Page 97 of Savage Ruin
Thiago holds out his hand to shake mine, and I can’t help but remember the first time we made a deal. If I could show him I could shoot, he’d be okay with me having a gun. “It’s a deal.”
“Thank you. Now, go!” I order them.
Within fifteen minutes, they’re dressed in outfits similar to the black fatigues and t-shirts Zane’s team wears. As if the black isn’t menacing enough, the weapons certainly make the threat real.
Mitch walks into the room.
“Stay alert. Keep the radio on and your phone close. When we catch the bastard, you’ll need to organize the team and bring Henley to our location, okay?” Thiago commands Mitch.
“Yes, sir,” he replies firmly.
After a brief kiss from each of them, they’re gone, leaving me to worry and pace. Is it greedy to want them safe and Langford eliminated?
For the next hour, Mitch and I listen to Thomas reporting on the movements of Langford. He’s been practically everywhere in Miami, and it doesn’t look like he has any intention of stopping.
My phone buzzes with sweet emojis and messages from Grayson and Mateo. Thiago’s texts are full of questions and thinly veiled orders disguised as suggestions. I respond sweetly to almost everything. When I don’t respond to Thiago’s suggestions to lie down for a while, I see dots come and go a few times before finally ceasing.
Thomas groans, and we all tense. “He’s turned into a car wash, and the line goes out the door. We’re going to be here for a while.”
Mitch tosses the phone down and heads to the restroom.
I plop down on the couch. He’s got to sleep sometime, right? But night is a hell of a long way away.
Something crashes on the patio, and I cautiously slip to the corner to peer out. A planter has been knocked over. Tilting my head from side to side, I hold my breath and wait, but the only sound I hear is the wind off the ocean. Still, I double check the patio door to make sure it’s locked and the security bar is in place. Relieved, I exhale loudly.
The radio is silent except for the ambient traffic noise. I head to the kitchen to get a glass of ice water and a couple of pain tablets. Stress is making my throat dry, and my hangover isn’t helping.
When I return, I eye the couch with distaste, but there’s no way I can wait this out in my room by myself. With a sigh, I drop back down and sip my water.
I pull my phone out and check for updates, but there’s nothing. After an hour of continuous noise, it’s too quiet. Is the radio still on? I set the glass of water on the table and look for the radio. It’s not here.
Dropping to my knees, I check under the table, but it’s empty. I know the radio was here, and Mitch hasn’t come back from the restroom yet. My hand slides to the holster at my side, and I unsnap the strap. Staying low beside the couch, I send a text to all three of them and wait. Nothing. Instead of sliding my phone in my pocket, I put it on silent and slip it into my bra, maneuvering it until it’s snug under my arm.
Quietly getting to my feet, I listen for several minutes. Something is wrong. The pit in my gut is screaming for me to get out. After years on the run, it’s been a lifesaver more times than I can count. I used to question the logic, but I don’t anymore. Sometimes the universe gives you what you need, but it’s up to you to act on it.
I hear Mitch coming out of the bathroom. Tense, I silently urge him to hurry. He ambles down the hall and enters the living room.
I raise my finger to my lips.
He pulls his gun and silently makes his way over to my side. His eyes dart to the table, then back to me. He raises an eyebrow, silently asking if I have the radio.
I shake my head.
His brows come together as he realizes we’re in trouble and we don’t have a way to call for back-up quickly. He pulls out his phone and texts but receives nothing in reply.
Either everyone we know is busy or our cells phone signals are being jammed. My bet is the latter. I look at Mitch and point to the patio door.
He points to the front door. I understand his logic. The security team is out front patrolling. But I glance at the distance and shudder. It’s a long way to go.
He motions for me to get behind him.
I grip the back of his bulletproof vest with one hand and hold my gun ready with the other. He quietly walks across the living room, gun held in front of him, and I follow.
Right before we cross over the hallway to the foyer, he stops and darts his head around the corner. It’s clear. We move onto the tile of the entryway. Only five more feet.
A noise comes from behind me, and I tighten my grip and turn.
Something hard strikes my arm. Pain radiates from my forearm to my fingers, but I still manage to pull the trigger. Unfortunately, the angle is wrong, and I completely miss.
