Page 88 of Shea's Hero

Less than a minute later, the third car pulls to a stop. The engine turns off, and shortly after, feet hit dirt.

Footsteps move towards the car, accompanied by the sound of light breathing.

My breath stills.

The man comes around the car and peers into the driver’s side window. In Russian, he says,“Hey.”His voice pitches up in alarm.“Alexi? What the?—”

Now.

I launch myself at him.

All the years of martial arts practice culminate in this moment.

Throat punch. Arm chop. Leg sweep.

In an efficiency of moves, I have him pinned on the ground. And once again, I wrap my arm around his neck to knock him out.

My heart is racing, but my blood feels ice cold. Rage has been replaced by cold determination.

Rushing now, I use the zip ties to restrain him. Then I gag him with the same torn shirt I used for the others and take his weapon, too.

Three down. Hopefully, just one to go.

But this is the riskiest part. Because now Shea’s in the mix. And this guy won’t hesitate to use her as a shield.

Keeping low, I jog towards the house, trying to keep out of view. As I get closer, I can hear the rumble of a man’s voice; not angry, but definitely irritated.

Once I get to the exterior wall, I edge along the side of the house, heading for one of the windows a bit further down. Through the glassless window frame, the man’s voice comes through. “Where the fuck are they? Alexi said he’d be right in.”

Shit. I can’t let him go outside.

Do I go in? Risk a standoff? Or try to take a shot from out here?

Rising the slightest bit, I peer through the window.

Shea!

She’s sitting on the floor, still gagged and restrained, her face pink and wet with tears. And fuck, she looks so damn scared. So vulnerable.

Fuck.

But she doesn’t seem injured. Not yet, at least.

And behind her, about five feet away, is the man who took her. He has a gun, but it’s held down and loose in his hand; he obviously doesn’t think Shea is a threat.

He’s the only one in there.

I have to take the shot. And I have to make it.

Am I good enough to hit him from here? If I were in target practice, I’d be completely confident. But this is life or death. If I miss, he could kill Shea right in front of me.

If only I trained as a sharpshooter, like Niall. He’d be able to make this shot blindfolded.

I can’t doubt myself now.

Then.

I remember something Shea said. About my parents. And hers. How they’re always here, watching out for us.

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