Page 87 of Shea's Hero

Before I move, I allow myself one quick scan of my surroundings.

House to the north, about a hundred feet away. Front door at the center, with a few makeshift steps heading up to it. Woods all around, with no other houses in sight.

And inside the car, Alexi to my left, and Sergey to my right.

I can do this.

Imustdo this.

Breathing through my nose, I take a deep breath. Exhale.

Go. Now.

As soon as Alexi ends the call, I pull my wrists out of the broken zip ties. Because one thing these two assholes didn’t think to do was check if I had any tools on me, like the tiny blade I always keep in my back pocket.

Then I lunge forward, my fist snapping out, smashing into the side of Alexi’s head.

He jerks forward, dropping the phone.

Before he can react, I punch him again.

He goes limp in his seat, his head sagging forward.

Sergey yelps. “What the?—”

But he can’t get anything else out because my arm is wrapped around his throat.

Squeezing.

I’ve never choked a man out before, never needed to, but I damn well know how to do it. He struggles a little, but he’s no match for my strength and sheer determination. Within ten seconds, he’s unconscious, and I hold on for another five seconds for good measure. Not long enough to kill him, although I consider it. But he could be useful later as we build a case against Romanova—I can definitely see him flipping to save his own ass.

It hasn’t even been a minute, and both men are incapacitated. But this isn’t close to being over yet.

The last car isn’t here yet, and I need to intercept it before the driver realizes what’s going on. Before he can alert the man inside the house that there’s a problem.

So I quickly remove the zip ties around my ankles and leap from the car, yanking the gag from my mouth as I do so. Then I rush around to the front seat, where I spot a mostly-full bag of zip ties nestled among the crumpled wrappers in the console.

Shit. If Shea weren’t in danger, their incompetence would almost be laughable.

My gaze moving between the two men and the rear-view mirror, I restrain them much more effectively than they did me. Once I’m satisfied they aren’t going anywhere, I grab both their guns and phones and duck down below the front of the car.

Now I have to wait again, which is even more torturous because I know Shea isright there, and everything in me is desperate to get to her.

As I crouch in the dirt, waiting, the momentary lull in activity makes it harder to keep my mind from wandering to terrifying, dangerous places.

Places where I get into the house only to discover I’m outnumbered ten to one. Places where Shea isn’t okay when I find her. Or my attempt to stop the fourth man fails, and my entire plan is ruined.

No.

Concentrate on the things I know. The things I can see. Things I can hear.

Like the silence coming from the house, which at least means Shea isn’t being hurt right now. The soft rustling of the trees and faint calling of birds. And?—

The rumbling of an engine working its way up the driveway.

All my muscles tense.

I hold the stolen gun low and ready, my finger tight around the trigger, a whisper from firing. Not that I want to, not yet, but if it’s him or me, I’ll do what I have to.

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