by Misty Evans
Smoke grenade or tear gas? Either way, he wasn’t taking chances. He threw himself into the closet.
The cramped, triangular closet held some out-of-season coats and a few pairs of Beatrice’s boots. When he didn’t hear any bang from the other room, he snatched one of the scarfs from a hangar and wound it around his face, covering his nose and mouth.
And then he set his ear against the door and listened.
The man in his house was stealthy, his footsteps nearly silent as he rounded the corner and started down the hallway. Cal might not be a super soldier like Hunter, but he had the elevated awareness that SEAL training had beaten into him. He didn’t so much hear the man when he reached the door as felt him.
He sensed the presence right on the other side of the door. With impossible slowness, he turned the knob.
The distinct sound of the man’s submachine gun sliding along the material of his jacket filtered through the door. Without hesitating, Cal attacked.
The door knocked the man backwards, his gun going off and peppering the wall and ceiling with bullets. In his ear, Cal heard Hunter yell something at him, but he was shooting now, too, the sound overriding whatever Hunter said.
A series of bullets hit the man, sending him to his knees, but none doing much damage due to his tact suit.
Cal aimed for his neck.
One bullet, then another made contact. The man didn’t get up.
Cal heard the report of a gun behind him, felt the sharp sting of a bullet in the back of his thigh.
His knee went out, pitching him sideways. Half keeling, he swung his weapon around to fire and felt the second punch of a bullet, this time in his upper arm.
His gun clattered to the floor next to the dead man. Cal found himself on one knee staring up into the black muzzle of a wicked handgun.
The weapon was pointed at his head, the glare of a tact light under the barrel partially blinding him. What he saw above the gun was a woman’s smiling face.
Her hair was long and platinum, her almond-shaped eyes heavily lined, matching the deep color of her lips. “Callan Reese, leader of the SEAL team that killed my father and brother. We finally meet.”
Two of her goons stood on either side of her, their weapons also pointed at him. His gun was within reach, so was the dead man’s H&K. Blood ran down his arm and two of his fingers were numb. He’d have to use his left hand.
“Who are you?” he ground out. His leg wound felt like a hot knife in his hamstring. “What do you want?”
She placed her free hand on her chest. “You don’t remember me? I’m hurt. But then, monsters like you never do remember the collateral damage you leave behind, do you?”
He could play innocent—because honestly he had no idea what she was talking about—but that just wasn’t his style. “How did you find out where I live?”
She clucked her tongue. “Foolish man. I saw your little display on television when you saved your sniveling president. With my resources, it took little time to connect the dots.”
Resources. An understatement if the weapons and gear her soldiers were sporting were any indication.
“What do you want?”
“Retribution, of course. For all the orphans you and your team created all over the world. For the death of my family and the near destruction of everything my father worked so hard for.”
Where was Hunter? At least Beatrice hadn’t wandered out. Hopefully, she’d listened to him and locked herself and Maria in the walk-in closet. Why hadn’t he built a panic room?
The persistent thoughts circled. None would help him now. “If your father was a terrorist, he got what he deserved.”
She took a step forward, glaring down at him. “My father dealt in antiquities, saving cultural icons and religious artifacts from the greedy Westerners you protect.”
Art dealer. Hmm. A memory teased at his brain.
She kept the muzzle of her gun pointed at his forehead. “Where’s your wife?”
Oh hell no. For half a heartbeat, he simply stared at her. She and her cohorts had obviously seen him and Hunter carry Beatrice inside. Denying B was in the house would do him no good. He raised his hands in a show of surrender. “You want me, not her.”
One corner of the woman’s mouth twitched. “My father and brother died at your hands. Now you will watch your wife and child die at mine.”
She bent down so she was eye to eye with him. Her goons kept their H&Ks trained on him. “Where is she? Where is your pregnant wife?”
Cal was about to dive for his gun when he heard the bedroom door crack open and Beatrice’s voice sounded behind him.
“Right here, bitch.”
And all hell broke loose.
Chapter Five
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BEATRICE SQUEEZED THE trigger.
At the same time, a contraction squeezed her.
Cal yelled, her shot went wide, and the bitch who’d shot her husband ran.
The two goons flanking the woman ran with her.
Beatrice dropped to her knees and moaned, one hand gripping her belly. Maria stepped in front of her, bending to shield her.
Beatrice’s vision morphed into dancing black dots and she felt hands on her back. Maria had hold of her shoulders; Cal was rubbing her kidneys.
“What the hell was that?” he said over the sound of gunfire coming from the living room. He opened her fingers, still on her Sig Sauer, and took it from her. “I told you to get in your closet and lock yourself in!”
With her jaws clamped together, she couldn’t respond. Warm, sticky blood dampened her T-shirt—Cal’s blood. She reached for him, felt him lift her off her knees. Even injured, he was so damn strong.
Somehow he managed to carry her to the bed. Maria followed, and Beatrice noticed her midwife was well armed.
Cal handed her Beatrice’s gun and she stuck hers in the waistband of her pants. “You’re supposed to keep her safe,” Cal growled.
“I didn’t realize there would be a shootout,” Maria retorted smartly, sticking Beatrice’s gun in the nightstand. The anger on her face evaporated when she saw Cal’s blood. “Are you okay?”
“No,” Beatrice grunted. “He’s not.”
Beatrice heard Trace’s voice. He sounded far away. Cal touched his ear—he must have been wearing a comm unit—and headed for the door. “Copy that.” Then to her and Maria he said, “Stay in here and keep this fucking door locked!”
He slammed it shut and Maria did as he’d said, locking it behind him. She turned her dark eyes on Beatrice. “What on earth were you thinking?”
It wasn’t everyday she could outsmart a former Israeli intelligence officer-turned-midwife. “We’re under attack,” Beatrice huffed as the contraction receded. Cal had lied to her and she hated feeling so helpless. “Who was that woman?”
Maria grabbed the dresser and started scooting it across the floor to block the door. “I’m not sure. I only caught a glimpse of her but that hair is hard to forget. I think it was Ebba Nielsson, the Swedish art thief. Interpol has been after her for the last three years, ever since her father and brother were killed in a shootout.”
“Art thief?” Beatrice rubbed sweat off her forehead. Her eyes were blurring and her lower belly burned like she’d been branded with a hot poker. “Why is she after me?”
“I didn’t hear all of the conversation, but it sounds like she’s looking for revenge for her father and brother’s deaths.”
“Cal killed them?”
Maria nodded. “I remember when they were killed. I was working in Iran at the time. Hot black market for religious antiquities there.”
“To fund various terrorist groups.”
“They’re gone now, and in case you didn’t realize it, you’re in labor. Also, your husband and your bodyguard are former SEALs. Cal and Trace can handle the situation. You have to trust them.”
Maria didn’t know it, but the issue
wasn’t trusting Cal and Trace to stop the intruders. The issue was control.
Hot tears welled behind Beatrice’s eyes and she blinked rapidly to clear them. “Nobody threatens my family and gets away with it.”
Maria rolled her eyes. “You sound like an actor in a maudlin B movie. Stop trying so hard to be a man and accept that you can be weak!”
The midwife came to the bed and propped Beatrice up on some pillows. “It’s okay to be a woman, Beatrice. You can’t help them, they can handle it just fine on their own, and you’re only going to get Cal killed because you’re distracting him!”
She hadn’t thought about it like that. “We’re a team. We always have each other’s backs. And he’s injured. He needs medical attention.”
“Yes, well for now, the only way to help him is to give birth to his child and keep it safe.”
Beatrice took a deep breath and imagined she was lying in a snowy field, cool and clean. Soundless. “We need to go to the closet, like Cal said.”
“You need to stay right where you are. I need to see how far you’re dilated.”
Beatrice leveraged herself up on an elbow. “No, we need to go in the closet. There’s something I have to show you.”
“It can wait!”
Beatrice sat up and shook her head. God, she was looking forward to not feeling like a beached whale. “No, it can’t.”
With Maria’s exasperated help, she shuffled to the closet. It was excruciatingly slow going. Beatrice felt like her child once again weighed 200 pounds, all of that weight bearing down on her weak legs.
They finally made it, Maria flipping the light switch, but of course, it didn’t work. The walk-in closet was pitch black. “Help me over to the baseboard on the south wall,” Beatrice said. “The section under my handbags.”
Maria used the flashlight on her phone to light their way, aiding Beatrice as she went down to on hands and knees and ran a finger under the bottom shelf.
“What are you looking for?” Maria said.
Beatrice felt the fingerprint reader, cleverly disguised in the mop board under the shelf that held her favorite Burberry tote bag Charlotte had given her as a diaper bag. Out of all the renovations Cal had accomplished on their house, this secret weapons drawer buried in her closet was the last one Beatrice had ever thought she’d appreciate.
A soft click let her know the drawer had unlocked. Moving back, she motioned at Maria to open it. “We may need more than handguns to take care of Ms. Nielsson and her minions if they come back.”
Maria opened the drawer, her eyes going wide as she surveyed the submachine guns, smoke bombs, bulletproof vests, and a host of ammunition. She lovingly fingered an MPK5 9 mm. “I have to admit, this is the strangest birth I have ever been a part of.”
“That’s something, coming from you.” Beatrice surprised herself and laughed. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, we never do anything the normal way around here.”
Maria nodded with a smile, already loading the MPK. “Besides help you deliver the baby, what would you like me to do?”
Beatrice felt a wave of dread flow over her. “You saw the woman’s face. If Cal doesn’t take her out, there’s no way she’ll leave us alive. You may be my last line of defense against her and her goons.”
Maria tucked the gun under her arm and gave Beatrice a sharp nod. “Stay here. I’ll get some pillows and blankets, and my bag. We’ll deliver your baby in the closet.”
Beatrice leaned her back against the wall. Above her hung Cal’s clothes. Her nose detected the faintest scent of him and she rubbed her belly as a new contraction began to build.
What was happening outside her bedroom? She hadn’t heard any more gunshots. No voices. Had the art thief taken off for good? Was Cal okay?
She slowed her breathing and gritted her teeth. A feeling of loneliness swamped her, mixing with the dread. Worst-case scenarios ran through her brain and she purposely ignored them, forcing herself to imagine the snowy field again.
Clean. Quiet. Relaxing.
She believed in Cal with all her heart. If anyone could handle Nielsson, it was him. Still, the sense of foreboding sat heavy in her belly along with the baby.
The contraction shifted into high gear, making her groan through gritted teeth. What if she had to raise this child alone? How could she be a good mother without Cal’s guidance?
What if Ebba Nielsson got past Cal and Trace? What if she came after Beatrice and…
Stop it! She would not think like that. Cal is going to be fine. The baby is going to be fine.
I’ll be okay too. No matter what happens.
Because if there was one thing she knew, it was how to survive. She’d survived her mother, she’d survived Command & Control. She’d survived a CIA assassin.
Crawling over to the drawer, she helped herself to a weapon and then laid down on her back and did her best to breathe through the contraction.
“DON’T SHOOT, IRISH.”
Connor froze. Beside him in the dark, Sabrina did too.
Slowly, Connor glanced back over his shoulder. “Hunter?”
“What the hell are you two doing out here?” the man asked.
How had he snuck up on them? He was nothing but a shadow in the grove of trees where they were hiding.
Of course, they’d been pretty damn focused on the house and the suppressed gunfire they’d heard as they’d closed in on the backyard.
“We’re saving your ass,” Connor murmured. “Which might be easier if I knew what was going on. Is this a hit team?”
“Details are unclear.” Hunter eased in closer to them. “Five men, plus their leader, a female. The men have training, but I’ve taken out two of them. The woman and two of her soldiers were inside the house. Gunfire was exchanged. They bailed and are currently in their van with the driver. Regrouping, I assume.”
“Is Beatrice…?” Sabrina let the rest of the sentence hang.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Hunter said, “I believe I heard the sound of her handgun firing earlier and Cal reprimanding her, but my comm has been unreliable.”
Which didn’t answer the unspoken question of if she was all right. “Is Cal down?” Connor asked.
“That is my assumption since he has not exited the house. Our comms initially worked. They went on the fritz shortly after the hit team entered the house. I’ve only picked up snatches of intel here and there.”
If Cal was injured, Beatrice and the baby were definitely in imminent danger. “If they took out Cal, why haven’t they left?”
Hunter confirmed his worst fear—the same fear etched on Sabrina’s face. “From what I caught of the conversation, the leader wants Beatrice and the baby.”
Connor handed Hunter one of the earbuds he’d snagged from his desk drawer. “Use this comm. It will work.”
Hunter exchanged the old earbud with the new one. “You and Emit playing Mad Scientist again?”
“You know it.” He knocked a fist against his bulletproof vest. “Under this vest, I’m currently a hotspot directly linked to these comms. The technology is the same as some shit NASA and NSA have been collaborating on for years that Emit once played a hand in. As long as I’m up and running, nothing can interfere with our comms.”
“Coolio,” Sabrina said and smiled at him. Her teeth were bluish-white in the shadows, thanks to the moon. “You’re my kind of geek.”
Geek, huh? He never let that side of him show; his father had made sure that Connor never displayed any kind of weakness, and in his house, might makes right was practically a Commandment. Only the strong and forceful got to make the rules.
“We need to take out that van,” Connor said to Hunter.
“And get inside the house,” Sabrina added. “If none of the bad guys are in there, should be a piece of cake.”
Hunter cut his gaze to her. “Unless they set up booby traps, which may be why Cal has not tried to leave.”
“Oh,” Sabrina said. “That would make sense.”
> No way Connor was putting Sabrina in danger, but they needed her help if the plan that had popped into his mind was going to work.
“I need you to create a distraction,” he said to her. Then to Hunter, “While she does that, you disable the van and anyone you can get to. I’ll breach the house and assess the situation inside.”
Hunter’s gaze slid over Connor, analyzing, calculating. “You sure, Irish?”
The fateful question. How he hated those words. At least Hunter’s nickname for him didn’t make him want to puke. “I’m sure.”
He turned to Sabrina. In the distance he heard the dog at the end of the cul-de-sac still raising hell. He drew a bag of small fireworks from his backpack and handed them to her. “Draw their attention away from the house. Backtrack to that field we crossed between here and the neighbor’s house and set these off.”
Sabrina took the light-and-noise show, brows knitting with uncertainty. “Fireworks? Seriously?”
The set contained mini rockets, poppers, roman candles, and a few other spectacular thunder and lightning pieces.
Hunter nodded his stamp of approval. “That should get their attention.”
“It’ll get everyone’s attention,” Sabrina said.
Connor handed her a crackling thunder string. “Which is exactly what our attackers don’t want. We can hope they try to take off.”
Hunter stared toward the road. “I’ll have the van disabled before they can.”
Connor and Hunter exchanged a look. If Hunter had a chance, he’d disable every person inside as well.
“I’ll take care of Cal and Beatrice.” He hated to say it, but sometimes the truth sucked. “We’ll probably need an ambulance.”
Sabrina pulled out her phone. “My cell reception is blocked.”
Connor rubbed his thumb over the butt of his gun. “After you set off the fireworks, the neighbors will probably call 911. Get to their house and make sure they ask for an ambulance. Hunter and I will have the intruders neutralized by the time law enforcement and the EMTs arrive.”
Sabrina put her phone away and gave him a serious look. “I’d rather stay here and help you guys.”
