The wounded man flopping right at her feet would be comical if it weren’t so fucking dangerous. She screams, scuttles sideways, and actually careens into the concrete railing of the porch steps to a house. The driver of the van puts it in gear and guns it, tires spinning wildly and throwing smoke before it peels out, leaving his fallen comrade behind.
I don’t waste any time, sprinting to the man now writhing on the sidewalk as he holds both hands to the bloody hole in his leg. My gun stays trained on him, but I spare a fleeting glance at Barrett. Wide-eyed, she gapes, taking it all in.
She pulls her wireless earbuds out, and they fall to the ground as she takes a tentative step toward us. I shake my head at her. “Call Kynan.”
Barrett pulls her phone out of her arm band. I’d programmed Kynan’s number as well as Bebe’s and Dozer’s in it.
“Not 9-1-1?” she asks hesitantly.
“No,” I reply calmly as I keep my eyes locked on the perp. They’ve probably already been called by an alarmed neighbor who heard the gunshot. “Kynan.”
She doesn’t question me, but immediately starts dialing. I’m vaguely aware of people coming out of their brownstones to huddle in robes on their front porch. But I don’t pay any attention since the man on the ground is screaming, “You fucking shot me, you asshole. Why?”
“Because I don’t take kindly to kidnappings,” I say calmly.
“Kidnappings?” the man screeches. “I’m here to move a bedroom set.”
“Oh yeah,” I reply sharply. “Then where did your partner go?”
“Probably got the fuck out of dodge once you started shooting,” he yells.
I’m not buying it. The wooden bat is laying in the street. I’d bet my life he’d been making a move for Barrett. No regrets on my decision to shoot first and ask questions later, but time is of the essence. The police aren’t going to take kindly to what I did.
“Kynan wants to talk to you,” Barrett says. She shuffles sideways toward me, making a wide berth around the man on the ground.
Clearly understanding I need to keep my gun trained on the man as I have no clue if he’s armed, she holds the phone up to my ear. I keep it short and simple. “It was an attempted kidnapping. I shot one in the leg. We need to take him into our custody so we can question him. Make it happen.”
“Got it,” Kynan replies without any hesitation, completely accepting my take on the situation.
When I nod at Barrett to pull the phone away, she scuttles backward to a safer distance. At that moment, the two Jameson staff in charge of the exterior of her house come running up. I assume they heard the gunshot.
I give them quick orders to search the man. Within moments, his hands are zip-tied behind his back. A kindly neighbor hands one of my men a kitchen towel, and it’s pressed to the perp’s wound, which appears to be non-lethal—thank fuck. I don’t want the asshole dying from blood loss before we can question him.
The next half hour is a cluster fuck. The Metro police arrive first. Clearly, they only see me—with a gun—and a wounded man on the ground. With slow movements, I quickly give up my weapon while explaining the situation. It doesn’t stop me from getting handcuffed, though, while the cops attend to the man’s wound. Barrett is escorted back to her house by my Jameson men with strict orders to stay inside with weapons drawn until I can get there.
I’m nervous when an ambulance shows up next, worried the perp’s going to be whisked away, but right behind it is a dark, unmarked car. Two Secret Service agents emerge from it. I don’t recognize either, but they have a short conversation with the EMT workers before heading toward the cops.
Their conversation is remarkably brief, and the police turn astonished eyes toward me.
Next, the handcuffs are removed and I’m meeting SS Agent Mike Hamricher. We shake hands, and he tells me, “I was sent here on orders of the president. The ambulance will take that guy wherever you want.”
Said guy is being loaded into the back of the vehicle. I ask Hamricher, “Will he survive a trip to Pittsburgh?”
Shrugging, he gestures to the EMTs “Let’s find out.”
Turns out, the bullet went clean through the muscle of his thigh, although I certainly wasn’t trying for that. Just wanted to bring him down without using a kill shot. I leave Hamricher in charge of the final details of what will go in the police report and directing the transport of the suspect to the Jameson offices in Pittsburgh. If Hamricher thinks any of this is strange or intriguing, he doesn’t show it. I have no clue what President Alexander ordered him to do, but I’m grateful for Kynan’s quick work getting this organized.
After retrieving my pistol from the police, I give a final handshake to Hamricher and head to Barrett’s brownstone.
One thing is for sure—she’s not safe here anymore.
CHAPTER 7
Barrett
Sitting at my desk in my living room office, I stare at my folded hands. One of the Jameson guys is at the front door, peering out the side window with his gun drawn. The other is somewhere at the back of the house.
For the first time in what seems to be forever, I’m not even thinking about work. No interest in my formulas or dreaming about energy.
Nope. All I can think about is the crack of a gunshot that drowned out the music in my ears and a man falling helplessly to my feet with a hole in his leg. When I’d looked over my shoulder at Cruce, I’d been terrified by the expression on his face.
Cold, hard, vindictive.
He shot that man.
Deep down, I know he did it to protect me, and there is comfort in that. But the fact I am in serious danger comes crashing down on me. I don’t think I actually believed it until now.
I focus on my fingers, which are tightly laced. When I loosen them, my hands immediately start shaking, so I clasp them hard together once again.
The front door opens, the Jameson man steps backward, and Cruce enters. I can’t even appreciate how great he looks in a gray t-shirt and loose shorts with his strong, tanned legs. When he sweeps his gaze around, it finally lands on me.
He jerks his head, indicating I should come to him. “We need to get packed up.”
I slowly rise from my desk, my legs feeling rubbery. “Packed up?”
“You can’t stay here,” he says, impatiently striding toward me. He grabs my arm, then leads me from the room and up the staircase while my head spins with the implications.
“But I can’t leave,” I mutter as I blindly follow. “My work.”
“You can work from your laptop,” he snaps, steering me right into my bedroom. He releases his hold on me, rifles through my closet, and pulls out a suitcase, which he tosses on my bed. When he sees I’m not moving, he barks, “Let’s go, Barrett. Get whatever shit you need from the bathroom.”
I feel like I’m in a dream, things swirling slowly through my fogged brain. I’m having a tough time comprehending the situation. I watch as Cruce goes to my drawers and starts pulling clothes out, tossing them in the suitcase.
He snaps his head up, eyebrows furrowed, and growls. “Barrett… let’s go. Move.”
“Don’t bark at me like I’m a soldier in your army,” I finally manage to say, although my feet start moving toward the bathroom.