Clint rose. "Any trouble finding the place?"
"No problems." Randall slid into the chair at the end of the table. Addison sat across from Clint with her back to the door.
"I took the liberty of ordering wine." Reaching for the open bottle, Clint toppled his glass. Red wine soaked into the white tablecloth. His hand shook when he pressed his napkin over the spill. Addison looked at Randall and realized he'd noticed the shaking as well.
"Why are you shaking, Clint?" Randall asked. "What the fuck's going on?"
"Like I said, partner, I got news for you."
Addison held her breath, suddenly aware that something beyond her perceptivity was happening between the two men. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder.
"What are you talking about?" Randall took the bottle from him and lowered it to the table without pouring. His eyes were dark with anger and another emotion Addison couldn't put a name to.
Clint's eyes flicked toward the front door.
Inexplicably, her heart began to hammer.
"You son of a bitch." Randall rose, grasping Addison's arm. Roughly, he jerked her to her feet. His eyes were wild with knowledge and terror when they fell upon her. "Run out the back door and go to the bar next door. Call the police."
Shoving the cell phone into her hands, he pushed her toward a set of swinging doors that opened to the kitchen. Stunned, she stumbled away from the table.
"Go!" Randall shouted.
The look on his face sent a shock wave crashing through her. She moved toward the swinging doors. She sensed danger. It pressed into her with an almost physical force. She wanted to obey him. She trusted him. But a sudden, encompassing fear for his life made her stop and turn to him.
He'd taken Clint by the collar, his face contorted with rage.
He never saw the men come through the front door.
They were like phantoms out of her worst nightmare. Two men wearing long, dark coats, faces obscured by ski masks, hands covered with black leather, boots thudding heavily on the wood floor.
Terror pounded through her as the two men drew sleek, black weapons from beneath their coats.
"Randall!" Her scream pierced the air. Oblivious to the danger, she lunged toward him.
It was as though she were moving in slow motion. She watched as Randall swung around to face the two men. His right hand moved to his weapon. She saw fear on his face, realization in his eyes as the muzzles rose, leveled.
His eyes met hers. "Run!" he shouted.
The blast deafened her. She screamed his name, then watched in shock as the concussion sent him reeling back.
"No!" Denial ripped through her. Screaming his name, she lunged toward him, knowing what she'd just witnessed couldn't be happening. God wouldn't do that to her. He wouldn't take another loved one.
A second blast rocked her brain. She looked up to see Clint fall. Blood spattered the wall behind him.
Nausea crashed through her. Her legs buckled. She fell to her hands and knees, the cell phone clattering away. A few feet away Randall lay twisted and motionless. "Randall!" Panic sent her crawling toward his prone form. She had to see him. Had to touch him. Had to know he was alive.
Shoving a chair out of the way, she crawled toward him. The floor around her was slippery with blood. For all she knew it could have been her own. It was on her hands, like warm syrup, sticky between her fingers, soaking into her clothing.
An instant before she reached him, two strong hands clamped around her shoulders and pulled her to her feet. "No!"
Pain seared through her right shoulder. Enraged, she twisted and lashed out with her feet. An instant later, the realization that she'd been injected slammed into her. A minute to react, she thought. She had to reach Randall. God, she didn't want to die alone.
She struggled, but the hands dragged her toward the front door. She was aware of the stunning silence around her, punctuated by the sound of her boots scraping across the floor. In the darkness, someone sobbed. A telephone rang in another room. Sirens howled in the distance.
The police, she thought vaguely. She tried to free herself from the man's grip, but her body, had gone numb. Her mind waned; thoughts floated in and out. By the time they dragged her outside, she was unable to feel the cold.
Chapter 23
He struggled toward the light. The darkness terrified him. Darkness was death. He knew death intimately. He'd seen it. Smelled it. Feared it. He didn't want to die.
The pain was blinding in its intensity. As if someone had taken a shovel to his chest and shattered his sternum. He was aware of noise around him. The keening of sirens. Unintelligible shouting. A man barking out commands. Someone touched his chest. Something smooth and hard cupped his face. Oxygen. He tried to draw a breath. Pain clenched his chest like a steel trap.
The memory of what had happened rushed back. He remembered the gunmen. Shotguns. Blasts so close they'd left him temporarily deaf.