Authors: Sandra Brown
“Jake, do as I say!”
“No, Uncle Rex.” The boy’s chest rose and fell so fast Rex could tell he was terrified, but he was equally resolute. “He’ll shoot my sister. Then he’ll shoot my mom.”
Rex couldn’t believe he’d refused to obey. The odds were already stacked against them. He didn’t need Jake to get stubborn, even if he couldn’t help admiring the boy’s courage. “Jake!” He hated the risk he was taking but he had no choice. If they went inside, this man would shoot them all the minute he understood that they weren’t giving up Virgil.
Then Jake surprised him. He shoved his mother so hard she stumbled back and fell over the planter behind her, and he started jumping and shouting and waving his arms as if he thought he could force the man to fire at him instead of his sister.
Jake’s sudden reversal had taken the bastard off guard. Mose paused for a second. Apparently he couldn’t decide whether he should actually fire, or even who he should fire at. He glanced behind him almost as if he feared Virgil was already on his way out of the house and that was what had set Jake off.
That brief hesitation gave Rex the opportunity he’d been looking for. Launching himself forward, he tackled the guy.
Mia fell when they did, which probably hurt, but it wasn’t going to kill her. The man had to let her go in order to keep control of the gun he was trying to turn on Rex.
She wiggled out from between them and ran off crying almost as soon as they hit the ground. While he wrestled Mose, trying to subdue him, Rex didn’t know where she went. He didn’t care as long as she remained safe. He hoped Laurel was taking her kids and getting them the hell out of here—he trusted she was. He knew how much they meant to her. He knew how much they meant to him, too, all of them, because he felt a huge surge of relief even as the gun went off.
* * *
Laurel had a large rock in her hand when she crept toward the two men lying, one atop the other, on the ground. She’d yelled for her children to go next door and call 911, and they’d dashed off, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to leave Rex.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she drew closer. He’d been shot. She was pretty sure of that. But where?
“Rex?”
He didn’t answer. She got the impression he was struggling just to breathe and felt the tears come faster.
“Rex, answer me.”
Finally, he rolled off the guy and lay there, gazing up at her. Blood covered his shirt, but it wasn’t
his
blood. It belonged to the man who’d come to kill them. The Crew had lost another member. The sightless eyes of their attacker stared skyward as the red staining his shirt seeped farther and farther from where the bullet had entered his chest.
Dropping the rock, she sagged to her knees at Rex’s side and buried her face in his neck.
“Are you okay?” he murmured.
A surplus of adrenaline had left him weak and shaky. She could tell by the limp way he lifted his arm to hold her, and because she felt the same. “I am now.”
* * *
“I’m glad you changed your mind.”
Rex glanced across the table at Virgil, who was watching him with a crooked grin. “What’d you say?” The pizza parlor where they’d met Virgil, Peyton and the baby for dinner was too loud to be able to hear unless he raised his voice a bit more. They were no longer in D.C. Now that The Crew had found them, it wasn’t safe anymore. They had to decide on a permanent location but for the time being they were in Little Rock, Arkansas.
“I said I’m glad you changed your mind.”
Rex drummed his thumbs on the table. “About…”
Virgil jerked his head toward Laurel, who’d left Rex’s side to refill her children’s glasses. “Staying with Laurel. She loves you, you know.”
Leaning back, Rex returned his friend’s smile. “I know.”
* * * * *
WED TO DEATH
Vicki Hinze
Hinze has penned a heart-stopping story about true commitment. You may need a hanky. ~SB
Her mother screamed.
Startled, Sara English paused in the middle of refilling her maid of honor’s champagne flute. She shushed her mother and followed her horrified gaze around the table past her groom-to-be, Matthew, to his uncle Paul. Why was he listing in his chair? Paul’s skin was as gray as winter sleet. Chills streaked up her spine. “Matthew, what’s wrong?”
“I—I don’t know—”
Paul crumpled, fell nose down onto his plate.
“Uncle Paul?” Matthew stretched over, checked for a pulse. Horror flitted over his angular face. He dragged his uncle onto the floor and began CPR. Between breaths, he darted a stricken look at Sara. “Call 911.”
Her brother Hank, Matthew’s best man, whipped out his phone. “On it.”
Matthew was fighting valiantly to save his only living relative’s life, but his panicked expression made the truth clear. The CPR wasn’t working. Ignoring the murmurs, Sara asked, “Is he responding?”
“Not yet.” Matthew kept working diligently.
Mayhem ensued across the rehearsal dinner and the din of murmurs grew to a roar.
Paramedics rushed in and took over the CPR. For the next forty minutes, they tried to revive Paul, but finally one told the other, “It’s time to call it.”
The man working on Paul stopped and looked over to Matthew. “I’m sorry.” Pity filled his eyes. “We did all we could do.”
Sara’s heart clutched. She clasped Matthew’s hand. Heard him swallow hard. He blinked fast and nodded. Regret warred with grief and pounded off him in waves that tore at her heart. “Oh, Matthew. I—I’m so sorry.”
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Can you get everyone out of here? I’ve got to stay. The hospital will need information and the coroner…”
“Of course.” She released his hand, stroked his forearm, turned and issued the order to vacate to Hank and then Angela, her maid of honor and best friend.
“What about the wedding?” Her mother asked, fishing at her feet for her purse.
Matthew had just lost his only living relative and she was worried about the wedding?
“Don’t look at me like that, Sara. People need to know.”
Sara cringed, but her mother had a point. “We’ll postpone it, of course.”
“No.” Matthew cleared his throat. “You’ve been planning this for a year. Uncle Paul wouldn’t want that.”
The coroner had arrived. Squatting, he examined Paul. Sara looked from him to her fiancé. “Don’t worry about that. Things will have to be done. The funeral…” Their rehearsal dinner would forever be marred. Starting over on the planning would be an ordeal, but having their wedding day forever scarred by sadness…That was a bigger one. Paul had raised Matthew. He was father, mother, uncle and best friend. Tomorrow would just be too soon. “The funeral and settling his estate—all that will be up to you. I think we should wait.”
“His funeral won’t be tomorrow, but there are things that will have to be done.” Matthew touched her face. “Can we compromise? Get married tomorrow and postpone our honeymoon for a while?”
“If that’s what you want, yes.” She said and meant it. She had loved Matthew St. John from the moment she’d met him. Marrying him mattered. When, and when they honeymooned in Fiji didn’t.
“It’s what I want.” He pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. “You go home now. Your mother will be swearing this is another bad sign and you shouldn’t marry me. You’ll have to talk her down.”
He was so right about that. After their engagement party, they’d had a near-miss car accident. It’d taken three days to get her mother back on an even keel—and she didn’t even know someone had cut Matthew’s brake lines. That detail Sara would take to her grave.
She had asked Matthew who would do such a thing. He’d responded with a terse, “Has to be work related,” and they hadn’t discussed it again. Sara didn’t need a hammer to the head to know Matthew’s job with the government wasn’t reading and reporting on books as he claimed. No one cut anyone’s brake lines for reading books. What his job was, or what agency he worked for, she didn’t have a clue, but not knowing didn’t bother her a bit. Not knowing was safer for them both. “I’d be happy to stay with you.”
“No, you go on. I’ll see you at the church. Two o’clock.” He released her hands. “I’ll be the penguin down front who can’t wipe the smile off his face because he caught the most beautiful woman in the world in a weak moment and she said yes.”
Sara stepped closer, hugged him and whispered. “It was the smartest decision I’ve ever made.”
The coroner’s voice lifted, calling out to his men. “Don’t touch anything—especially his glass and flatware. And stop everyone at the door. No one enters or leaves.”
Matthew frowned, stepped back and swung his gaze to the still-squatting coroner in the rumpled gray suit. “Why not?”
He frowned, his thick brows flat-lining nearly the width of his forehead. “Because unless I’m mistaken, your uncle didn’t have a heart attack.”
“What are you saying?” Sara couldn’t wrap her mind around his comment. Paul hadn’t been ill. He had no medical issues. He was, as he put it, disgustingly healthy.
The coroner stood, his knees crackling, and removed his gloves. “I’ll get lab tests to confirm, of course, but I’ve been at this forty years. Every sign I see tells me this man was poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” Sara lifted a hand to her chest. “But—but that would mean…” She couldn’t say it; shot her gaze to Matthew.
“He was murdered?” Matthew tensed. “Are you sure?”
“Not without the lab results, but I’d be shocked if I’m wrong.” He turned to speak to one of his men.
The look on Matthew’s face turned dark, forbidding. Sara whispered. “What is it, Matthew?”
“Maybe something, maybe nothing.” He locked their gazes. “The waiter passed me a glass of champagne. I passed it to Paul.”
Matthew didn’t drink. Sara’s chest went tight. “You think someone meant to poison you?” Fear rippled through her.
First the brake lines and now this?
“We don’t know that it was the champagne.”
“No, we don’t.”
He’d agreed with her but the worry in his voice said all that needed saying. Matthew believed that for the second time, someone had just tried to murder him.
* * *
“You’re being selfish.”
“I love her.” His cell phone at his ear, Matthew stepped out of his building to the curb and then slid into the waiting limousine. “Is it so wrong to want a wife?” His boss should understand. He’d gotten married nearly twenty years ago, and he’d been in the job then.
“Look, the brake lines were one thing, but they got close enough to poison you last night. Your uncle is dead. How many more near misses do you think you’ll get before one hits? And what about Sara? Will she be collateral damage? Targeted?”
The thought made him queasy. Matthew shut the door and nodded at the driver. “Was it the champagne?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Then we don’t know it was them.” The driver pulled away from the curb. Matthew checked his watch. One-thirty. He should be at the church in plenty of time. “You can’t expect me to walk away from the best thing that’s happened to me when I don’t know for a fact I have to walk away. You can’t.”
“We don’t know that it was the champagne. But no one else is after you, Matt…or is there something you haven’t yet told me?”
“No, nothing.” Where was this joker driver going? He should have turned right. “I’ve got to go. Apparently my driver doesn’t know the way to the church.” Heading to the industrial part of Destin. The man had to be a plant with the drug cartel.
“Matt, listen to me. Listen. Don’t do this. They’ll kill you both. If you love Sara, then let her go.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “I can’t.”
Thumbing off his phone, Matt chose a low-key tactic and banged on the glass separating them. “Hey,” he told the driver. “You’re going the wrong way. It’s St. Andrew’s.”
The driver glanced back in the rearview mirror and stomped the gas.
Definitely cartel.
Matthew kicked at the glass. Bulletproof. Tried to open the door. No handles or way to unlock them. He darted a glance through the windshield, got his bearings. In two minutes or less, they’d be in the isolated industrial park. Working quickly, he raised the privacy panel, tore down the backseat and then crawled through into the trunk and jerked the safety-release lever. The trunk lid popped open.
A swoosh of wind gushed in; the driver sped up. His hair blowing in his eyes, Matthew shoved at it, gauged their speed.
Forty. Forty-five max.
If he landed right, he could survive. He leaped, reverted to training tactics, tucked and braced for impact with the sandy dirt. Hitting with a thud, he sucked in a sharp breath. Pain shot through his shoulder, arm and right leg. His elbow scraped over a loose rock. Rolling on the soft shoulder, he gained his feet then scanned for somewhere to hide.
The limo screeched to a halt, its tires squealing and churning smoke that filled the street.
Parking lot. DCE Industries.
Matthew ran full out for it, then ducked behind a blue Toyota and skimmed the street for the limo. The driver turned around, entered the parking lot and inched down the row, turned and searched another.
Three slots down, a man driving a green pickup parked then got out, carrying a black lunch box. Matthew made his way over. The fiftyish guy saw him coming and took in his wrecked tux. “Tough day, eh?”
“Yeah.” The guy looked like a regular Joe. Trusting his instincts, Matthew admitted, “I need help.”
The guy took his measure and apparently decided Matthew was okay. “What do you need?”
“To get to St. Andrew’s.” He was their target. They wouldn’t go after Sara unless they couldn’t get to him. He’d eluded them. Now he had no choice but to go to the church, make sure she was okay, and make sure they saw him. Then she’d be safe. “I’m supposed to be getting married in fifteen minutes.”
The man spotted the creeping vehicle. “That your limo?”
“It was supposed to be.” He shrugged. “Not everyone wants us to walk down the aisle.”
“Understand.” He unlocked his truck. “Get in—and don’t linger. He just made the turn onto our row.”
“Thanks.” Matthew entered through the driver’s side and hunched low. The man got in and cranked his engine, put the truck in Reverse, and headed out. “Name’s Ray.”