Hard to Stop

by Wendy Byrne

  "And I'm telling you he loved my mother."

  "How old were you when she was killed—oh, excuse me, had an unfortunate accident? That's the tale he spun for you, right?"

  "Stop trying to get me off track. I was a child. I don't remember her, but my father told me how much she loved me and what a good mother she was."

  "So the two of you were both delusional. How about your brother? Was he suffering from the same malady when he tried to kill my sister?"

  Game face on. She was getting more unglued by the second. No way could she manage to keep it together much longer. She'd make a mistake. Or she'd blow his brains out. Hopefully she'd make that mistake first. He twisted at the plastic binding his wrists and felt a little more elasticity. It was closer to the breaking point. He should be able to corral her if his hands were free.

  He had to be strategic. A kick aimed at her accomplice could take him out. But it was all about timing. He glanced at the guy as if trying to engage him in the conversation. "How do you fit in this?"

  "Don't answer him, Dale. He's trying to find your weakness."

  The guy shifted his gaze from Max to Cleo before deciding not to respond. Not that Max blamed him. She had the gun. He didn't.

  Her fingers twitched while her eyes roamed back and forth. Not only was she crazy, she was on something. Maybe meth, maybe something he didn't even know about. Whatever it was, her time was borrowed. She was getting tracked by the government. But she'd been elusive, so it wasn't out of the realm of possibility she had a trick or two up her sleeve.

  "What now, Cleo? You're being awfully quiet. Are you having second thoughts? Are you thinking this whole 'get rid of the Shaws and all my problems will be solved' isn't such a great idea? Are you thinking maybe there's an alternate way to solve your problem other than with hatred?"

  "Hatred is good. My father—" She growled as her pupils dilated to pinpricks. If there was a picture of evil, she would be it right now. He'd always associated Petrovich with that word but realized evil could take many different forms. Revenge was another level of evil, especially for something he had no control over.

  "Contrary to what you've been told, that's not true. Hatred only brings you to a place where you don't want to be." He blew out a breath. Keeping an eye on Cleo's eyes was the key, as they seemed to grow big when she had something planned.

  Both of his guns were lying on the floor in the corner. Fat chance he could get to them even if he could get his hands free. If the guy moved a little closer to Cleo, he could eliminate him and knock down Cleo at the same time. That could give him some leverage.

  No time like the present. He jumped, kicked, and aimed for the guy's trachea. Between momentum and velocity, the guy tumbled to the floor, bringing Cleo along with him.

  Cleo fired indiscriminately, missing Max but hitting the guy. Max rushed toward his guns. But didn't have time.

  Max yanked and twisted, nearly freeing his hands. No time. He propelled himself forward, subduing her with his legs and his body. The gun wavered in her hand, but he had no leverage without his hands. She bit his shoulder through the fabric of his camo gear. When he flinched, her fingertips stretched toward the gun.

  He yanked so hard on the binds that his biceps burned. The pop of the plastic came with welcome relief, even while it cut into his skin.

  He covered her hand with his as she tried to aim the gun at his chest. The first shot went wild, hitting the wall. The second missed the mark as well. He got control of the gun and pointed the barrel to her forehead.

  Seeing her like this was the culmination of his past. One he could now put to rest.

  "Do it," she screeched.

  Instead, he used the butt and slammed it into her temple. Prison for life would suit this woman perfectly.

  "Max." Gianna's voice was a welcome relief.

  "Over here. And bring some cuffs." Max stood but didn't waver the position of the gun. This woman wasn't going anywhere. "Anybody have cuffs?" The room was illuminated with flashlights.

  "Sure do," Jennings replied. He turned Cleo over and cuffed her wrists behind her. Then in a move so overkill Max could completely respect Jennings for doing it, he also cuffed the woman's ankles. "Don't want to take any chances with her."

  Gianna wrapped her arms around Max's neck. "You've been busy, I see."

  "A little of this and a little that." He wrapped his arms around her waist. "You managed to get free."

  "And have the dislocated shoulder and a whole lot of bruises to prove it."

  "Sorry about that, but I didn't want to see you get hurt." He stopped her protest with a finger to her lip. "What do you think, Gianna?" He laid his forehead against hers.

  "About?" She let the word hang in the air, but based on the expression on her face, she knew where he was headed.

  "You and me. I think we make a good team."

  "I'm not going to be your flavor of the week. That's not how I play things. If you hang with me, it's gotta be a commitment."

  "Understood." He kissed her lightly. "I'd say you drive a hard bargain, but that's not true. I know we've been shot at, nearly killed, almost run over, nearly drowned, you name it, but I gotta say, it was more fun than I've had in a long time."

  "You are one sick puppy, Max Shaw."

  "I know. I've been hiding my dark side for too long. I think it's time I brought that out to play."

  "Are you saying I bring out your dark side?" She eased her hands from his neck to his shoulders. "I'm not necessarily sure that's a good thing."

  "It's a good thing. Has me thinking about a job change."

  "Does that mean you're going to take Jennings up on his offer?"

  "It's the least I can do. The poor guy needs a vacation once in a while." He shook his head. "Probably mean a cut in pay."

  "I think you'll survive."

  "I'm not sure. I do wear fancy silk underwear, as you said."

  "You have a twenty-five-million-dollar paid-in-full townhouse, along with another condo you rent out at a profit. A stock portfolio I could only dream about. I don't think you'll have to start shopping at discount stores."

  "Hey, how did you know my house is paid for?"

  "I keep telling you, I'm NYPD. We have our ways. The Alliance has nothing on us."

  "Really? That sure sounds like a challenge."

  "Just stating the facts."

  He moved in closer. "I'm going to talk to Jake and Sabrina about taking a trip back to Serbia now that…well…the skeletons have been put to rest. How do you feel about joining us?" He put a finger to her lips. "Of course, Mick's invited as well."

  "I need to get a passport."

  "I have some connections. I'm codirector of The Alliance, after all."

  "Is this the kind of crap I'm going to have to put up with?" She linked her arm with his.

  "Count on it."

  "Just when I thought your head couldn't get any bigger."

  EPILOGUE

  The three of them walked hand in hand, with Sabrina in the middle. This whole moment was a long time coming. Closure.

  They walked up the gently sloping land. Max hadn't seen the home he'd had built five years ago to replace the one they'd lost. Now that the ghosts of the past had been extinguished, they could all be whole again.

  "Is it me, or are there less trees than I remember?" Sabrina said as they made the trek from the road.

  The forest that surrounded their home didn't seem nearly as large as the last time Max had been there.

  "Holy crap, what did you do, Max?" Jake asked as he pointed to their new home.

  A kind of lightness lit up Sabrina's face. "This is kind of surreal. A part of me always wanted to come back here, but another part was afraid."

  "Good memories and bad mixed together." Max smiled. "I bought the land a while back and had the cottage built—but didn't tell you two until the time was right for us to return."

  Jake sucked in a breath. "I don't know. I would have gone a little more upscale," he said, then smirk
ed. "Just kidding. You gotta know it's perfect."

  "It's almost like they're here." Sabrina's voice whispered in the wind.

  They continued to walk toward the door until Max pulled out the key and opened it. Just as he'd ordered, the inside matched up with his memory, although adding a bit here and there wasn't a bad idea.

  "I remember Mama sitting by the fire and braiding my hair." Sabrina sat down on the hearth as a tear slid down her cheek.

  Jake opened the cabinet doors then the refrigerator. "Better eats than I remember."

  "We are expecting guests, after all." Max pulled out a chair and sat down, inviting his siblings to do the same. "And of course, there are now three master suites. Didn't want any fighting going on about who gets dibs on the good room. Especially since we're expecting company in about ten minutes or so."

  "Who would have thought a little over a year ago, we'd have finally put everything in our past behind us?" Jake said.

  "This place will give us a chance to make a whole different kind of memories."

  * * * * *

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  * * * * *

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Wendy has a Masters in Social Work and worked in the child welfare field for twelve years before she decided to pursue her dream of writing. Her first two books, Fractured and Mama Said were published in 2011 and 2012. Mama Said was a finalist in the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence Contest. She self-published The Christmas Curse in 2012.

  Between teaching college classes, trying to get her morbidly obese cat to slim down, and tempering the will of her five-year-old granddaughter, who's determined to become a witch when she turns six so she can fly on her broom to see the Eiffel Tower and put hexes on people—not necessarily in that order—somehow Wendy still manages to fit in writing. She spends the remainder of her days inflicting mayhem on her hero and heroine until they beg for mercy.

  To learn more about Wendy Byrne, visit her online at: http://www.wendybyrne.net/

  * * * * *

  BOOKS BY WENDY BYRNE

  Hard Targets:

  Hard to Kill

  Hard to Trust

  Hard to Stop

  Other works:

  Mama said…

  The Christmas Curse

  Fractured

  * * * * *

  SNEAK PEEK

  If you enjoyed this Hard Targets novel, check out this sneak peek of another romantic suspense read from Gemma Halliday Publishing:

  AWAKEN THE DEVIL

  BY

  A.J. CHASE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Thirteen years ago, England

  The oppressive darkness heightened all of Chandler Bentley's other senses. The room stank of death and his own desperation.

  Silence was the only thing he could hear, as jarring as a scream in its way. Silence and his labored breathing. It wasn't a far stretch to believe he was the last person in the world. Of course he knew that wasn't true. In the nursery his six-year-old daughter, Anne, was sleeping. Her nurse would be in with her.

  That brought to mind all the other servants in the house. No, he certainly wasn't alone in the world. He wasn't even alone in the room. There was always his wife, Helena.

  If he moved just the right way the moonlight would illuminate one pale hand hanging off the edge of the bed they were supposed to share but rarely did. Of course, he could not hear the breathing of his beautiful wife because she was dead.

  Murdered.

  A dark puddle had formed on the floor next to the bed. Every few seconds another drop of blood would fall with a nauseating splash.

  He sat down in the chair by the bed, his favorite in the house, and stared into the darkness. He wanted to remember every detail of this place that had been his prison for seven years. Helena had screamed, and someone would have heard those screams. Soon enough someone would ring the authorities, and he would move on to another kind of prison—the kind that would hold him in with metal bars rather than a gold ring and empty promises.

  * * *

  Current, Manhattan NYC

  "Numbers one-fifty-one to one-sixty, please follow me."

  Fielding French's head jerked up at the forceful words from the mouth of the dance mistress, a skeletal middle-aged woman in an unflattering purple leotard. The buzz of the enormous crowd grew for a moment while people filed out. Close to hyperventilating, Fielding watched them leave. She glanced down at her hand and saw she'd crushed the yellow paper pinned to her leotard. Flustered, she smoothed it as well as she could and ran her gaze over the other dancers. There were hundreds of people moving in and out of the room.

  She had to get a hold of herself. But after the emotional roller coaster of the last forty-eight hours, she was probably lucky to just be still standing. Grief and weariness vied with fear for the dominant emotion in her head. She hadn't slept for more than a few minutes at a stretch in days, she was jet-lagged after the long overseas trip, and her internal clock was still set on UK time. The room they were holding in was the largest of its kind she'd ever seen, and along its wall of windows were glass double doors leading straight to the outside. It would be so easy to just walk out and never look back…

  But she couldn't. Because she had promised Mac. Her vision faded around the edges, and for a second she was back in that Long Island hospice room just this morning, clutching her uncle's hand against the crisp white sheets, unshed tears choking her. Crying wouldn't have helped anyone. Chin up, that was Mac's way.

  Mac French was a mountain of a man—a newspaper giant who had cut swathes across America and England with daring exposés and the kind of hard-hitting journalism that Fielding had disdained although she loved the man.

  The kind of journalism he had asked her to do.

  With Mac a shrunken version of himself due to three kinds of cancer and a rapidly failing heart, she'd made him a promise, though the words hadn't come easily past the thickness in her throat. Now here she was, just hours after landing on American soil, trying out for the line in Chandler Bentley's newest show, Pirates.

  The door into the theater opened again. "Numbers one-sixty-one to one-seventy, please follow me," Purple Leotard called out.

  Fielding pulled in a deep breath and headed for the door. The one into the theater. Under any other circumstances, Fielding would have been happy to be there. She adored theaters, and the Paramount Theater was one of the nicer ones she'd worked in. She loved the way the way they smelled like dust and wood, and the hollow metallic sound taps made when they hit the stage. She reveled in the almost tangible presence of audiences long since gone, like a million ghosts just there to say hello.

  It had been one of her ex-fiancé, Dale's, biggest complaints—when he'd still been voicing them rather than jumping into bed with the first available easy lay—that he could never inspire as much passion in Fielding as Gilbert and Sullivan did. He might have been right, but at least Gilbert and Sullivan had been true to her all these years, which was more than could be said for Dale.

  The dance mistress led Fielding and nine others to a large, mirrored room with blinding overhead lights. After so long without sleep, Fielding's eyes were gritty and burning, overly sensitive.

  People who weren't auditioning filed in and out of the room. Members of Bentley's staff, dance instructors, assistants, maybe the man himself.

  She couldn't stop her hands from shaking, so she fisted them. She probably should have eaten sometime today, but her stomach would have objected. She'd been too busy anyway, dealing with the hospice, the paper work, the dread and shock. Dealing with Mac, who would willingly have died alone if not for the fact he needed her.

  She'd made the call this morning, too. The one to Chandler Bentley that had sent her scurrying across town to this audition. Her best friend and a fellow employee of Mac's, Josh, had scared up Bentley's hotel room
number from somewhere. Josh was able to get information no private party should ever be able to get. Fielding had never questioned his techniques or sources because, frankly, she wasn't sure she wanted to know. She'd taken the number from Josh and thanked him for his skills, however invasive or illegal they might be.

  She'd dialed up Chandler Bentley, hoping he'd agree to see her. The memory alone was enough to make her hands tremble even more. She slid them into the pockets of her hooded sweatshirt. She'd expected a secretary or a wife to answer the phone, but the velvety baritone that picked up the other end turned out to be Bentley himself. Operating on instinct alone, she'd skipped her name and simply asked for an interview. She wasn't even through the question before he cut her off. His crisp, lyrical accent articulated each word like little bullets.

  He'd given a sharp curse and then threatened, "I swear to you that if I knew your name you would never work again. Given enough time, I will discover where you're calling from, and when I do, both you and your editor will regret it." He'd hung up then, slamming the receiver down so hard the crack stung her ear.

  Somehow, in all of that, breakfast hadn't been a priority.

  She was so tightly wound that glimpsing someone moving toward her in the mirror made her jump. It was worse when the woman spoke.

  "I don't know you, do I?"

  The pulse in Fielding's throat tripped. The dancer looked barely old enough to be out on her own. Her strong country twang and oversized blue eyes did nothing to make her seem more adult.

  "I don't think so." Fielding turned her body slightly away to discourage conversation.

  "I'm Daphne Buhler, by the way," the country girl went on, clearly not daunted by Fielding's non-verbal no trespassing sign.