The silence was broken by a single gunshot, an ear splitting howl answering it a second later, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. And then there was nothing but silence. As much as the gun fire and Samson’s snarls had set me on edge, the silence was a thousand times worse, my mind filled with visions of Samson laid out with a gaping wound between his eyes, or God forbid, Holbrook gutted and bleeding out in the snow. The thought of him dying alone and afraid was like a knife twisting in my heart, and yet the crushing weight of my fear wouldn’t allow me to move from my hidey hole.
My nerves were wound so tight that I nearly let off a shot just at the distant sound of floorboards creaking in the entryway. Someone was in the house and my nose was too clogged from crying for me to be able to sniff out who it was. Fearful tears continued to stream down my cheeks, blurring my vision as I stared at the closet door, afraid of who might come stalking through it.
Footsteps approached at a slow pace on the other side of the door, ratcheting the tension higher with each loud creak of the floor, until I was barely able to breathe through the fear tightening my chest. When the door finally opened and a figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, made blurry by my tears, a wave of panic flooded through me, constricting every muscle in my body. Overcome by pure terror, I squeezed my eyes shut, clenched my teeth, and pulled the trigger.
The gunshot was deafening in the confined space of the closet, but even the ringing in my ears didn’t block out Holbrook’s startled cry.
“Holy shit! Watch it!” he shouted, his blessedly familiar drawl snapping my eyes open.
Blinking away tears, I saw him crouched in the doorway, red faced, winded, and most importantly, not eviscerated. Springing to my feet I threw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck, thumping him in the back of the head with the barrel of the gun in the process.
“Ow!” he cried, lifting a hand to rub the back of his head. “How about you let me take that?” he asked, prying my arms from around his neck to pluck the gun from my grip.
“Sorry!” I said sheepishly. “Probably a good idea.”
Retreating to a safe distance and wrapping my arms around myself, I shifted from one foot to the other while watching him check and secure the gun back in the safe. I wasn’t able to fully relax until he turned and faced me, and with an expression of affectionate frustration said, “First order of business when this is all over? Teaching you some gun safety.”
“Yes, Sir!” I said, lifting my hand in a mock salute. Neither of us commented on the violent tremor in my fingers.
“You okay?” he asked, stepping close to me and resting his hands on my shoulders where his thumbs rubbed twin circles on my collar bones. That small touch was one of the greatest things I had ever experienced.
“I think so. What about you? Is Samson dead?” I asked, barely pausing to draw breath, let alone give him time to answer. My eyes flitted from a graze on his cheek to a slash across his chest, the fabric of his shirt torn to reveal bloody flesh beneath. “Are you hurt? Did he bite you?”
“I’m fine, it’s just a scratch,” he said, his voice pitched low and soft in an effort to soothe me. “Samson got away, but not before I winged him. Wherever he is, he’s hurting.”
“Good,” I growled, letting go of some of the tension that had been pounding in my veins for what felt like an eternity, but in reality had only been a few minutes.
At this rate I’m going to need a truck load of Xanax.
Finally assured that each of us were okay, Holbrook’s eyes fell on the mess of random boxes and rounds spread across the floor in a loose circle, a void in the center indicating where I had been crouched while frantically trying to load the revolver. Arching his brows at me in a silent question, I just shrugged.
“You have a lot of guns.”
Chapter 33
I WAS FAST becoming a pro at waiting around while Holbrook made calls to FBI headquarters and the police, and busied myself making a fresh pot of coffee. Law enforcement can wipe out a Starbucks in three minutes flat and I had no doubt that the lukewarm, half empty pot wasn’t going to cut it.
While the coffee was brewing I set about digging through the cabinets in the kitchen, and managed to rustle up a package of Oreos and almost moaned aloud in relief. Holbrook obviously didn’t have a sweet tooth like I did. Cookies were a rarity in my house simply because I couldn’t seem to make them last more than a day or two. My dentist frequently berates me about the need to lay off the sweets, and in turn I occasionally pee on his lawn in the middle of the night. It’s the little things in life that bring us the greatest joy.
Pulling mugs down out of the cabinet, I arranged them on the counter while stuffing an Oreo into my mouth.
“How’s it going, Suzy Home Maker?”
I froze like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar, and swallowed the lump of half-chewed cookie. Turning around, I found Tillman striding into the kitchen. I didn’t know him as well as Holbrook, but I liked the lanky agent and was glad he hadn’t been part of the detail.
“That’s me. I’m sure to make someone a happy house-wolf someday,” I replied, brushing cookie crumbs off my shirt.
“I can picture it now. You in a frilly little apron with a bunch of cute furry kids scampering about.”