Page 82 of Guarded Hearts

His stomach heaved. Who would ever guess that after all he’d seen and done in his time as a SEAL, he’d be as edgy as a new recruit. His hands grew slick on the weapon he carried and a rivulet of sweat beaded on his nape before it trickled down his spine.

He reached out and clamped his hand on the black, hammered iron door lever. Mentally counting down from three to one, he threw the door open.

It swung on silent hinges to reveal an office. A desk with a lamp. Bookcases.

Art hung on the walls, eerily similar to the style and subject matter that hung in many of the rooms in the Londons’ ranch home.

Where are you, you son of a bitch?

One by one, he threw open doors. When he reached the end of the hall, he was met with an opening.

And a set of metal stairs leading down.

No sound came from below or from the rest of the house that his brothers were searching.

He took a step toward that staircase and stopped. Poking his head back into the corridor, he caught sight of Oaks coming his way at a fast clip.

With a jerk of his head for his brother to follow, Carson surged forward and hit the stairs, hurtling down them in a matter of seconds.

“You really don’t make a very good SEAL, do you?”

The cold voice had Carson whipping to his right. The surgeon had an automatic rifle of his own trained right at Carson’s head.

One squeeze of his finger on that trigger and he’d be dead—and Layne would be heartbroken. Again.

He looked Patel dead in the eyes. “You’re wrong.” He shot first, and the man folded in half, the rifle clattering to the floor.

Oaks kicked it out of the way and Carson advanced on the surgeon. With surprising strength, Patel leaped to his feet, fists up.

“You don’t want to fight him,” Oaks warned.

From behind them, Colt added, “You’ll fuck up your hands. A surgeon needs his hands.”

The man was going to prison. Who the hell was he operating on there? Carson didn’t mention this—he let his brothers prey on the man’s vanity.

Let the bastard believe he was immune to the justice that was coming to him.

“Where is she?” Carson locked his hand around Patel’s throat and slammed him against the wall. A hollow thud suggested that there was a room behind this one.

Oaks took a hasty step forward. “Go!”

Carson took off across the small space, running his hand along the wall for a cutout. An opening. Something.

When he heard a raspy cry from behind the wall, he slammed his shoulder into it. The opening gave way, and he tumbled into what looked like a hospital room.

His gaze fell on Layne, tied to the bed, her big eyes wide with shock.

She let out a small shriek. “You’re alive!”

Jesus Christ. The bastard must have told her that Carson was dead.

He rushed to her side and began tearing off the bonds on her wrists. “We’re getting out of here.”

Her eyes were frantic. “He’s coming, Carson! You’ve got to leave!”

“I’ve got you.” He rushed to the other side of the bed and freed her other wrist. When he followed the IV tubing up to her arm, he cussed.

“Just rip it out!” Before he could do that, Layne grabbed the bandage and tore it out herself. Blood dripped down her arm.

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