by J. L. Saint
“I must go,” she cried, blindly rushing. She reached the exit, barely registering the blurry, dark mass on the other side of the glass until she plowed through and the door hit the man’s face.
“What the fuck!” he yelled. Blood welled in a cut above his sharp brow as he settled his hard gaze on her. His shaved head and tattooed temple were as abrasive as his aura.
Mari stood frozen, horrified she had hurt someone, but before she could apologize, the man’s features twisted with rage and he shoved the door back at her. Her nails splintered and her fingers jammed and buckled from the force of the blow. She cried out. Thrust back into the store, her heart pounded, more from the chilling hate in his expression than from the pain stabbing up her arm.
“Hey! What’s going on?” the elderly clerk yelled, running toward her.
Mari pulled her hand close to her breast and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I—”
“Bitch!” the man from outside yelled. He jerked open the door and barreled inside. He touched his cut brow then looked at the blood on his fingers. “You cut me!”
“Let it go, Dugar,” said a second man, pushing into the store. Though sporting the same shaved head and tattoo, this man’s gaze only held disgust when he looked at her. “We don’t need any trouble. Slayer’s orders, man.”
“Let it go? That’s what’s wrong with our fucked-up country now. That’s why we’re fucking doing what we’re doing. That raghead’s whore cut me and I’m not letting it go!”
Mari staggered. She’d seen the reports worldwide about the violence. About Muslims attacking Westerners, Christians, Jews. About Westerners, Christians and Jews attacking Muslims. With the destruction of the worldwide oil industry, chaos had erupted. But that insanity, that hatred was somewhere else. Not here. Not in the place she’d come to embrace as home.
“Stop right there and get out. I’m calling the cops,” the clerk yelled, edging to Mari’s side.
“Shut up.” The raging man shoved the elderly clerk hard, knocking him into a waist-high display of pickles in huge jars. The force of the violence toppled the clerk over backward and the pickle rack collapsed beneath his weight. Jars fell, shattering on the tiled floor and gushing green fluid. Vinegar and dill fumes flooded the air, burning Mari’s nose.
Cut and bleeding several places from the jagged glass raining down on him, the clerk struggled to rise. His eyeglasses hung around his throat and pickles sat on his shoulders and lap.
“Don’t move,” Mari told the old man, moving to help him. Wasn’t there anyone else here? She couldn’t remember having seen anyone. To think she’d deliberately chosen an out of the way place she’d never been before, uncaring that the neighborhood wasn’t exactly perfect. “Help!” she screamed. She was sure the clerk would cut himself even worse if he tried to get up before some of the larger pieces of glass were moved.
“Shut up, bitch! And don’t you dare turn your back on me. Get on your knees and kiss my dick and maybe I’ll let you live.”
Mari reared back in shock, his words slapping her soul. It had been so long that she’d almost forgotten the face and touch of evil. Almost but not quite. She’d only known gentle kindness from Neil. She’d only known goodness from the people she’d met since coming to America with Neil.
“Get out,” the clerk shouted, elbowing to his side. “The cops are—” He gasped, clutching his chest, his eyes bulging with fear as the color drained from his face. Suddenly, his whole body spasmed and he fell back as if dead.
“Allah! No!” Mari cried.
The enraged man grabbed her hijāb and pulled hard to the right, jerking her off balance. She fell to her knees and the rest of her face and her hair were exposed, violating her beliefs of propriety as deeply as pieces of glass sliced through the fabric of her abaya and into her skin. Pickle juice set her cuts on fire. Tears stung her eyes.
“Let her go, Dugar.” The other man set his hand on Dugar’s shoulder. “Slayer isn’t going to like this.”
The man shoved his friend away. “Shut the fuck up, Bean. She owes me.”
Then the monster yanked her purse from where it had fallen from her shoulder and tossed it to the other man. “See what she’s got.”
Ignoring the men, Mari reeled for balance to stay upright and to protect her baby. She was sure if she fell to the ground, she’d never get up. The monster would no doubt kick her with his heavy boots. Or rape her. Or kill her. She’d lived through violence before—a lifetime ago.
As she pulled away, the last pins holding her hijāb in place ripped out strands of her hair. But it didn’t matter. All she could think of was protecting her baby and how she could keep the horror of the past from happening again.
Her mind and her body shook beneath the waves of panic threatening to incapacitate her. Just like before her abaya was trapped beneath her knees, keeping her pinned down, hindering her from escaping. She struggled to rise, her knee grinding deep into the glass as she fought to free the restrictions of her dress. She had barely wedged one foot beneath her to get up when her attacker wrapped her hijāb around her throat. He jerked her face into his crotch, cutting off her air.
She couldn’t breathe. Blood roared in her ears. Her mind screamed for her to do something. The monster wanted her to fight him, wanted an excuse to kill her and she didn’t waste precious time struggling. She pressed her face into his groin, making him think she’d do what he wanted. That was the fastest way to get air. Her smashed fingers were almost numb, but she forced herself to pull down his zipper. She nudged her head against his rising bulge, her body shuddering with revulsion she tried to mask. She scoured the ground with her unhurt hand, praying for a miracle.
The monster laughed and eased up his chokehold on her. Mari sucked in precious air. “See, Bean. She wants it. All women really want it no matter what they say, how they act, or how they dress.” He thrust his hips. “This raghead has himself a good whore.”
Mari’s heart pounded impossibly harder as she found and grasped a large shard of glass. She ignored the sting of it cutting into her flesh as she positioned herself. She only would have one chance. She pulled open one side of his fly then brought her other hand up. The full sleeve of her abaya covered the glass in her hand. Using the force of her weight, she stabbed her attacker in the groin.
Unlucky for her, he chose that moment to rock his hips and she missed his penis. Still the glass shard went deep into his abdomen. The man screamed in pain and reared back from her. Mari didn’t waste a second. She turned, gained her feet, and ran. Both men were between her and the front exit so she ran to the back. She hit the storage room, sure she could hear pounding footsteps behind her. Her blood thundered in her ears and her vision dimmed as if she’d pass out. Panic clawed into her mind. There were two doors. One straight ahead that exited the store, bolted with a heavy padlock and chain and the other all the way across the storage area. She ran hard.
“You’re dead, bitch!” the monster screamed, coming after her.
And Mari knew she was. She pressed her damaged hands to her precious, unborn baby, and put her heart and soul into crying to Allah.
Chapter Nine
Atlanta, Georgia
Conrad Gardner shoved his clunked out SUV into gear, his foot as itchy on the gas pedal as his finger was on his under-the-pawn-shop-table double action Glock, purchased this morning complete with missing serial numbers and enough kick-ass ammo to down those damn dogs he’d forgotten about.
Until the dogs had ruined his high last night, he’d been feeling really good since Thomas tumbled to his death. It was as if some tightly leashed part of him had been freed. He was in control, for once. He was in the driver’s seat and the grand prize was his for the taking and he didn’t have to put up with anyone else’s shit ever again.
Or had been.
He bit down on his lip until the pain matched the throb in his head and the burn in his gut.
Somebody was after Lauren, honing in like a rat on a Cheeto on the five million Bil
l had hidden. She’d hired herself some muscle as well. It was the only logical explanation for the two gunmen battling it out.
He’d had a back row seat to the drama at Bill’s house, having arrived earlier this morning to await Lauren. She was so damn predictable, fleeing to Angie Freemont’s last night. All he had to do was sneak up with a conveniently handy Super Ear he’d ferreted from a spy shop and hear firsthand her plans for the day. He’d come to the Collins’ house and waited a little ways down the street with his side mirrors trained on the front of it.
Having to huddle uncomfortably in the back seat for several hours had been worth it when the promise of nailing her dogs and…well, damn, he’d always wanted to have himself a piece of her. He’d nail her too. But now that promise was dead, and he’d waited for nothing. Cops would surely be here any minute, which left him SOL.
What the hell should he do next? His cell phone had remained suspiciously silent. Considering the gravity and shock of Bill’s letters and Thomas’s multiple calls before he nose-dived off the sun deck yesterday, Conrad expected that Edward, Ray or Bob would have called…unless…they were in cahoots and planned on cutting him out of the five million.
Shit. He hadn’t considered that. They were probably all sitting around and laughing about it. Poor Con. Well, he sure as hell wouldn’t be poor Con anymore. The money would be his, no matter what.
He had to get his hands on the other letters Bill sent. Edward was a thirty minute ride across town. Ray in Savannah, Bob in Tampa, a bitch of a drive. He glanced again at the drama playing out at Collins’s house and almost smiled at what he imagined Lauren’s expression was when she saw the mess he’d made.
With Lauren literally pinned down at gunpoint, Conrad could nab her snot-nosed brats. After a scream or two from the kids via the phone, Lauren would likely hand over her soul, much less the letter from Bill.
Seeing her pick up the FedEx package from the porch had nearly blown his gasket. He’d spent all night pissing away precious time taking apart the inside of Bill’s house with a malicious fine-toothed comb—payback for the damned dogs nearly chewing his ass off—only to find out it had been lying in the front yard all along. She owed him and he was going to make it hurt.
He pressed the gas to the floor and got the hell out of Dodge before the cops arrived.
Jack calculated that he’d wasted three of the thirty seconds it would take the spinning grenade of what he prayed to God was only CS gas to fill the room and practically incapacitate them both. Already Jack’s eyes seemed to burn. Apparently the bastard outside wasn’t aiming to kill Lauren, but to take her hostage—somehow an even scarier scenario because that meant they wanted something from her. Wanted something that they didn’t find when they’d destroyed the house. Wanted it bad too. He swung on his heel, reaching Lauren quickly.
“Come on.” He grasped her hand to help her rise and direct her from the choking tear gas. “Is there any way out this direction?”
“Through the basement.”
“I’ll follow you.” He urged Lauren in front of him then checked to see that the dogs followed.
“Is there a fire?”
“Tear gas.”
Lauren held up her cell phone. “I’ve called the police.”
Great, Jack thought. The police were needed, but he didn’t necessarily want the complication of having to answer questions, either. He wasn’t exactly operating within the law himself. Not that he didn’t have the right to protect himself, he just wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place. And being military complicated things a bit. Huge understatement. By now he was sure Weston had gotten wind of his AMA exit from the hospital, knew exactly where he had gone, and was pissed as hell. Another huge understatement. One thing for sure though, Jack had no further doubts that he was on the right track. The set of family portraits he just walked by confirmed Bill was his man.
Just then glass shattered into the parlor they were passing through and another CS grenade hit the floor just a few feet away. A flume of tear gas spewed their direction, instantly making his eyes water even though the thick chemical fog had yet to reach them. Jack thrust Lauren toward the basement door. “Hold your breath and run.”
The dogs barked and lunged toward the grenade then yelped in discomfort, telling Jack the spewing chemical was of the extra-strength variety.
“Come!” Jack called the dogs, as he ran after Lauren. She’d opened the basement door and had headed down. He hoped like hell the Shepherd’s would obey him. Even though dogs were less sensitive to the lachrymatory agent than humans, prolonged exposure to the highly concentrated chemical filling the house could seriously harm or kill them.
The dogs were still barking at the grenade, but thankfully Lauren called for them and by the time Jack reached the top of the basement stairs, the dogs were at his heels. He shut and locked the door behind them as they escaped the acrid fumes. A thick band of weather stripping surrounded the doorframe, sufficient enough to keep the gas from seeping through.
His eyes pouring, Jack sucked in deep breaths of dank air and bounded down to Lauren, his P226 at the ready. She leaned heavily against the wall, coughing and crying, in worse shape than he was.
“Hold up,” he said as she reached the bottom stair. He didn’t know yet if the bastard out front was operating alone or in tandem. He scouted the visible area though his watery eyes. Spying a bathroom, laundry, a rec room, no windows on this side of the finished basement and no immediate threat, he faced Lauren.
“My eyes are burning badly.” Tears rolled from her baby blues, hitting him on a gut level. She looked shell-shocked, almost staggering as she blinked at him. The urge to pull her closer to him actually hurt to resist. It was damn lucky for both of them that they only were exposed to the dispersed edges of the gas.
“Stay here,” he muttered. “Don’t touch your face until you can wash off with soap and water; it will only make things worse. Don’t touch the dogs, either. I’ll be right back.”
Moving silent and fast through the rest of the basement, Jack assured the area was clear, amazed at the luxury. He found a home theater and envious TV, a billiard and bar set up, a bedroom with bath, and in the middle part, a more casual living room than the one upstairs not to mention a full kitchen as well. The three stories had to be close to nine thousand square feet of living space. He’d lived in a whole lot less his entire life.
Shaking his head, he slid over to the wall of French doors lining the living room to peer outside. The terracotta courtyard was flanked on both sides by flowery gardens of low-lying plants. The open landscaping provided little room for cover close to the house. In fact, the only real hiding spot was around the large water fountain of three dolphins paying homage to a partially draped goddess rising from a sea wave. She held one arm out, with a bowl cupped in her upturned palm. Whether it was meant to be a birdbath or not, a blue jay was enjoying itself.
Who was the goddess that had been painted emerging from the sea? He’d seen that somewhere. Jack couldn’t remember but he could kiss her and the sun right that moment. The nine o’clock shadow cast by the three o’clock position of the sun, didn’t quite match the round bowl of the fountain’s base. If he didn’t miss his guess, the attacker was laying in wait for them behind the fountain. Jack retraced his steps.
Lauren hadn’t done as he asked and waited on the basement stairs. She’d moved five feet to the bathroom and he found her fully clothed with both of the dogs in the walk-in shower doing her best to spray her face and the dogs at the same time. Besides the showerhead, it also had a hand-held sprayer. She had yet to see him, as her attention was focused of easing the effects of the tear gas.
Oh man. If he had betted that her curves and appeal couldn’t hit him any harder than they had upstairs with her plastered against him then he’d be SOL. Water slicked, dripped and sluiced all over her. And damn, God help him or condemn him, but he couldn’t help but notice her lacy bra nicely cupping at-full-attention nipples through her pink T-
shirt. He took the three steps to the shower in one.
“He’s out there and I’m going after him.” Jack’s voice, tight with tension, grated like glass.
Startled, she jerked to face him, her lush lips opening with a cry of surprise.
He moved before he could even think. Within half a second he had his pistol tucked behind him, his hand braced against the granite wall, and his face a breath away from hers beneath the water spray. Her eyes widened and a flicker of fear rippled across her features.
When had he become so unbridled? Impulsive? Had his brain taken hits from the blast that he had yet to realize? He turned his face to the full force of the water, flashed his eyes open twice, flushing away the tear gas and giving him the moment he needed to regain his sanity. After a second, he moved back and spoke again. “The gunman is hiding out back and I’m going to go around and see if I can get the drop on him. You stay locked in the bathroom. Don’t open the door except for me or the police. They’re coming right?”
She nodded.
He didn’t stick around another minute. He turned on his heel and left, locking the door behind him. Shoving her image from his mind, he put his focus on keeping them both alive and un-captured. Leaving her locked up and alone wasn’t an ideal solution, but he couldn’t just sit tight with her inside. He could just see two rookie cops walking in to this situation and getting killed. Jack already knew what he was up against and had the experience to deal. So he’d take the gamble.
Jack slipped out a side window, eating grass as he belly-crawled along the garden’s brick edging. Luck played in his favor as the garden was raised about six inches higher than the Bermuda. But the freaking red ant pile looming ahead was a hell of a problem. Where was a ghillie when you needed one?
