Page 136 of The Savior

CHAPTER FIFTY

The hospital offered Chelsea ill-fitting clothes to wear home. Only then did she realize that her blood-covered clothes were in an evidence bag.

Getting home would be complicated. She had no cell phone to order an Uber, couldn’t get a hold of Liam, and wasn’t ready to face Linda or Frank.

Chelsea rolled her discharge papers into a tube and wondered if the hospital had a shuttle or could spot her bus change.

“Ma’am?” A man knocked on the other side of her curtain partition as though it were a door.

Everyone else who worked there breezed in and out while announcing themselves, so she guessed he wasn’t a hospital employee. “Come in.”

The uniformed deputy offered a quick introduction, giving his title formally along with his last name, Odili, and his orders to transport her home when discharged. She knew his type—strict, ordered, and focused—and she could’ve jumped into his arms and cried.

“Ma’am?” Concern sounded in Odili’s voice, but he stood stoic at the sight of her eyes filling with tears. “Are you ready?”

More than she’d ever been.

The drive home was short. Odili offered to walk her in, but she thanked him for the escort, explaining that wasn’t necessary.

She floated up the stairs to her condo while reviewing the half-dozen ways she’d thought to explain the baby to Liam.

Chelsea let herself inside her unlocked front door. She’d expected to take less than twenty minutes to run over to the farmer’s market for fresh fruit. Several hours later, she had a half-sister, a neck wound, her job back, and a pregnancy. Life moved fast when she was busy making plans.

Her stomach growled, and on the way to the kitchen, she grabbed her waiting cell phone from the counter. A text from Liam waited at the bottom of her notifications from earlier that day.

Unexpected meeting. I never know how long these will last. Call you when I can.

Sweet. But it was the shaky-heart emoji that he signed off with that madeherheart squeeze.

She reached for a banana and—the hairs at the back of her neck stood on end. She could sense the silent shadow of another person closing in. Without time to drop the banana or the phone, Chelsea jabbed her elbows back and smacked into hard flesh.

A hand wrapped over her nose and mouth. Her angle didn’t allow her to kick back for a groin shot. She stomped, hoping for the arches of a foot, but her casual sneakers didn’t matter against hard leather boots.

Light-headed, she fought for oxygen. Fighting burned away the last of her breaths, and her lungs felt as if they were on fire.

She stopped thrashing, not to give up—neverto give up—but to corral the last of her energy.

The hands over her face loosened but didn’t let go. Chelsea threw herself back, cracking her skull to his jaw.

His hand dropped. Dizzy, she gulped air and reached onto the counter, searching for a knife, a weapon, anything—her blender.

Chelsea grabbed the handle and twisted, swinging the thick glass carafe with upward momentum and struck the man across his cheek.

He staggered back, hands cupping a bloody nose. Hope exploded, and Chelsea tore out of her kitchen.

An older man blocked the way, pointing an HK 45mm handgun equipped with a silencer.

She jerked back, then her kitchen attacker yanked her arms into his pinching grip.

“Chelsea Kilpatrick?” The older man kept the gun trained on her. His callous tone was unnervingly low-key.

Her training roared to mind.Be human.That was the lesson taught above and beyond all else if taken hostage—do nothing to incite greater animosity, contempt, or aggravation until escape or rescue became a possibility.

“Yes,” she admitted.

Ruthless spite curled on his lips, and he nodded to the man behind her to step away.

“Don’t shoot me!” Adrenaline rushed. She couldn’t run, couldn’t fight. She had nothing—except a hope for compassion. “I’m pregnant.”

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