Gabi flinched when the house shook a second time.
The second explosion took place while Diaz was on the phone with his accomplice. In a cold response, Diaz shook his head and placed his phone into his pocket. “These kids just keep blowing up.”
“You killed them?”
“Such a nasty word. I liberated them to their next destination. Death is simply a route to the next life.” He shook the gun in her direction. “It’s the fear of death that keeps men in line. When you don’t fear it . . . that’s when you make the most of this world . . . this life.”
Gabi felt herself breathing heavily.
He was crazy, calculated . . . and smart.
Right at that moment, she felt just as crazy . . . just as calculated, and much smarter.
“Time to go, Mrs. Picano.”
“Don’t call me that,” she told him.
Diaz paused. “Giving demands.”
“It’s Mrs. Blackwell.”
He lifted one brow and grinned.
A shadow outside the drawn blinds of the kitchen caught her attention.
Diaz turned and Gabi reached across the table and palmed the syringe. Before Diaz turned back, a third explosion went off.
The smile on Diaz’s face fell as he swung toward the noise, obviously not expecting it. He let out a stream of obscenities as he grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet.
As her captor lifted the hand holding the gun toward her, Gabi stopped fearing death. With the arm in a cast, she swung against his weapon, watched it scatter across the room as it filled with smoke.
He twisted his body so hers shielded his.
She felt her air cutting off.
As Diaz backed them toward the door to what she assumed was a garage, Gabi removed the cap of the syringe without Diaz noticing.
Struggling to stay on her feet, Gabi lifted her hand as she was dragged back and each breath became an effort.
She went for his neck, prayed she didn’t miss and hit hers.
Her thumb pressed the plunger the moment she heard him curse.
Diaz took two steps back, cursed her name as his hand fell, and they both stumbled to the floor.
Two darkly clothed men wearing some kind of breathing masks over their faces burst into the house with guns bigger than any she’d ever seen outside of a movie.
They hesitated when they saw her. She turned toward Diaz.
The syringe was still in his neck, she saw blood inside. His eyes were wide open, a sick smile forever on his face.
Her eyes drifted closed.
A mask was shoved over her nose and mouth, and someone tied a string around the back of her head as sirens sounded outside the house.
“Gotta go, babe.” Someone patted her head and the two men left.
Hunter heard a third explosion in the direction of Gabi’s GPS. He saw smoke as his father was waking up.
“You alive?” Hunter asked in a rush.
“I gotta stop drinking,” Sherman said.
Hunter released a breath of relief. “I have to find Gabi.”
“Go.”
Hunter didn’t have to be told twice. He ran toward the third explosion with a prayer on his lips.
When he hopped the fourth block wall of the day, Hunter vowed to hire a personal trainer to make this shit easier.
As he crossed the street before the explosion, Hunter noticed two fully masked, armed men running toward a dark van. One turned his way, offered a salute, and slammed the door before peeling away.
Hunter moved faster.
He burst through the door of the house that was filled with smoke as sirens assaulted his ears. He didn’t get far before he found Gabi on the floor, a man at her side.
Someone pushed in beside him and helped drag her out of the house.
Hunter’s lungs filled with smoke, causing him to cough.
The Good Samaritan started back into the house. Hunter stayed behind and held Gabi’s head in his lap.
The unknown helper stumbled out coughing. “Dead . . . he’s . . .”
Three squad cars rolled up, lights blaring.
He felt Gabi’s hand touch his arm and she smiled through the mask.
Hunter released tears he didn’t think he owned and dropped his head to hers.
Gabi refused the ride to the hospital, which prompted Hunter to request a house call from his personal physician.
With a few questions about the dead man in the house, and Gabi’s and Sherman’s accounts of who he was, the police allowed Hunter to take her home. She was still groggy as Hunter slipped her into a hot bath.
Mindful of her cast, he washed the day out of her hair and off her skin. He moved in silence, as if treasuring every moment. He worked in silence and she let him. With the help of a giant bath towel, he dried her off and brushed out her hair. Only when the doctor arrived did he leave the room.