“That’s my husband and I won’t let anything stand in the way of our happiness.” She held out her hand and lifted a gun with the other, pointing it straight at Mary’s chest. “Give me the manuscript.”
Shock glued Mary’s feet to the floor. The way she saw it, she had three choices. One, to take her life in her hands and try to disarm and beat the snot out of the woman who’d driven a wedge between her and her father. If she went with this option, she might stir up enough noise and trouble that both she and her father would end up with matching sets of bullet holes.
Two, she could hand over the manuscript and shove the woman down the steps and let her take a bullet from the bad guy in the basement.
“Don’t try anything stupid. I know how to use this gun.”
Mary stared straight into Jasmine’s eyes, ready to implement plan three. “I’m coming down.” If Jasmine wanted to shoot her, she’d have to get in line with her father’s captor in the basement. She turned her back on Mrs. Claus and took the first step down. She clutched the wooden handrail and held her breath, waiting for a loud bang and the impact of a bullet that would send her tumbling down the steps.
The impact didn’t come and she reached the basement floor intact.
Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the limited lighting and then she saw her father sitting in the middle of the basement on an old wooden chair. His hands were tied behind his back, and his feet were tied to the chair. A strip of gray duct tape covered his mouth and thick white mustache. His head drooped forward, his chin touching his chest and his eyes closed.
Mary ran forward, dropping to her knees in front of her father, the manuscript flopping to the stone floor. “Daddy?” She reached out and pulled the tape from his mouth.
His head tipped backward, his eyes blinking open. Then he fell forward, his shaggy white hair covering his forehead and eyes. The only things keeping him from toppling to the floor were the ropes binding him to the chair.
Booted feet came to a halt next to Mary and a hand reached out. “I’ll take that.” Mary’s gaze climbed up the white snowsuit to the face of the man she had seen in the restaurant her first morning with Nick in North Pole. The man’s dark eyes stared at her, as cold and empty as the time he’d glanced across at her in the diner. His mouth, set in a heartless sneer, and he held a gun equipped with a silencer.
“Who are you?” Mary asked.
“Some call me Cobra.”
Mary studied the man, over six feet tall, muscular, probably in his mid-thirties. “Why do you care so much about this manuscript? You’re not old enough to have been involved in the Bosnian War.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the package or the war, but I’m getting paid to collect a package and dispose of anyone who knows about it.”
“By whom?” Mary shifted until her knee leaned onto the envelope.
Cobra pointed the pistol at her forehead. “Hand it over.”
“No, don’t, Mary. Give it to me.” On silent feet, Jasmine moved in behind the man, pointing her gun at his back.
His jaw twitched, his lips pulling back in a snarl. “I told you to come alone.” The man jabbed his pistol against Mary’s temple.
Mary winced as pain shot through her head and fear crowded her belly. “I didn’t invite her, she just showed up. I never wanted her here.” If this madman shot her, who would get her father out of this alive? Jasmine? Fat chance.
“Give me the manuscript,” Jasmine demanded.
“Touch it and I’ll shoot the girl.”
Jasmine snorted. “Go ahead. It’ll save me a bullet.”
The man shifted his gun to Santa.
“No!” Jasmine and Mary shouted simultaneously.
Mary launched herself at Cobra’s hand.
Cobra squeezed the trigger, the shot muffled by the silencer. The bullet pinged into the concrete-block wall, knocking chips of masonry onto the floor.
Another shot rang out, the sound deafening in the close confines of the basement.
Cobra staggered backward, clutching his chest with his empty hand. When he stared down at the hand stained with his own blood, his eyes narrowed. Then he tossed his head back and roared. Lifting his pistol, he aimed at Jasmine.
Without flinching, she pulled the trigger again.
The stranger’s pistol dropped to the floor. He fell to his knees and then pitched forward, landing flat on his face.
