Cannon panicked, thinking Yvette would go closer to get the note.
She didn’t budge from her seat. “What does it say?” she asked softly.
The note crumpled in his fist. “That she loves me, but she won’t go to jail for me.”
“And you love her—but there’s no reason for you to go to jail either.”
Afraid the lawyer might crack at any moment, Cannon stood, keeping in front of Yvette as much as he could. “It’s easy enough, Whitaker.” Moving slow so he wouldn’t provoke a reaction, he closed the case, fastened the lock and held it out. “Take it. No one will ever need to know.”
Undecided, Whitaker licked his lips. “I need to think.” Raising his gun hand, he used his forearm to push his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. His gaze locked on Yvette. “I think I should take her with me.”
Cannon stared at him, saying with as much finality as he could, “No.”
“If she’s with me,” he reasoned, “neither of you will try to follow. You won’t call the cops either. You’ll just have to wait until I release her.”
His heart thundered. “That is not happening.”
Inhaling courage, ignoring Cannon’s protest, Whitaker nodded. “I think that’s what I’ll do.” He pointed the gun at Cannon. “Come along, Yvette, or I’ll have to shoot him.”
Cannon clamped a hand to her, keeping her back. Eyes narrowed. Pulse tripping. “I already told you, she’s not going anywhere.”
He lifted his chin. “I’ll shoot you.”
That was preferable to him taking Yvette. “No one dies from one bullet, and you’d better believe I’ll f**king take you apart before you get off a second shot.”
Whitaker worked his jaw, then transferred his gaze to Armie. “Fine, I’ll shoot that one.” He locked his jaw, his finger on the trigger—
Arm extended, Yvette stepped to the side. “Wait.”
Cannon lunged to stay in front of her.
Whitaker switched his aim.
And pandemonium erupted.
Another man crashed into the room, tackling Whitaker hard up against the cabinets so that his spine connected with the hard edge of the countertop. They went down in a twist of arms and legs, shouts and screams.
The gun went off twice, the noise deafening in the small kitchen.
Cannon covered Yvette as best he could while quick stepping her into the dining room and around a divider wall. There was another shot, and Armie barked, “Goddamn it!”
The acrid scent of gunpowder burned the air.
Fear left Cannon breathless. He grabbed Yvette’s shoulders, quickly looked her over, and other than wild eyes, parted lips and a pale face, she looked unhurt.
He turned for the kitchen—and pulled up short at the sight of Armie now holding the gun and still cursing a blue streak. On the seat of his jeans, toward the right side, blood seeped through the torn denim.
The wound didn’t look bad; Armie stood straight, not hunched in pain. His gun hand was steady, his feet braced.
“Armie?”
“I’m okay.” Without taking his gaze off the two men, he asked, “Yvette?”
In a shaky voice, she said, “I’m fine.”
With the worst of the fear over, the cold fury set in. Cannon told Yvette, “Stay put, okay?” and after her nod, he joined his friend.
“Move,” Armie told the two men. “Please, make one f**king move.”
Heath, his head shaved, his face covered in whiskers and what looked like a stick-on tribal tattoo, lay on his back gasping for breath, his arm held close to his side.
Battered, with blood blooming on his chest, his stomach, his shoulder, Whitaker moaned. His nose was swollen, his glasses gone, his sparse hair sticking out like the fuzzy feathers on a baby bird.
Armie worked his jaw. “Call—” he gestured, undecided “—somebody. Cops, ambulance. Whatever. That one—” he pointed at Whitaker “—got the brunt of it. Not sure he’ll make it. And this one—” he toed Heath’s thigh, making him moan “—pretty much came to the rescue, but look at the stalkerish bastard, all disguised and shit.”
From behind them, Yvette whispered, “I called 911 and Margaret.”
Crouching down, Cannon checked each man for weapons. Heath had a brand-new box cutter in one pocket, a bottle of pain pills in the other. He looked pasty with agony, down for the count, but Cannon didn’t trust him.
Even when he’d called, claiming he’d go away, he had to have been nearby. Probably surveilling the house.
Waiting for a chance to get Yvette.
“Watch him.”
“Gladly.”
He turned to Whitaker. The man seemed to be fading fast, the pool of blood expanding around him on the floor, his eyes glazed, unseeing.
Wishing for a way to spare her, Cannon twisted to Yvette.
She stood only partially in the connected dining room, her bottom lip caught in her teeth.
“Did you tell them to bring an ambulance?”
Eyes still round, she nodded. “I...” She pointed to the cabinet. “I could get some towels?”
Tears dampened her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. Amazing. “Yeah, that’d be great.” If she was up for helping, then maybe staying busy would make this easier on her. She wasn’t a dummy. She, too, had to realize the significance of Heath being here now. But she forged on anyway.
He’d underestimated her so many times. Never again.
She didn’t budge from her seat. “What does it say?” she asked softly.
The note crumpled in his fist. “That she loves me, but she won’t go to jail for me.”
“And you love her—but there’s no reason for you to go to jail either.”
Afraid the lawyer might crack at any moment, Cannon stood, keeping in front of Yvette as much as he could. “It’s easy enough, Whitaker.” Moving slow so he wouldn’t provoke a reaction, he closed the case, fastened the lock and held it out. “Take it. No one will ever need to know.”
Undecided, Whitaker licked his lips. “I need to think.” Raising his gun hand, he used his forearm to push his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. His gaze locked on Yvette. “I think I should take her with me.”
Cannon stared at him, saying with as much finality as he could, “No.”
“If she’s with me,” he reasoned, “neither of you will try to follow. You won’t call the cops either. You’ll just have to wait until I release her.”
His heart thundered. “That is not happening.”
Inhaling courage, ignoring Cannon’s protest, Whitaker nodded. “I think that’s what I’ll do.” He pointed the gun at Cannon. “Come along, Yvette, or I’ll have to shoot him.”
Cannon clamped a hand to her, keeping her back. Eyes narrowed. Pulse tripping. “I already told you, she’s not going anywhere.”
He lifted his chin. “I’ll shoot you.”
That was preferable to him taking Yvette. “No one dies from one bullet, and you’d better believe I’ll f**king take you apart before you get off a second shot.”
Whitaker worked his jaw, then transferred his gaze to Armie. “Fine, I’ll shoot that one.” He locked his jaw, his finger on the trigger—
Arm extended, Yvette stepped to the side. “Wait.”
Cannon lunged to stay in front of her.
Whitaker switched his aim.
And pandemonium erupted.
Another man crashed into the room, tackling Whitaker hard up against the cabinets so that his spine connected with the hard edge of the countertop. They went down in a twist of arms and legs, shouts and screams.
The gun went off twice, the noise deafening in the small kitchen.
Cannon covered Yvette as best he could while quick stepping her into the dining room and around a divider wall. There was another shot, and Armie barked, “Goddamn it!”
The acrid scent of gunpowder burned the air.
Fear left Cannon breathless. He grabbed Yvette’s shoulders, quickly looked her over, and other than wild eyes, parted lips and a pale face, she looked unhurt.
He turned for the kitchen—and pulled up short at the sight of Armie now holding the gun and still cursing a blue streak. On the seat of his jeans, toward the right side, blood seeped through the torn denim.
The wound didn’t look bad; Armie stood straight, not hunched in pain. His gun hand was steady, his feet braced.
“Armie?”
“I’m okay.” Without taking his gaze off the two men, he asked, “Yvette?”
In a shaky voice, she said, “I’m fine.”
With the worst of the fear over, the cold fury set in. Cannon told Yvette, “Stay put, okay?” and after her nod, he joined his friend.
“Move,” Armie told the two men. “Please, make one f**king move.”
Heath, his head shaved, his face covered in whiskers and what looked like a stick-on tribal tattoo, lay on his back gasping for breath, his arm held close to his side.
Battered, with blood blooming on his chest, his stomach, his shoulder, Whitaker moaned. His nose was swollen, his glasses gone, his sparse hair sticking out like the fuzzy feathers on a baby bird.
Armie worked his jaw. “Call—” he gestured, undecided “—somebody. Cops, ambulance. Whatever. That one—” he pointed at Whitaker “—got the brunt of it. Not sure he’ll make it. And this one—” he toed Heath’s thigh, making him moan “—pretty much came to the rescue, but look at the stalkerish bastard, all disguised and shit.”
From behind them, Yvette whispered, “I called 911 and Margaret.”
Crouching down, Cannon checked each man for weapons. Heath had a brand-new box cutter in one pocket, a bottle of pain pills in the other. He looked pasty with agony, down for the count, but Cannon didn’t trust him.
Even when he’d called, claiming he’d go away, he had to have been nearby. Probably surveilling the house.
Waiting for a chance to get Yvette.
“Watch him.”
“Gladly.”
He turned to Whitaker. The man seemed to be fading fast, the pool of blood expanding around him on the floor, his eyes glazed, unseeing.
Wishing for a way to spare her, Cannon twisted to Yvette.
She stood only partially in the connected dining room, her bottom lip caught in her teeth.
“Did you tell them to bring an ambulance?”
Eyes still round, she nodded. “I...” She pointed to the cabinet. “I could get some towels?”
Tears dampened her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. Amazing. “Yeah, that’d be great.” If she was up for helping, then maybe staying busy would make this easier on her. She wasn’t a dummy. She, too, had to realize the significance of Heath being here now. But she forged on anyway.
He’d underestimated her so many times. Never again.
