wood and gaudy as hell. Beyond the bed a wide archway revealed a white stone bathroom. Happy to ignore that side of the room, Sloan walked toward a large seating area nestled around a fireplace, above which Elizabeth McCord’s painted eyes stared. Down from the painting and parlor area a closed door called to her. The red wood appeared thick and imposing. She smiled.
Office entrance.
After preparing two drinks at the sideboard, Devereaux sauntered over. All the confidence of an emperor bloated his chest as he neared her seat on the couch.
Half of Baine’s DNA came from this inferior specimen, but when compared to Baine the man was less in every way, except evil. She could see no resemblance to the man she loved in the one before her. Thank goodness.
He downed the dark liquor in his glass then sat the other on the small table between them. When he remained standing Sloan crossed her legs and smiled.
“Thank you.”
Devereaux stared at her for a long minute not saying a word. Silence danced between them and a warning bell sounded in Sloan’s head. When the sound reached a fevered pitch, he spoke.
“I love women. Their hair and soft curves. The sweet scent of their throat and the valley between their breasts. I love their lips. High and low.” His gaze narrowed on Sloan’s crossed legs, and he smiled. “I said, ‘Relax.’”
Sloan uncrossed her legs and sat straighter near the edge of the cushion. She breathed through the urge to attack and waited patiently. She had time.
“Better,” he nodded.
“I love women,” he continued. “But women get in the way.” He let that hang in the air before stepping closer.
“Spread your legs,” he demanded.
The braised lamb she’d eaten came to life in her stomach, wriggling and bucking, looking for a way out. But no way in hell could she get sick. She was a professional, if not escort, a professional undercover agent. A professional killer. She had to lure the prey in somehow.
Get over it. You have panties on.
Inch by vomit-worthy inch, Sloan spread her legs, and watched as Devereaux took another step closer.
“Hike your skirt,” he practically panted.
Fuck!
Sloan wriggled the tight white material up her hips, focusing on the distance the pervert closed between them rather than the stomach acid in her throat.
Devereaux tilted his head for a better view of her crotch.
“Too bad you’re wearing panties. I need to see what all the fuss is over your vagina. Is it magical? It certainly mesmerized Kobi and my son. Drove them to fight over you.”
The man straightened and his jaw went to work. He sneered and shook his head.
“My son. I had such high hopes for him.” Sloan’s heart frosted. “Seems he has poor judgment where pussies are concerned. I tried to teach him they were only for play, but he was thinking with his dick when he tried to take what’s mine and frame Kobi.
“My loyal dog. He would never bite the hand that feeds him. The hand that scooped him from the slums of Cape Town. He’s forever loyal.”
He took another step closer, leaving four feet between them.
A little closer.
“My son...what a disappointment. He’s greedy like I was. Guess I should have expected it. After all, I killed my father and took what was his.”
Devereaux shucked his suit coat and tossed it onto the chair beside him. His hands went to his fly and the zipper groaned open.
“It’s time you show me what’s so special about your cunt.”
32
Abram spoke. “Uh, Ross? What the hell are you doin’ man? That’s the boss’s so—"
“Shut up. I know what I’m doing. He’s a traitor. Killed our guys. Your friends.” Kobi’s neck muscles bulged and the visible pounding in his veins increased. He pointed with the gun barrel toward Baine’s head. “Now it’s his turn to die.”
In his periphery Baine saw Abram and Josh look back and forth at each other in a pingpong match of what the fuck. Clearly, neither were going to be any help.
The corners of Kobi’s mouth turned up. “They’re not gonna to help you. Daddy’s not gonna help you. You’re all mine.”
“How sweet.”
As if someone had slowed an old movie reel, Kobi moved with deliberate and easy pace in the next few frames. Kobi closed the chasm between them with one large step. His pistol hand drew back. Baine turned his head a quarter-inch to minimize the damage as he let the barrel slam into his skull.
One hell of a way to buy time.
The thud reverberated through dense brain tissue, making Baine’s ears sing soprano. He righted himself and looked at the clock again. Blood tickled the corner of his left eye. The long and short hands bobbed in a sea of red. After several blinks, finally the numbers found dry land.
Two minutes left.
“Your gun,” Kobi demanded, one hand outstretched.
Mindful that he’d only used the singular, Baine slipped one Reeder from its holster and handed it to the chav, barrel down. Seeing the beauty in his inept hands, Baine’s insides twitched. And ever the smart mouth, he couldn’t stop himself. “You sure you know how to use that thing?”
The black gun disappeared behind Kobi’s back as he shoved it into his waistband. “Oh, I’ll show you just how well, fucker.” Kobi stood over him now. So close Baine could vise his balls in a blink. The man laughed. Oblivious to the danger or so caught up in the high of Baine Kendrick kneeling before him, he neglected all the possibilities.
He just had to be patient and keep the wanker from pulling the trigger. Because as ignorant as Kobi was, Baine couldn’t ignore the precariousness of his situation. At this range the bullet would leave the barrel and impact his skull in about one-sixth of a second. For a big guy he was fast, but not that fast.
“What’s your play here, Ross? Shoot me, then what? Take out my father? You’d have to. I doubt he’d take too kindly to the fact that you killed his only heir.”
The kick came from a mile away with a slow wind-up. Baine forced himself not to block the tugboat-sized foot that sailed toward him. It made contact just below his tact vest. The air evaporated from his lungs like a waterhole during the dry season. Will to stay upright and maybe loads of experience getting the wind pummeled out of him were the only things that kept him from assuming the fetal position at Kobi’s feet.
“That rat bastard deserves to die,” Kobi spat. “He can’t see how valuable I am. How loyal I am.
“He doesn’t value you either. Does he?”
Air was required to speak, but Baine assumed Kobi wasn’t talking to him. So, he concentrated on calming the spasms in his chest.
“No, he doesn’t,” one of the dopes still hanging at the other end of the room said. The other echoed the sentiment.
“It’s time for new leadership,” Kobi bellowed.
Yeah’s and wohoo’s chorused.
Baine braced his palms on his thighs and blocked the black tactical knife he slipped from his vest. His head hung between his shoulder blades as, incrementally, oxygen returned. He shook his head and wheezed. “Mutiny doesn’t sound very loyal.”
Cold fingers locked around Baine’s throat and Kobi jerked his head up. The man couldn’t get much closer unless they were going to kiss. Baine looked into the wild eyes only inches from his face and smiled.
“What do you have to smile about? You’re about to die.”
“I have this,” Baine answered. Before Kobi could blink Baine rammed the blade into the man’s gut. With his other hand, Baine latched onto Kobi’s wrist and twisted heavenward. The pistol clattered to the floor. And without discharging. Always a plus.
Using every bit of strength he possessed, Baine rocketed off the floor and led with h
is shoulder as he battered Kobi against the wall. The wanker slid down the white paint, wide-eyed, clutching his gut. Before he could check for any other weapons, clopping footfalls captured his attention.
Baine turned to see Abram running at him, gun drawn. He dove for cover behind the dinning room table as a rapid succession of shots split the air above his head. The bullets chunked holes in the wall, then floor. Splinters of wood broke free as the table took several hits. Baine landed on his side, his second Reeder already drawn. He rolled to his belly, exhaled, and fired. One. Abram’s shin bone. Two. Josh’s foot. Three. Abram’s forehead. Four. Josh’s temple.
Baine pivoted his aim to finish Kobi. Only smears of red remained on the wall. A large crimson handprint decorated the corner door.
Damn.
He had four more interior guards to take out before he could get to Sloan and now he had to track that weaseley fuck, Kobi. Baine tucked and rolled up to the balls of his feet. With brain-matter covering the floor behind him there was no need to check Abram and Josh. Baine shot through the pantry door then snuggled against the far doorframe and scanned the expansive kitchen.
The staff had evacuated, leaving piles of dirty dishes in their wake. A tray of desserts met a tragic end on the grey and white checked floor. From his vantage point Baine could see no one in the room, but the outside door gapped open several inches.
Kobi could have hightailed it out of the house, but where would he go in the middle of the African wild? Baine heaved his body across the open space, crouched down, and slid on his knees to the far side of the island. All remained quiet as he crept to the door, constantly scanning the area for Devereaux’s men. At the edge of the cabinets Baine swung around the corner near the back door, leading with his Reeder.
The coiled breath he’d held seeped out through his lips. A bloody arm lay lodged between the door and frame attached to an exterior guard who didn’t quite make it to safety.
Nice job, Law.
Baine stood from his crouch, refreshed his clip, and returned the gun to its holster. He shrugged out of his restrictive suit coat before continuing down the rear corridor, following the intermittent drops of Kobi’s life force.
A footfall whispered in the distance and Baine flattened against the wall at the opening of the foyer. Soon enough the barrel of a fully automatic machine gun slowly drew into his line of sight. Baine balled his right hand, pushed the gun toward the ceiling with his left, and connected his fist with the guard’s jaw. Immediately, the man slacked like a marionette with no puppet-master, capitulating his weight forward into Baine’s arms, which hadn’t been the plan, but worked to his advantage when his gaze met with the second guard, who was far better in stealth mode than the first.
It took most people a third of a second to think shoot that S.O.B. and actually pull the trigger. Sneaky Feet wasn’t one of those people. As soon as their gazes met he began spraying bullets. The body in Baine’s arms jerked once, twice, three times as bullets assaulted his flesh.
Baine fell to the floor, thrown off balance by the tremors. But he had zero time to think as Sneaky Feet advanced, never letting off the trigger. Effectively trapped by the dead weight and pelting bullets, Baine couldn’t reach his gun. After one-hundredth of a second of oh shit, calm regained control.
Cold metal brushed his left hand. Without looking, only feeling, Baine found the trigger of the dead guy’s gun, pointed toward Sneaky Feet, and held down the squishy trigger. He took out the guy’s legs then peppered the rest of his body with twenty or so rounds.
He felt pretty damn lucky as he hefted the dead guy off him and stood. Then he heard a single pistol shot echo down the staircase and his heart crawled up his throat, trying to go to her.
Sloan!
33
Devereaux pulled his semi-soft dick from his pants, but Sloan averted her gaze and her vomit reflex. She needed him close. As if sensing her wish, he closed the distance between them, palming his penis all the while, trying to get it to do something. He leaned over her and she fell against the cushion to keep from coming in contact with his lips.
His free hand latched onto her throat, pushing her windpipe so hard it brushed her spine. She could hold her breath for nearly two minutes. The pressure hurt, but she’d felt worse.
“What’d your father do to you to turn a nice girl like you into a whore?”
“I’m not a whore,” she croaked.
“Right,” he nodded. He sneered down at her. “You’re Julia Roberts in Pretty woman and my son is Richard Gere.” A deep chuckle varied the force he applied to her airway.
“No,” Sloan growled and gasped.
“What was that,” he asked, lightening his grip enough that fresh air reached her lungs.
“I said, ‘No.’” She swallowed past the pain in her throat. “I’m not Julia Roberts. I’m Samuel L. Jackson.”
His eyes narrowed in confusion then widened as the first hint of uncertainty flashed across his features. Devereaux cinched his grip around her neck, abandoning his dick to use both hands.
Sloan tightened her neck muscles and laughed. It sounded wicked even to her own ears.
Devereaux’s face reddened and he doubled his effort.
Sloan’s knee connected with Devereaux’s soft, dangling balls. A small pop said she might have ruptured something important. As the man fell to the floor and curled into a gagging, hacking, sobbing puddle, Sloan’s smile widened.
“There are rules in America. Unwritten, but strictly adhered to. Never talk about someone’s momma. I think we should add another. Never talk about someone’s daddy.”
Sloan stood, smoothed out her dress, grabbed Devereaux’s tie, and dragged him across the floor by the silky scrap.
“My father left behind a trust fund and one of the richest families in the States to teach impoverished children in third world countries, build schools, and help structure an education system. My mother also taught school. She cooked the best cassava rolls I’ve ever put in my mouth.”
The knob turned easily as Sloan opened the door to reveal Devereaux’s office. The idiot should’ve kept it locked or coded. She would’ve enjoyed torturing it out of him. With another wrap of the silk, Sloan heaved her live catch to the middle of the office. A few feet through the doorway Devereaux roused from his cocoon. His flailing arms and legs made dragging him more difficult. Each time she planted a stiletto-covered foot on the wooden floor, she lost a good inch or two to his antics.
Sloan turned on Devereaux and planted her heel into his gut with such force she was honestly surprised, and disappointed, the white spike of her shoe didn’t come away red. The piece of crap folded like a fitted sheet. Ugly. Disheveled. Totally unsuited for company eyes.
The nagging tailwind subsided. Still, by the time she stopped in front of the wide desk, sweat dripped between her breasts and beaded on her forehead. She released his tie and ignored the red and white indentions circling her hands. With her left hand Sloan snatched Devereaux’s hand from his chest, braced his arm straight, and bent his wrist in the most beautifully unnatural angle. His scream sang in her ears like music—the really good kind felt deep down in the center of the heart and mind.
Finally, Sloan found the sweet spot and Devereaux flipped to his belly in search of relief. He didn’t find it. She pinned his elbow with her knee and with her free hand pulled a Smith & Wesson 9mm from its holster at the small of his back. After a quick check of the chamber and mag she released him and stepped back, gun by her side. Ready for anything. She honestly didn’t know if she had the wherewithal to point the barrel at him and not empty the magazine into his head.
Devereaux rolled to his side and sat, listing to the side, careful not to put pressure on his left arm or his nuts. His gaze narrowed on her, and in his eyes flashed fear, anger, and confusion.
“Who are you?”
“I am a girl whose mother was raped, tortured, and killed while she watched. I am a girl whose father took a bullet in the head trying to stop the hor
rors befalling his family. I am one of thousands unfortunate enough to stand in the destructive path of your greed.
“I am a former slave in your house. I cleaned the fine china you ate off of while I ate from a ladle with twenty others. I washed your bed linens and slept on the dirt.”
Her tears fell in earnest and her grip on the gun tightened so much she thought it might be crushed in her hand. She took a decisive step forward and smiled when he flinched.
“I, Devereaux Kendrick, am a monster of your making. You’ve taken so much from so many. Today is judgment day—and I get to pass down your sentence.”
“Fuck you,” he spat. “You’re just a whore.”
The sound of rapid gunfire carried from behind the office door. Sloan’s heart squeezed as thoughts of Baine in harm’s way assailed her, but she schooled her features. Devereaux, on the other hand, did not. He grinned.
“If you’re going to kill me you better do it now because my men are going to shoot you between the eyes.”
The sound of a machine gun carried up the stairs followed by hollow screams and then silence.
Devereaux’s eyes bugged. He looked at her. Back at the door then lunged for his desk.
Her bullet landed in his shoulder and he howled. That fetal position was becoming popular. He assumed it and grabbed at his lower arm.
“You bitch! Forget a quick death. My men and I are going to run a train on you for weeks and you'll beg me to kill you.”
“Nice try,” Sloan said. “Stand and move to the back of your desk.” He glared and groaned. “Does your shoulder hurt? I hope not. We’re just getting started and I don’t want you to pass out and miss the fun. Now move.”
He did as she instructed a little too eagerly which made her giggle. “Go ahead. Press your panic button. No one’s coming to help you.
“You really shouldn’t have killed Baine’s mother. Check your cameras. I’m sure by now he’s taken out most of your men.”
The man actually teared up. Sloan guessed it was from rage and a sense of helplessness. Regardless of the reason it sent a euphoric shiver though her entire body. She added to it by stepping closer, raising the gun, and aiming it between Devereaux’s eyes.
Enemy Mine (The Base Branch Series Book 1) Page 17
