Page 46 of Forsaking All Others

I put the car in park and hurry out. Maverick calls for me, but I don’t turn to look at him. I keep my focus on the two officers headed toward me.

“Mrs. Armstrong?”

I’m about to reply when the front door opens. Leftie fills the doorway with Tara and Shep tucked against his sides and relief swarms me. I lean forward, touching my hands to my knees and draw in a deep breath.

They’re okay.

My gaze moves from the porch to the back seat of my car where Theo is still asleep.

All my babies are okay.

“Mrs. Armstrong?”

I look back at the two officers and slowly straighten to my full height. Nothing they say can hurt so long as my babies are all safe and sound.

“Yes.”

The officer to my left looks over my shoulder. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s Maverick that holds his attention and when I feel him rest a hand on my shoulder, it’s confirmed.

“What’s going on here?”

“Mrs. Armstrong,” the officer on the right continues. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but your husband.” He pauses to clear his throat and dread fills my entire being.

“Colt,” I rasp. “Is something wrong? Did something happen—"

He interrupts me.

“Ma’am your husband was shot. His truck was hijacked at a rest stop. The paramedics did everything they could but—"

“Don’t,” I snap, shaking my head.

“Holly,” Maverick rasps, cupping my shoulder.

“No, they have the wrong guy. Colt isn’t…he’s not…”

I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. I haven’t spoken to my husband in twenty-four hours. I cursed and damned him to hell.

I wished him death.

“We’re very sorry, ma’am, but he didn’t make it.”

Chapter Thirteen

Maverick Burnside

Holly’s kneesbuckle and I step forward, hooking my arms under hers just in time to cushion her fall. A shrill cry rips past her lips and my arms tighten around her, lifting my gaze to the two police officers. Their lips move, but I can’t make out a word they say.

Colt is fucking gone, and I don’t need all the details to know I’m the one to blame. A million scenarios run through my head—each more vivid and gruesome than the last. A man doesn’t get hijacked and killed for a bunch of coffins. Whoever did this knew what was inside those boxes. They knew those guys were mine. Sweat drips from my brow and dread churns in the pit of my gut.

War is coming.

A brutal, cold war and the carnage has already begun to drop, only instead of it falling on Satan’s doorstep it’s fallen at Holly’s.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I force my vision to focus on the two officers.

“Are you sure?” I rasp.

The officer nods and a well-rehearsed solemn expression fills his partner’s face.

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