Fidelity (Infidelity #5)

THE IMPACT TRANSCENDED my fist, sending shockwaves throughout my body. The crunch of breaking bones became music to my ears and the scent of blood a delicacy to my nose. One solid punch to the man’s cheek was all it took. Unlike the anxiety brought on by the tranquil sounds of the Georgia estate, the brutal connection focused my attention, taking me back to the octagon, to the combination of exertion and satisfaction. With one clean hit, adrenaline flooded my bloodstream and the guard dropped to the hard Georgia clay.

Flexing my fingers, I took a step back and surveyed his limp body. Damn. He fell too fast, too easy. Every nerve within me craved more.

From the moment I received news that Charli had gotten into that damn limousine with her stepfather, I’d wanted to hit. My fists itched with the need to collide with something—with anything. I’d longed to hear the whoosh of air as it was expelled forcibly from someone’s lungs and sense the impact as bone met bone, and even to witness the spray of blood as a nose broke.

That euphoria brought on while watching someone fall to their knees, as their muscles lost tension and their brain switched off, was second only to the best and most satisfying orgasm. Both were powerful drugs to my system. I could do without them—abstain—but once the high was within my grasp, like an addict I needed more.

My head whipped from side to side as I sought out another victim. Through the lowlying fog, only stripped stalks of tobacco were visible in one direction and clusters of trees in the other. To assure myself of the guard’s unconsciousness, I kicked his side with the tip of my shoe, the dust upon the leather leaving a mark on his dark jacket, the one with the Montague emblem. He didn’t flinch or even groan as I reached down and moved his battered face from side to side. Two fingers to his neck confirmed his pulse was strong. It was then as I leaned down that I heard a soft static-filled plea coming from his ear.

Reaching inside his pocket, I pulled out the transmitter and then removed the Bluetooth device from his ear. Holding it near, I listened as the plea came again.

“Stan! Stan! Can you hear me? Did you see someone?”

I cleared my throat and spoke, elongating my words with a hint of a Southern accent. “No. Damn fog. All’s clear.”

Holding my breath, I waited for a response, praying that I hadn’t fucking blown my chance to free Charli from the manor. I glanced up toward the house. From the lowland of the field, it was a blur of warm yellows and cool blues. The strange combination created an impressionistic masterpiece that I didn’t have time to interpret. All that mattered was that the manor was within reach.

I should have expected sentries. How had Chelsea made it undetected—or had she? Had they watched her? Did Fitzgerald know what was happening?

“Keep watching,” the man on the other end of the two-way radio said. “All hell’s breaking loose up here. We don’t need more.”

What kind of hell? I wanted to ask. Instead, I replied in a voice unlike my own, “Yes, sir.”

The airway went silent.

Under the fog, even the sliver of moon did little to illuminate the transmitter in my hand. I swiped the screen and checked for other stations, other information.

What had he meant by all hell breaking loose?

As I squinted toward the red numbers, I noticed the blood smeared on my knuckles. I flexed my hand, assessing if the blood was Stan’s or mine. Though my hand was tight, my bones were intact. The breaking I’d heard was most definitely his cheekbone and the blood undoubtedly came from his nose.

One last look at Stan and I took a deep breath. He’d wake in a few minutes or a few hours. Either way, I needed to be sure he wouldn’t tell anyone about me, not until Charli and I were far away.

Another search of his pockets yielded a phone and wallet. I threw both items out of reach. I removed his jacket, and then with the help of his shoestrings, I tied his wrists behind him. His belt worked well to secure his ankles.

When Mr. Fitzgerald’s top-notch security guard woke, he’d be propped against a tree at the side of the path, his phone and wallet out of reach with no way to stand or walk for help.

After one last check of his pockets, I turned back toward the manor. This time I was wearing a Montague Manor security jacket, courtesy of my friend Stan.

Instead of running full force as I had after the shock of having Chelsea, not Charli, in my grasp, I moved quickly but cautiously, watching the perimeter, looking for movement, and listening.