The guard jumped to his feet. He took one look at our gear and bellowed, “Cops!”
His warning shout confirmed the presence of his allies. No intimidation tactics, then. Even if I managed to threaten him into dropping his weapon, it would just waste enough time for his buddies to show up. But I also didn’t like killing people if I could help it, and I wanted some answers from these assholes.
The guard rushed at me, knife brandished in his fist like an ice pick. How sloppy. He pulled back his arm to stab downward, and I spun to let the blade pass in front of me. I grabbed his wrist in one hand and pistol-whipped him in the back of the head. He thrashed and cursed in defiant rage. I slammed his face into the floor, forcing him to his knees, his knife arm twisted painfully behind his back. His snarling quickly transformed into incoherent screeching.
I must have dislocated his shoulder, which meant his knife arm was thoroughly disabled. Unless this prick was ambidextrous, it was time to stop screwing around with him and get what we came for. I holstered my pistol, yanked his knife away, and hauled him onto his feet.
I pointed to a spot along the wall near the kitchen door. “Stay there,” I growled under my breath.
He bared his bloodied yellow teeth and spat on my vest. I just stared hard at him, eyes narrowed, and pointed again—with the knife this time. After a moment, he accepted that I wasn’t bluffing and obeyed my order.
I flashed Greyson a quick sequence of hand signals to tell him I’d search for the hostage while he stayed behind as a lookout. Grey gave a nod of approval and faced the kitchen, pistol at the ready. The former guard seemed willing to stay down, but Grey still kept one eye on him.
I crept through the kitchen and found a set of stairs that led to a basement. It was rare that Texas homes had basements, but maybe that was why these perps had chosen this house in the first place.
With my back to the wall, I silently crept down. The lower level stank of mildew. A quick sweep of the area showed concrete floors and walls, and a shadowy figure huddled in the corner. It was so small I almost missed it. Even facing the wall, though, it was clearly female.
Shit, the hostage.
She’d better be alive or these assholes were going to answer for this. But as I crossed the room, she gave a small murmured groan, and I released a relieved breath.
I knelt behind her and used the guard’s knife to cut through the plastic zip ties securing her wrists and ankles. She made a groggy noise and struggled weakly on her side. She seemed awake, but very disoriented; maybe her kidnappers had sedated her. Or just given her a concussion.
“Don’t worry, Lucky, you’re safe now,” I murmured. Her name had probably never been more appropriate. Once her limbs were free, I rolled her over. “I’m one of the good guys. I’ll get you out of . . .”
The words died in my throat. Even in this dim, sickly light, her face was unmistakable. It was Lacey.
Terror and relief tore through me at the same time, leaving my knees weak and my heart pounding. Lacey had been kidnapped by drug-dealing psychos. That realization was instantly followed by another—Lacey was Barton’s precious little girl. Any relief I felt was instantly boiled away by anger.
She’d lied to me this entire time? She was Jerry fucking Barton’s daughter?
Alerted by the sounds of combat and thundering footsteps overhead, I lifted her limp body and slung her over my shoulder. We reached the top of the stairs just in time to hear Grey’s pistol boom. A man tumbled over in a heap, screaming and clutching his knee. The first man reached out to help him, but stopped when I aimed my pistol at him.
“I told you to stay still, motherfucker,” I growled.
Keeping his sights trained on the injured man, Greyson crept close and plucked the gun from his belt. He ejected the magazine onto the floor and threw the empty weapon across the room.
With one arm balancing Lacey’s dead weight over my shoulder and the other hand on my gun, I forced myself to stay cool. Whatever I might feel about her deception, this job wasn’t over yet.
I reevaluated our tactical situation. Two men, both disarmed, one with a busted shoulder and the other with a busted leg. All this fighting had made one hell of a ruckus, but nobody else had shown up. If any reinforcements were on their way, they would have already arrived. So either these two guys operated alone or their allies had bailed at the first sign of trouble.
Seriously? What a fucking joke.
I holstered my pistol, letting my hand linger on the stock. I knew I could draw it faster than these guys could close the distance between us. Cocking my head at the girl draped over my shoulder, I barked at the men, “Do you know who her father is?”