“It’s in the house,” she said. “In a safe.”
“Hands, Foster. Hands.” The gunman’s warning made her dart a look toward Mitch. He lifted a hand from behind his body, where he’d been reaching for something. “If I have to warn you again, it will be with a bullet.” Then to Halina, “Your boyfriend and your dog are the most annoying creatures I’ve ever run across.”
“Let Mitch take the dog and go. I’ll get you the research from the house.” Where she knew every inch of every room. Where she had built-in traps. Where she could take this man down, knock him out, and restrain him.
“Hell no,” Mitch said. “I’m not getting near Cujo.”
The gunman laughed and turned his head toward Mitch.
Get close. Take control. Tommy’s commands whispered in her head.
Halina stepped in, grabbed the gunman’s wrist in one hand, the muzzle of the weapon in the other. He immediately resisted, his muscles tensing. She used his rigid arm to pivot his body away from Mitch. Leaned on his wrist, shoved his arm. Underhand grab, twist, flip.
Snap.
The gunman screamed. Dex went insane inside the car. Halina’s stomach tweaked at the crack of bone. But she didn’t have time to dwell. She gripped the hand trapped in the weapon by a broken finger and yanked his arm down, pulling his face into her thrusting knee.
Crunch.
Mitch came into her peripheral vision, crouched, ready to jump in.
“Stay out of it,” she warned. He’d mess up her moves, her rhythm, her plans.
The gunman jerked backward, but found his hand still locked in the gun. “You bitch!”
Halina shot a kick to his balls, but he evaded. Swung his free arm and slammed her temple with the other weapon.
Fire split her skull. She stumbled sideways, but kept hold of his injured hand. Something pulled at the man from the other direction, jerking his hand in the weapon and giving Halina the break she needed to gain her feet. He screamed. Almost went down on his knees. But didn’t. His boot rammed her hip. “You fucking bitch.”
She hit the ground and used her weight and momentum to pull him down with her. Caught sight of Mitch behind the gunman. Terror etched on his face.
She ignored him. She had this.
She twisted the gunman’s injured hand, bent it back, and flipped him. Instead of giving Halina that shocked second to regroup and start a ground attack, the gunman immediately sat forward, his good hand swinging toward her head. Halina grabbed it. Her energy dipped. She had to end this fast, while she still could.
She pushed his arms wide. Tucked her chin. Used her legs to thrust her body upward. The crown of her head rammed his face. The sounds of impact—bone and flesh, the man’s grunt—registered a split second before pain exploded in her own brain. Ricocheted beneath her skull. And her world blinked out.
Halina’s head swam back to consciousness. She was sitting upright, but not by her own strength. Something supported her. She lifted her head to assess the threat, and pain tore across her skull. Her vision blurred. Lights swirled into five-pointed stars.
“Halina . . .” Her name came to her from a distance, muffled and wobbly. “Halina . . .”
She blinked, refocused. Strong arms wrapped her waist. Dex’s fierce bark stabbed through the dark. Her situation came back in a rush. She tensed and looked down. The gunman lay unconscious beneath her, his face spattered with blood, lips torn open. Her stomach kicked. She gagged and leaned sideways, pulled out of the hold from behind and tried to crawl off, but lost her balance.
She tilted toward the pavement, but never connected. Someone’s arms snatched her up again, pulled her to her feet. A waterfall filled her ears. She twisted, struggled. Fisted her hands and flung them backward, beating off whatever restricted her.
“Hali, stop.” The voice penetrated. Male. Distant. Angry. “It’s me. It’s Mitch.”
Mitch. Mitch.
Her heart thumped hard. Swelled with relief.
He pulled her around, his hands gentle, arms strong. He swiped hair from her face, clearing her eyes, and gazed down at her with so much concern, a cold place inside her warmed.
“Look at me, baby.” His voice had turned husky. Deep and sexy. He was breathing hard and held her so tight, but tenderly with one arm around her back, one hand behind her head. Those beautiful eyes shimmered in the strange lights coming from different angles. “Are you with me? Are you all here?”
“Where?”
“That’s what I was afraid of.” He released her head and gripped one side of her face tight, pressing his forehead to hers. His eyes drifted closed. “Damn, you know how to scare the hell out of a man.”
She laughed. Or thought she did.
“Honey, the neighbors are out. Sirens are coming. We have to get out of here.”
He pulled her into a sitting position. Took her face, gently this time, in both hands. In the aftermath of the attack, the sweet gesture, his presence, his strength, urged her to lean into him. She relented, and sighed at the feeling of having someone to lean on. Finally.
Finally.
It had been so long.
She covered his hand with hers. Color flashed in her peripheral vision and she glanced sideways. Red . . . on her skin. Blood.
Have to get out of here.
Urgency dribbled in. Uneasiness followed. His words—“baby,” “honey”—didn’t fit. But her brain hurt. She couldn’t think. And Mitch pulled her close, holding her forehead to his shoulder. Emotion pushed wetness into her eyes. She fisted the T-shirt over his rigid abdomen and took a shaky breath.
“Tell me where the safe is and the combination,” he said. “I’ll get the research.”
Ice slid down her spine. Then the gunman’s words pushed into her head.
He’s fighting for himself, Beloi. Don’t think he won’t leave your ass in the dust . . .
Betrayal cut like fire down the center of her body. She dulled the pain by calling herself stupid. Naïve. Foolish. And a dozen other nasty words for dragging hope from its grave.
“It’s not there,” she said. “I lied to him.”
“What?” he snapped. “Why?”
She tensed and the sudden movement made her stomach roll. “I . . . don’t feel so good.”
Mitch lifted her head from his shoulder. “We’ll get one of your neighbors to take care of the dog for a while—”
“Wait, no.” She pulled away, closing her eyes when the street spun. “No one else needs to take care of him—”
“Halina, we can’t take a dog when we don’t know—”
“He comes with me. He always comes with me.” Why did she have to explain this? “I won’t leave him behind. Ever.”
When he remained silent, Halina tried opening her eyes again. The warmth that had turned Mitch’s eyes such a stunning shade of golden-green just minutes ago had transitioned into irritation that made his irises bright green and as shiny as glass.
He gripped her arms and pushed her back. The movement sent a wave of pain through her head, making her wince. “Nice to see you’ve developed a sense of loyalty over the years.”
“Heather?” The voice of an older man came closer. “Heather, heavens, sweetheart, what happened?”
She forced her eyes open and found Mr. Holland, a man in his seventies and her neighbor directly across the street, crouching in front of her. He was wrapped in a dark robe, his face creased in concern, gray hair in scraggly tufts.
“Home invasion,” Mitch said, pulling away from Halina. “The other one got away. You should tell your neighbors to go back inside until the police get here.”