Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
She always told me she didn’t worry about Pop when he was working because she knew his training would bring him through, but she was terrified that he would do something stupid when he was home and get himself killed.
“Do you think Mom would like Daniel?” I asked just as the phone rang.
Pop was out of his wheelchair with a quickness I hadn’t seen in literal years.
My heart gave a pitiful lurch as I stood and watched as he snatched it off the wall.
“Halle,” he said.
His face lost all emotion as he turned toward me.
“You’re in the safe room?”
“Boys are with you?”
“Let me talk to Grant.”
His hand gripped the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles were white.
“Hey, bud,” he said, his voice just slightly gentler than he’d been with my aunt. “How many did you see?” He paused. “Right. You did the right thing.”
I moved toward him.
“You know the password?”
“Arm yourselves.”
“Yeah, you stay where you are. You don’t leave that room unless you hear the password. I’ll be there soon.”
He went silent again, gritting his teeth so hard that I was surprised I couldn’t hear it.
“I’ll beat you within an inch of your life if you leave that fucking room.”
“All right. Hang tight.”
“What?” I demanded as he hung up the phone.
“Dalton and Halle’s is under attack,” he snapped, limping out of the kitchen.
“What do you mean, under attack?” I asked, following on his heels.
“Exactly what it fuckin’ sounds like.”
“How many men?”
“Grant wasn’t sure. He said he saw maybe ten before he got your aunt and Seamus into the safe room.”
“Fuck,” I mumbled as Pop opened up the safe in the living room. “Did they get ahold of Uncle Dalton?”
“He’s black,” Pop replied, handing me a rifle.
“Shit,” I whispered, laying the rifle on the couch.
It made sense that Uncle Dalton had cut all communication. It was imperative that they weren’t interrupted while they were breaching Adamson’s beach house. It was just really fucking terrible timing.
I took another rifle and set it next to the previous one. “I thought they had security.”
“They did,” Pop replied grimly.
It took less than five minutes before every weapon we owned that was readily available was staged in the living room. Boxes of ammunition were stacked by caliber on the coffee table. The armchair held pistols in neat rows. Rifles covered the couch.
“Pop,” I said softly, looking from him to the weapons and back again.
There were only two of us, and one of us spent most of his time in a wheelchair.
Against ten or more assailants.
I was sure of my skill, but I wasn’t fucking crazy.
“I’m goin’,” he said, brushing his thumb over my cheek. “I’ll make some calls on the way, see if I can round anyone up. If you want to stay—”
“Oh, fuck off,” I shot back, stepping away. “I need five minutes to get dressed.”
“Same,” he said, following me down the hallway.
Ignoring the way my muscles screamed and my guts clenched and my head pounded, I stripped down to my underwear and started from scratch. Luckily, when we’d set me up to be kidnapped, we’d moved everything that would look suspicious to someone going through my shit to Pop’s house. Kneeling beside the bed, I pulled out the long, shallow plastic bin and threw it open.
First, I tugged on a snug black sports bra. Then, a long-sleeved undershirt. Black trousers. Black socks. Black steel-toe boots. With every piece of clothing, I felt myself falling further into the familiar feeling of both detachment and laser focus.
I tossed the lightweight bulletproof vest on the bed, then the tactical vest, two holsters, two knife sheaths that hung on my belt, and my lucky hoodie. I started threading my belt as I got to my feet, adding the sheaths and one of the holsters.
Then I opened up my phone, found my contacts, and pressed the speaker button.
“Hello?” an unfamiliar accented voice answered.
“Erik?” I wrapped the other holster around my thigh, adjusting the tightness because I’d lost some muscle.
“Who’s this?”
“Is this Erik Boucher?” I asked, reaching for the bulletproof vest. It wasn’t rated for anything beyond handguns, but it was better than nothing. My heavier vest was still in my locker at Strike.
“It is,” he replied slowly.
“My name is Rosemary Whitlock.” I pulled on my hoodie.
He didn’t say anything.
“Uh…I’m your son Daniel’s mate.”
“Is Danny okay?”
“As far as I know,” I replied, shaking my head. “Look, he gave me your number and told me to call if I ever needed to.” Pulling on my tactical vest, I zipped it up the front, making sure that all the pouches were where I’d left them and in easy reach.
“What can I do for you?” The words were immediate.
“Well, Danny is, uh…unavailable at the moment, and I’m in a bit of a pickle.”
“Tell me what you need.”
It took less than a minute to explain the situation, and then I was on the move.