I’m in motion, slamming the emergency release without even thinking. The door hisses open and I don’t hesitate or even pause long enough to be afraid. I just move.
My bare feet smack against the hallway floor as I snatch the fireplace poker from the stand by the door, the metal cold enough to sting my palm but not even that snaps me out of it. I sprint into the living room just as the man’s finger tightens on the trigger.
I swing with everything I have.
The poker crashes into his shoulders with a sickening crack and his gun fires upward, the shot going wide, the bullet burying itself in the ceiling instead of my boyfriend’s brain. Boone whirls around, and the second he sees me, he goes white.
White with fear. With fury. With the realization that I’ve broken the one rule they gave me.
But the attacker is staggering from my blow. Boone doesn’t give him a chance to recover, moving faster than my eyes can track ashe lifts his gun and fires one clean, furious shot straight into the man’s shoulder.
He crumples, his weapon skidding across the floor. I blink hard, caught between awe and stunned disbelief at how fast this is all happening. It seems impossible but I don’t even have time to exhale the breath I’ve been holding before Chance is on me.
He grabs me by the arms, hauling me closer so hard that my toes barely brush the floor. His face is all ice, fury, and absolute terror. I’ve never seen him like this.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he snaps. “You’re supposed to be in the safe room, Roxie.”
“I… Boone… he…” My brain suddenly stutters, adrenaline coursing through me so intense it rattles my bones. “He didn’t see the guy. I couldn’t just watch him die.”
Chance’s jaw clenches hard. “You were supposed to keep yourself and the babies safe. That was the only rule.”
“I won’t apologize for saving him,” I shoot back, my voice cracking and my chin lifting.
His nostrils flare, but under the fury is something else. Something a lot more raw. He doesn’t get the chance to say whatever is about to rip out of him because Dillon shouts from upstairs, “Chance! Behind you!”
Chance spins in what can only be a mash-up of instinct, muscle memory, and pure training. I feel him move before I even see the man in the doorway, his rifle already raised. Chance’s gun is up too, the man already in his sights, but he’s just a fraction of a second too late.
The sound of a gunshot shatters the air, a punch of force that slams through Chance’s upper arm. He grunts, his body jolting backward.
A scream rips out of me before I can stop it, but he doesn’t fall. He doesn’t even hesitate. He just shoves me behind him with his good arm, lifts his weapon with the injured one, and, ignoring the blood running down to his elbow, fires two controlled shots that drop the attacker instantly.
Somehow, he stays standing through it all, shielding me without even making it look like he’s trying.
“Clear!” Dillon’s voice echoes down the stairs only a beat later, breathless and loud. “All hostiles down. Law enforcement ETA ten minutes!”
Boone is suddenly there with us again, grabbing me in both arms and crushing me against his chest like he needs physical proof that I’m alive.
“Jesus, Roxie,” he whispers, breath shaky against my hair. “You can’t… don’t ever… God, you scared me.”
Dillon comes jogging down the stairs, his weapon still raised as he scans the room like he doesn’t trust the quiet. Finally, his shoulders sag and he lowers the gun, then his gaze zeroes in on Chance.
“You good?” he asks, though the measured calm in his voice says he isn’t worried because he already knows the answer.
“Yeah,” Chance mutters through clenched teeth. “It hurts like a bitch, but I’m not about to pass out.”
Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder with every passing second. Boone presses his face to my forehead. Dillon lets outa long exhale and leans heavily on the banister. Chance finally sinks down on the ruined couch, clutching his bleeding arm.
I just stand there, trembling in Boone’s arms, until the door crashes open not long after. Uniforms burst inside, spilling everywhere like ants poured out of a jar, their guns raised until Dillon calls out the all-clear.
Voices reach my ears and the sound of heavy footsteps, orders being shouted, EMT bags hitting the floor, but it’s all a blur. Behind them all, a woman in an FBI windbreaker strides into the living room and takes in the scene with one practiced, sweeping glance.
She pauses at the broken windows and the bodies, surveys at least two dozen bullet holes, then nods like she’s been expecting exactly this level of chaos.
“I’m Agent Sarah Mitchell,” she says briskly as she strides over, pulling a pair of gloves out of her pocket and snapping them on after shaking our hands. “Good news. We got Caruso. He landed two hours ago. SWAT picked him up with fifteen of his top associates before he even cleared baggage claim.”
Boone’s eyebrows arch. Chance frowns. Dillon grins like we’ve won the lottery, but Sarah continues, flipping open a tablet. “These guys you’ve got here were sent ahead before the main operation was due to commence. They’re facing federal charges. Attempted murder and conspiracy at the very least. It’s over, guys.”
Over.
