Page 65 of Wicked and Bound

Before he reached it, another explosion rocked the building with devastating force. He stumbled, slamming his head against a pillar. His ears rang as smoke poured in and his vision threatened to go black. Screams filled the room. Around him, the elegant ballroom devolved into anarchy—crystal chandeliers swaying ominously, guests stampeding toward the exits, guards shouting orders that were swallowed by the din.

The backup generators kicked in. Red emergency lights bathed everything in a hellish glow. Through the haze, Nash spotted Kane and Ethan flanking him, weapons in hand at their sides, but there was no time to coordinate. His entire being focused on one goal: getting to Haisley.

Before someone else did.

He lurched forward and took down the first guard with brutal efficiency, stripping the man’s weapon before launching himself at the door and out of the ballroom.

Soldiers stood in the smoky hallway, weapons drawn, as if they’d been waiting for him. As if they’d been stationed there to prevent him from escaping Mila Benedict’s evil clutches.

Freshly acquired M4 in hand, he feinted right and plastered himself against the shadowy wall, crouching to hide his abnormal height as he let the horde stampeding out of the ballroom swallow him up.

In the inky confusion, he pushed past the shouting guards, then lurched from the throng and chugged to the stairwell, shouldering his way inside, weapon drawn. The elevator would be locked down, so he charged up the stairs three at a time. Every second that ticked by with Haisley potentially in danger felt like acid disintegrating his heart.

“Nash!” Kane’s voice crackled through his earpiece, barely audible over the havoc. “Fed teams are breaching the perimeter but meeting heavy resistance. Black Velvet planned this. She’s set up reinforcements we didn’t expect. What’s your position? Ethan and I are coming?—”

“No. I’m headed up.” Nash rounded another corner. His tactical training warred with the primal fear clawing at his throat as he dropped another pair of guards silently—one with an elbow to the face, the other with a stealthy snap of his neck. Fuck if he was going to risk giving away his position or ricocheting bullets. “Get to the control room. Cut their surveillance. Communications. Everything.”

“You got it.”

The acrid smell of smoke followed him up the stairs, mixing with the metallic tang of blood oozing from his head wound and into his mouth. His legs burned, but he surged on, ignoring everything but his drive to save Haisley. Nightmare images of danger, of losing her and their baby, spurred him on.

Not again. Never again, goddamn it.

Sweating and frantic, he reached the top floor and crept from the stairwell. His heart nearly stopped. The doorframe was splintered, shards scattered across the floor like broken bones. Inside, signs of struggle were evident in the overturned furniture, the shattered lamp, the curtains yanked from their rod now hanging precariously.

His gaze zipped to the open drawer where he’d hidden the Glock. Empty. Pride warred with soul-deep terror. Good girl. She’d taken the weapon and fought back. Two spent nine-millimeter shell casings near the connecting door confirmed that she’d fought back. His tactical mind catalogued the scene—signs of a firefight, but no body. No major blood loss. She’d survived, thank god.

But where the hell was she now? And how had these bastards threatened her to force her to pull the trigger?

The sat phone in his pocket buzzed. He ripped the device from his pocket. Karliah. “Where is she?”

“The doctor has her. I took down three of the four guards, but three more were waiting in the hall. I eliminated one of them but?—”

“Location?”

“Main floor. Medical wing. I’m en route.”

He was already moving. “On my way.”

Please, please don’t let me be too late.

“Hurry!”

As quickly as he’d charged upstairs, he hurtled back down, his superior training allowing him to punch, pistol-whip, or headbutt every guard who got in his way with brutal efficiency.

On the main floor, panicked guests scattered in every direction. He blended in, slipping past the overwhelmed guards.

In the medical wing—a sprawling T-shaped space—shadows danced in the emergency lights, bouncing off thick concrete walls. The main treatment room intersected with a longer hallway connecting to labor and delivery. He’d memorized the layout his first day here, knowing it might become crucial. Now that knowledge might save Haisley’s life.

The sound of female voices behind a blue metal door brought him to a screeching halt.

“Damn the guards for leaving me as soon as we got here,” Dr. Haynes griped. “Give me the gun, bitch!”

“No.” Haisley’s voice shook but held firm. “Get that syringe away from me!”

Shuffling, followed by a scuffle. Feminine grunts. Chairs scraping against linoleum. Then a crash that sounded like someone shoving a medical cart that collided with a wall.

Veins filled with icy terror, Nash yanked on the door.

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