She stopped pacing and sat on a stool. If she got thirsty, there was plenty to drink with all the water and wine stored in here. She tightened her arms around her body as nervous shivers passed through her. She hoped Striker was okay. She wished there was something she could do to help but knew as well as he did that she would be a hindrance.
Striker hadn’t left her a weapon, and she knew why. She’d made it clear she wasn’t a fan of guns and would injure herself if left with one. Her greatest weapon was her belief that Striker would come back for her. That he would stay safe. But she couldn’t discount the lunatic he was going up against. She hoped and prayed that the man she loved would come out the victor.
She was about to stand up when the ceiling overhead began to shake as if it was about to collapse on top of her. She quickly reached out to grab hold of a table as several wine bottles went crashing to the floor.
Margo knew the assassin had fired another missile into the cabin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
DESPITE HIS DISCOMFORT, Striker darted between a number of low-hanging red oak trees, moving stealthily through the thickets. The temperature had dropped. Without a shirt he should have felt cold, but the anger radiating inside of him was keeping him warm.
He paused when he reached the area where he suspected the assassin was hiding. He was anxious but forced himself to wait, listening for any sounds. Time passed and he didn’t hear anything.
The cut on his shoulder was hurting like hell, but he would deal with it. Right now there were more important issues he had to handle. A crackle of lightning lit the sky and he looked up and frowned. The last thing he needed was a downpour. Cold and rain weren’t a good combination. Striker was about to move when he heard a click at the same time he felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his head.
“Drop your weapon. Now!”
Striker did as he was told, dropping his Beretta while knowing he had backup with the knife in his boot.
“You fool. Did you not think I had all my bases covered?” a man’s hard voice taunted. “I knew the moment your feet hit the ground. Now I’m going to kill you and then I’ll find the woman and kill her too.”
Knowing this was his only opportunity and he had to take it, Striker, in a lifesaving move, quickly shifted his body, missing the bullet from the man’s gun by mere inches. Then, lifting his leg in a fast and firm kick, he knocked the gun from the man’s hand, sending it flying into the brush.
Unfortunately, the kick didn’t take the man down. Recovering from the blow, he lunged at Striker, his weight knocking Striker to the ground. The man went down with him and slammed a solid fist into Striker’s chin. Then another. Pain nearly blinded Striker, but he pushed back and, using his weight and height, was able to gain the upper hand. Striker landed a couple of sharp blows that jarred the assassin before he sent a hard punch to Striker’s abdomen.
Striker ignored the impact of the excruciating jolt to his gut and managed to get in a few more hard jabs that sent the man crumbling backward. Using that opportunity to his advantage, Striker landed on his feet in time to counter another punch and was able to knock the man back a foot or two with his own hard punch to the man’s gut. By the time the man regrouped and was charging toward him, Striker had pulled the knife from his boot and threw it to lodge deep in the man’s shoulder. When that didn’t slow the man down, Striker quickly dived where he’d dropped his Beretta and in seconds he swiveled around to fire a shot, hitting the man in the chest.
The bastard didn’t fall immediately. Instead a painful sneer showed on the bastard’s face. And with blood spurting from his mouth, he said, “I preset the flame thrower. You won’t be able to save her.”
The man fell to the ground at the same time a fiery missile was launched from twenty feet away. Its target was the cabin, and the moment it hit, the cabin was engulfed in flames.
“No!” Striker screamed at the top of his lungs and took off running toward it.
*
THE SCENT OF smoke alerted Margo that the cabin was on fire. She was suddenly filled with panic. Would her life come to an end the same way her parents’ had? Where was Striker? Was he okay? She was certain he wouldn’t want her to remain in a burning house. She raced up the stairs to the door and tried turning the knob only to discover it was jammed and wouldn’t turn. She was locked in the cellar of a burning house.
Margo quickly moved around checking every corner, trying to find something she could use to force open the door. All the while, the scent of smoke got heavier. The room had no windows—just walls—and she could feel both smoke and heat overtaking her.
She tried the door again and when it didn’t budge she moved away from it. Covering her face in her hands against the sting of the smoke, she had gone back down several stairs, intent on finding a corner of the room where she could feel safe, when suddenly she heard her name. She dropped her hands, wondering if she was hearing things. When she heard it again she knew the person calling her was Striker. She stood and raced back to the door.
“Unlock the door, Margo. I need to get you out of here,” he shouted from the other side.
Clearing her throat against the smoke that was choking her, she said, “I can’t, Striker. The doorknob is jammed.”
She heard his expletives. “Go back down the stairs, away from the door. I’m bringing it down.”
And he did. With a mighty force, he kicked down the door. “Come on!”
Margo raced up the stairs to him, and he gripped her hand. The moment he pulled her from the cellar, she saw the house was ablaze and fire was quickly spreading everywhere. How on earth had he made it inside the house to rescue her? There was no way they could get out alive. She was about to tell him that when he turned and swept her up into his arms.
“Keep your face buried in my chest, Margo.”
And then he was moving, but she didn’t know where to. Nor did she know how he was maneuvering around the fire since he’d told her to bury her face in his chest. But more than once she heard him curse and was jolted when he had to quickly change directions.
“Hold tight. I’m going to try to get us out through the living room.”
She was tempted to lift her head and ask him if he was crazy. She’d seen the fire escalating from room to room. But from the way he was moving, jolting her every which way, she knew he’d decided to risk it. Suddenly she heard male voices holler, “This way, Striker!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
STRIKER KNEW THEY were safe when he breathed in the chilly air. Ignoring the feel of the blanket being thrown over them, he continued to hold Margo as he nearly collapsed to the ground. But he still held her, refusing to let her go, even when someone told him to release her because they both needed medical attention.
Through stinging eyes, he looked up and saw the place was surrounded by both FBI agents and police officers. It had been Stonewall’s and Quasar’s voices that had helped lead him out of their fiery hell. Also standing within a few feet of them were Roland, Frazier Connelly, Detective Ingram and others he did not know.
“We got here in time to see you run inside the burning cabin. Don’t know how you did it without getting burned to a crisp,” Roland said, crouching down beside him.
“Man, you okay?” Stonewall asked, also squatting down in front of him. “Damn. What happened to your shoulder?”
“Yeah, man, you look like shit,” Quasar added.
Stonewall’s and Quasar’s observations had Margo scrambling around in his arms to stare at him. When she shifted, the blanket covering her shifted as well. Striker saw his T-shirt had risen up over her thighs, and he quickly pulled it down and tried to cover her with the blanket.
“Oh my God, Striker,” she said, staring at him and seeing the assassin’s handiwork from their fight. He probably looked like crap with his face bruised and all.
“I’m fine, Margo.”
As if ignoring him, she leaned in and kissed a bruise by his eyes. “I hope the other guy looks worse than you,” she said, as if her kisses would make the welts go away.