He was bleeding. Shocked, she pressed her hands to the horrible wound. He groaned. How long had she been…elsewhere?
God, she was supposed to create the diversion.
“Ready to go. Indeedy yeah.” Somerfeld tossed the container aside.
Get it together, Sally. The receiver for the voice-activated program was very sensitive. She didn’t have to talk loudly. Sally tried to speak. A horrible sound emerged. Get the tone right, girl. A long breath. She turned to Ellis, holding up her hands in a pleading position. “Please, please, please, don’t hurt me. I’m sorry I brought her here.”
The dickwad stared at her. “You talking to me, slut?”
Vance stared at her. “Brought who?” he whispered. His face was pale, jaw tight from pain.
I love you, my Vance. Her hand closed over his. Please, please, please, let this work.
A high scream came from upstairs. “Master, help me. Master.” Another long wail.
“Fuck!” Somerfeld ran up three steps, turned to glare at her, and pointed the pistol at Vance. “You leave, slut, and I’ll shoot his balls off. You’ll hear him scream no matter how far you run.” He dashed up the stairs toward the sound of the woman sobbing.
“Run,” Vance gritted out. “Whoever that is up there, Sally, I want you to run.”
He didn’t recognize the voice? Of course, Gabi had been pretty drunk the night they’d made the recording. “Not leaving without you, dummy.”
“Goddamn it.” He lifted his uninjured leg and kicked the post, grunting at the impact. On his other leg, the jeans were drenched with blood.
She pushed her hands down on the wound, holding it as he slammed his boot into the post, over and over. Hurry, Galen.
Yelling came from upstairs as Somerfeld searched for the illusive woman. Screw you, bastard. She spotted a mallet in the pile of construction tools.
Yes! She grabbed it and hit the post holding Vance as hard as she could. But it made so much—too much—noise.
Hit again.
The post moved.
Before she could swing again, Vance kicked. With a crack, the screws tore loose.
* * * *
Galen slid into the room with a quick check of Vance and Sally. Alive and alive. Although the amount of blood wasn’t good. A hog-tied woman lay in the corner. Gagged. Alive.
A woman’s crying and screaming sounded on the second floor—was that Gabi?—along with the thud of heavy boots.
Galen moved behind and under the stairs. Crappy hiding place, but the room held no conveniently concealing furniture.
Upstairs, Somerfeld yelled, “You fucking slut. Think you’d trick me? Huh?” From the worry on Sally’s face, the bastard had discovered he’d been searching for a recording.
Boots pounded down the stairs. Once Somerfeld reached the bottom, Galen could jump him from behind.
The man halted most of the way down. “You fucking cunt!”
A trigger clicked. “Hell!” Galen stepped out from the stairs and threw his hammer. The tool struck Somerfeld’s shoulder and knocked him a step sideways. The pistol fired.
Galen grabbed the railing and swung himself up and over, and hit Somerfeld in a half-assed tackle. The bastard lost his balance; Galen never found his.
Tangled together, they rolled down the stairs.
Galen’s back, leg, head banged against the steps with bursts of pain. He landed badly but rolled to hands and knees, Somerfeld beside him, groaning.
Galen tried to stand. His leg gave out. His hip and shoulder hit the floor, knocking the air out of him.
Growling, Somerfeld made a grab for the pistol he’d dropped.
Twisting, Galen kicked the weapon toward Vance and rammed his knee into Somerfeld’s chin. Pain knifed through his leg with the impact.
The bastard spat blood and managed to stand.
GALEN WAS DOWN. Somerfeld up. Vance had yanked the chain free from under the splintered wood post and tried again—and again—to get to his feet. Succeeded.
He tried to run and tripped on the two-foot chain between his shackled ankles. “Jesus, fuck!” Handicapped, he half hopped, half lunged across the room toward the fight.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Sally darting the other way, going for the pistol, which had skidded into a pile of bedding.
“Somerfeld,” Vance yelled.
The bastard didn’t hear him.
Galen was on hands and knees, trying to stand. Somerfeld kicked him in the gut so violently that Galen was flipped sideways, retching and gasping for air.
“You asshole!” Sally pointed the pistol at Somerfeld, the weapon shaking so hard she’d probably shoot Galen.
Somerfeld involuntarily retreated, and into that moment of silence came the wailing of sirens. Approaching the house.
The bastard’s eyes went wide, fearful, then furious. Insane. “Burn it. Burn it all.” He pulled a match from his pocket, flicked it with his thumbnail, and it lit.
Jesus fuck, Vance thought, if Sally shoots him… Gasoline everywhere.
Galen yelled, “Sally, hold!”
But Somerfeld was crazy enough to burn the place with himself in it. No way to win.
Fuck that. Vance dived at the bastard, rammed into him—chest to chest—knocking him back. Glass shattered as they slammed into the bay window—and out.
Somerfeld hit the ground with a grunt of pain.
Vance landed beside him, the impact yanking at his cuffed arms. The pain that ripped through his wounded leg took his breath away. Sent his brain spinning.
He groaned, opened his eyes, and saw fire. His shirt. On fire.
“Fuck!” Unable to use his hands, Vance rolled frantically, smothering the flame in the damp grass.
Panting, hurting everywhere, he rolled back over, trying to sit up. And froze.
Somerfeld’s gasoline-splattered clothing had also ignited. And burst into a conflagration. He shrieked, slapping at the fire before he ran, straight down the drive. Flaming.
“Drop and roll, roll!” Vance shouted, trying to get to his feet. The chain clanked, reminding him he was hobbled. Could never catch the poor bastard in time.
The sirens on the approaching emergency vehicles didn’t drown out the screaming. Somerfeld fell, finally fell, directly in front of the police car, the first vehicle down the lane.
From the following fire engine, firefighters jumped out. They surrounded Somerfeld, spraying him down.
More vehicles. Cops and FBI agents raced toward the house.
A knife of pain ripped through Vance’s leg. Shit! He jerked around. “What the—”
Galen was tying a makeshift bandage around his thigh. “Nice tackle, bro. Still got some skill there.”
As Vance hauled in a breath, he started to shake. Too fucking close. “Nice battle plan given the short notice, bro,” he returned.
Galen switched his attention to unlocking the handcuffs around Vance’s wrists, swearing under his breath at the torn skin.
As Vance pulled his arms around to the front, his shoulder joints hurt almost as much as the returning circulation in his hands. “I’m too fucking old for this,” he muttered, wanting to scream like a little girl. Jesus, he hurt.
“Tell me about it.” Galen turned.
Vance followed his gaze. The paramedics were loading Somerfeld into the ambulance with an IV. He must still be alive.
“Halt!” a cop shouted from the driveway.
What now?
Sally, halfway around the house, skidded to a sudden stop. She lifted her hands and obviously realized she still held the pistol. “Shit! Hey, I’m the good guy. Girl. Whatever,” she yelled. She carefully set the weapon on the sidewalk.
As the cop approached her, one of the FBI agents trotted toward the front door.
“There’s another woman inside,” Vance called. “And be careful. It’s set up to burn.” He nodded approval when a fireman yanked the FBI special agents back and went in first.
Glancing at Galen, Vance asked, “How’d you get here before Sally?”
“Came through the window.”
Vance saw the streaks of blood where shattered glass had ripped clothing and the flesh beneath. If Somerfeld hadn’t gone out the window first, Vance would probably be as ripped up. “You must’ve missed the hole we left.”
“Forgot to aim.”
“Vance!”
He looked up in time to be attacked by a hysterical whirlwind who plastered his face with kisses and “I love you; I love you; I love you” before she spun away to smother Galen with the same.
When she slowed, Galen grabbed her and kissed her hard enough to silence her. Whatever he murmured in her ear made her tear up. Then he handed her back to Vance.
Vance pulled her into his arms. Warm woman filled with love. Risked her life to save him. Kept her head. He ignored the pain in his leg as the paramedics tried to cut away his jeans. He held her, kissed her hair, cupped her chin, and knew exactly what his partner had said.
“I love you, Sally.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
We’re all alive. Sally stood in an emergency-room cubicle beside the stretcher cart where Galen lay. Galen is alive. She kept repeating the reassurances to herself. Vance is alive. Didn’t help. She still couldn’t stop shaking. She was so dreadfully cold.
His shirt already off, Galen was talking to the skinny doctor setting out a suture kit. Beside Sally, a nurse in pink flowered scrubs pulled on sterile gloves.
Vance was in another curtained-off room, but his ER doctor hadn’t let Sally stay with him.
God, she was supposed to create the diversion.
“Ready to go. Indeedy yeah.” Somerfeld tossed the container aside.
Get it together, Sally. The receiver for the voice-activated program was very sensitive. She didn’t have to talk loudly. Sally tried to speak. A horrible sound emerged. Get the tone right, girl. A long breath. She turned to Ellis, holding up her hands in a pleading position. “Please, please, please, don’t hurt me. I’m sorry I brought her here.”
The dickwad stared at her. “You talking to me, slut?”
Vance stared at her. “Brought who?” he whispered. His face was pale, jaw tight from pain.
I love you, my Vance. Her hand closed over his. Please, please, please, let this work.
A high scream came from upstairs. “Master, help me. Master.” Another long wail.
“Fuck!” Somerfeld ran up three steps, turned to glare at her, and pointed the pistol at Vance. “You leave, slut, and I’ll shoot his balls off. You’ll hear him scream no matter how far you run.” He dashed up the stairs toward the sound of the woman sobbing.
“Run,” Vance gritted out. “Whoever that is up there, Sally, I want you to run.”
He didn’t recognize the voice? Of course, Gabi had been pretty drunk the night they’d made the recording. “Not leaving without you, dummy.”
“Goddamn it.” He lifted his uninjured leg and kicked the post, grunting at the impact. On his other leg, the jeans were drenched with blood.
She pushed her hands down on the wound, holding it as he slammed his boot into the post, over and over. Hurry, Galen.
Yelling came from upstairs as Somerfeld searched for the illusive woman. Screw you, bastard. She spotted a mallet in the pile of construction tools.
Yes! She grabbed it and hit the post holding Vance as hard as she could. But it made so much—too much—noise.
Hit again.
The post moved.
Before she could swing again, Vance kicked. With a crack, the screws tore loose.
* * * *
Galen slid into the room with a quick check of Vance and Sally. Alive and alive. Although the amount of blood wasn’t good. A hog-tied woman lay in the corner. Gagged. Alive.
A woman’s crying and screaming sounded on the second floor—was that Gabi?—along with the thud of heavy boots.
Galen moved behind and under the stairs. Crappy hiding place, but the room held no conveniently concealing furniture.
Upstairs, Somerfeld yelled, “You fucking slut. Think you’d trick me? Huh?” From the worry on Sally’s face, the bastard had discovered he’d been searching for a recording.
Boots pounded down the stairs. Once Somerfeld reached the bottom, Galen could jump him from behind.
The man halted most of the way down. “You fucking cunt!”
A trigger clicked. “Hell!” Galen stepped out from the stairs and threw his hammer. The tool struck Somerfeld’s shoulder and knocked him a step sideways. The pistol fired.
Galen grabbed the railing and swung himself up and over, and hit Somerfeld in a half-assed tackle. The bastard lost his balance; Galen never found his.
Tangled together, they rolled down the stairs.
Galen’s back, leg, head banged against the steps with bursts of pain. He landed badly but rolled to hands and knees, Somerfeld beside him, groaning.
Galen tried to stand. His leg gave out. His hip and shoulder hit the floor, knocking the air out of him.
Growling, Somerfeld made a grab for the pistol he’d dropped.
Twisting, Galen kicked the weapon toward Vance and rammed his knee into Somerfeld’s chin. Pain knifed through his leg with the impact.
The bastard spat blood and managed to stand.
GALEN WAS DOWN. Somerfeld up. Vance had yanked the chain free from under the splintered wood post and tried again—and again—to get to his feet. Succeeded.
He tried to run and tripped on the two-foot chain between his shackled ankles. “Jesus, fuck!” Handicapped, he half hopped, half lunged across the room toward the fight.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Sally darting the other way, going for the pistol, which had skidded into a pile of bedding.
“Somerfeld,” Vance yelled.
The bastard didn’t hear him.
Galen was on hands and knees, trying to stand. Somerfeld kicked him in the gut so violently that Galen was flipped sideways, retching and gasping for air.
“You asshole!” Sally pointed the pistol at Somerfeld, the weapon shaking so hard she’d probably shoot Galen.
Somerfeld involuntarily retreated, and into that moment of silence came the wailing of sirens. Approaching the house.
The bastard’s eyes went wide, fearful, then furious. Insane. “Burn it. Burn it all.” He pulled a match from his pocket, flicked it with his thumbnail, and it lit.
Jesus fuck, Vance thought, if Sally shoots him… Gasoline everywhere.
Galen yelled, “Sally, hold!”
But Somerfeld was crazy enough to burn the place with himself in it. No way to win.
Fuck that. Vance dived at the bastard, rammed into him—chest to chest—knocking him back. Glass shattered as they slammed into the bay window—and out.
Somerfeld hit the ground with a grunt of pain.
Vance landed beside him, the impact yanking at his cuffed arms. The pain that ripped through his wounded leg took his breath away. Sent his brain spinning.
He groaned, opened his eyes, and saw fire. His shirt. On fire.
“Fuck!” Unable to use his hands, Vance rolled frantically, smothering the flame in the damp grass.
Panting, hurting everywhere, he rolled back over, trying to sit up. And froze.
Somerfeld’s gasoline-splattered clothing had also ignited. And burst into a conflagration. He shrieked, slapping at the fire before he ran, straight down the drive. Flaming.
“Drop and roll, roll!” Vance shouted, trying to get to his feet. The chain clanked, reminding him he was hobbled. Could never catch the poor bastard in time.
The sirens on the approaching emergency vehicles didn’t drown out the screaming. Somerfeld fell, finally fell, directly in front of the police car, the first vehicle down the lane.
From the following fire engine, firefighters jumped out. They surrounded Somerfeld, spraying him down.
More vehicles. Cops and FBI agents raced toward the house.
A knife of pain ripped through Vance’s leg. Shit! He jerked around. “What the—”
Galen was tying a makeshift bandage around his thigh. “Nice tackle, bro. Still got some skill there.”
As Vance hauled in a breath, he started to shake. Too fucking close. “Nice battle plan given the short notice, bro,” he returned.
Galen switched his attention to unlocking the handcuffs around Vance’s wrists, swearing under his breath at the torn skin.
As Vance pulled his arms around to the front, his shoulder joints hurt almost as much as the returning circulation in his hands. “I’m too fucking old for this,” he muttered, wanting to scream like a little girl. Jesus, he hurt.
“Tell me about it.” Galen turned.
Vance followed his gaze. The paramedics were loading Somerfeld into the ambulance with an IV. He must still be alive.
“Halt!” a cop shouted from the driveway.
What now?
Sally, halfway around the house, skidded to a sudden stop. She lifted her hands and obviously realized she still held the pistol. “Shit! Hey, I’m the good guy. Girl. Whatever,” she yelled. She carefully set the weapon on the sidewalk.
As the cop approached her, one of the FBI agents trotted toward the front door.
“There’s another woman inside,” Vance called. “And be careful. It’s set up to burn.” He nodded approval when a fireman yanked the FBI special agents back and went in first.
Glancing at Galen, Vance asked, “How’d you get here before Sally?”
“Came through the window.”
Vance saw the streaks of blood where shattered glass had ripped clothing and the flesh beneath. If Somerfeld hadn’t gone out the window first, Vance would probably be as ripped up. “You must’ve missed the hole we left.”
“Forgot to aim.”
“Vance!”
He looked up in time to be attacked by a hysterical whirlwind who plastered his face with kisses and “I love you; I love you; I love you” before she spun away to smother Galen with the same.
When she slowed, Galen grabbed her and kissed her hard enough to silence her. Whatever he murmured in her ear made her tear up. Then he handed her back to Vance.
Vance pulled her into his arms. Warm woman filled with love. Risked her life to save him. Kept her head. He ignored the pain in his leg as the paramedics tried to cut away his jeans. He held her, kissed her hair, cupped her chin, and knew exactly what his partner had said.
“I love you, Sally.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
We’re all alive. Sally stood in an emergency-room cubicle beside the stretcher cart where Galen lay. Galen is alive. She kept repeating the reassurances to herself. Vance is alive. Didn’t help. She still couldn’t stop shaking. She was so dreadfully cold.
His shirt already off, Galen was talking to the skinny doctor setting out a suture kit. Beside Sally, a nurse in pink flowered scrubs pulled on sterile gloves.
Vance was in another curtained-off room, but his ER doctor hadn’t let Sally stay with him.
