As she tore away from the window and darted for the stairs, he slipped by her and yanked back the curtain. The third-story view showed the pathway to the street. Snow blanketed the trees, the front yard, the pavement, and…
He stopped breathing. That was blood. A dark red trail of it from the street to the front door of her house. Footprints surrounded crimson splatter. Stumbling, falling impressions from shoes.
“Lydia!” He took off down the stairs, hitting the second level to the sounds of sliding locks. “Don’t open that door!”
She opened the door.
Then she stumbled, clapped her hands over her mouth, and released a shrilling, keening wail. “Nooooo! Not my brother! Oh, God, please, no! Not him!”
The sounds coming from her made his blood run cold. His muscles went taut, and his pulse skyrocketed as he bolted down the remaining flight of stairs.
Drawing his gun, he watched in horror as she fell to her knees on the porch, making herself a wide-open target for whoever was out there.
Lydia! Inside! Now!” He leaped over the final steps, weapon raised, and hooked an arm around her chest, dragging her back inside.
As she kicked and screamed and tried to claw away from him, he took in the grim scene.
Mike lay face down on the porch, half on, half off the short stoop, with an arm outstretched, reaching toward the door. The dusting of snow on his lifeless body suggested he’d been there a while.
Gunshot wounds were visible on his calf, lower back, and right shoulder. He’d been shot from behind, but it couldn’t have happened nearby. They would’ve heard the report of gunfire.
That meant Mike had run here with those injuries. Given the trail of blood that led down the street and around the corner, it was a miracle he’d made it home.
The shooter was out there somewhere, probably waiting nearby. In Mike’s attempt to reach Lydia, he might’ve inadvertently led the threat right to her door.
She wailed in Cole’s arms, her legs buckling and her hands grappling, trying to get to Mike. It fucking hurt—the sounds of her agony, the sight of her brother, the goddamn fucking needlessness of it. His chest burned. His throat closed, and his training took over.
She had a vicious amount of strength as he muscled her backward, fighting to keep her out of view of the doorway. With her back to the wall, he flattened an immovable hand against her chest. His other imprisoned her chin, forcing her shattered gaze to his.
“I need you to push it down,” he said sternly. “Push it way, way down where you don’t feel it. It’ll be there later, but right now, I need you to bury it, Lydia. Bury it and focus. I need you alive and with me.”
She stared at him out of glazed eyes, not seeing him. Not seeing anything but hopelessness.
“He’s my rock.” Her face collapsed. “My world. He’s all I have left.” A sob ripped from her throat, followed by an avalanche of mewling convulsive gasps.
Any minute, someone would drive by and see the body on the porch. The saving grace was the overnight snow. It would discourage people from wandering out this morning. And it was Christmas. Most were tucked around their decorated trees, opening presents and listening to holiday music.
“Look at me.” He tightened his grip on her jaw until her eyes cleared and locked on his. “You have three minutes to go upstairs and pack what you need. I know you can do this. You can do it because you’re strong as fuck, and you want to live.”
She shook her head, knocking more tears loose. “Every day at his side was a good day to die hard.”
“You know what?” He put his face in hers. “Today is a good day to live hard because that’s the only way we’re going to avenge his death.”
That got her attention.
She gripped his wrists and worked her throat, swallowing down the sobs. More tried to rise, overwhelming her breaths. She whimpered, choking, and her gaze started drifting away, toward the door. He was losing her.
“Breathe with me, Lydia. In and out. In and out. Just like this.” He inhaled, exhaled, slowly, loudly, forcing her to follow along. “Good girl. Keep breathing. In. Out. Focus on my breaths. There you go.”
He held still, watching her power through the anguish until her legs regained strength, firmly holding her up. Her shoulders squared. Her jaw stiffened, and her breathing evened out.
“Christ, you’re so fucking strong.” He grasped her nape and brought their foreheads together. “You’ve got this. Three minutes. Go.”
He stepped back, and she walked stiffly up the stairs, moving quickly, up and around the corner.
Returning to the doorway, he stayed out of view and scanned the perimeter. No movement. Then he stepped outside and quickly rummaged through Mike’s clothes while keeping an eye on the street.
Both of Mike’s guns were holstered, suggesting he’d been caught unaware and didn’t have time to fire off a shot.
Cole collected the weapons, a wallet, phone, and… He pried open Mike’s frozen hand and lifted a small wrapped present.
A Christmas present with a tiny red bow.
“Goddammit, Mike.” He pocketed the gift in his jacket, his chest aching. “This is going to fucking hurt her. She’s going to mourn you for the rest of her life.”
But she wouldn’t do it alone. Cole would be with her in whatever capacity she needed.
Once he’d gathered everything he thought she would want to keep, he piled it in the entryway and surveyed the snow-covered surroundings.
His blood heated with the sprint of his pulse, every instinct inside him demanding swift action. They needed to go before someone called the gardai. They needed to disappear, but Lydia didn’t have a car, and cabs didn’t travel through here.
They would have to flee on foot.
With Mike’s murderer on the loose.
He twisted at the sound of her footsteps on the stairs. As he shifted to turn back to the front, a resounding boom cracked the air. The gunshot discharged from the street and splintered the doorframe an inch away from his head.
His lungs emptied. He aimed the pistol and dropped low to the ground, his senses reaching for Lydia.
“Stay down.” He thrust a hand behind him, stalling her descent on the stairs. “Lock the door behind me. Do not open it until I return. Understand?”
“Cole—”
“Lock the door!” Adrenalized and laser-focused, he slipped onto the porch, ducking low and shutting the door behind him.
At the sounds of engaging locks, he melted into the shadows of the hedgerow lining the property.
Surrounded by parked cars, icy trees, wheelie bins, and terraced houses, he probed the spaces between, frozen in wait for some sign of movement.
Then he saw it. Across the street between two houses, a man dressed in black stood out in stark contrast against the wintry backdrop. The dark clothing would’ve aided him last night, but in the daylight, it only helped Cole.
He bolted toward the shooter, weaving in and out of cover while refraining from squeezing the trigger until he had a clear shot.
Then he fired. Missed the target. The man spun around the corner of the house while blindly shooting back, forcing Cole to wait behind a car for breathless seconds until the thug stopped spraying lead.
A moment of silence. Then Cole gave chase.
The gunfight moved through the quiet neighborhood. Bullets pelleted cars and shattered house windows. He didn’t aim at homes, conscious of civilian casualties. But his adversary didn’t give a fuck. The bastard ran down the street, heedlessly swinging the gun behind him and shooting everything in a vicious sweep.