Who knows how long?
Hours, if he was lucky. But it was more likely to be days or even weeks.
He wouldn’t allow himself to consider the idea that it might turn into months.
The activity of the morning had finally awakened the rest of the Knights. Sam, Hewitt, and Graham leaned over the balcony railing on the second-floor War Room, watching as Agent Douglas nosed the large SUV into the shop.
“Moving her into custody?” Sam called down and Fisher snapped him a salute as an affirmative. “Damn, man.” Sam shook his head. “I hate that.”
The look Fisher shot him said quite clearly,You ain’t the only one.
“Careful,” Graham called down as Agent Douglas continued to inch the big vehicle into the shop. “You break it, you buy it.”
Agent O’Toole went a little green around the gills at the thought of that. And Fisher understood why. Her superiors wouldn’t appreciate the six-figure line item that would show up on her budget report if her partner happened to destroy one of BKI’s custom motorcycles.
Becky and Boss had been working hard to increase inventory on their spec-bikes—the ones Becky designed without any particular buyer in mind. Which meant the row of wheeled art took up more space the usual.
Agent Douglas had to be extra careful not to clip the front wheels on the first bike and he hung out the driver’s side window so he could hear the instructions Britt gave him.
“Okay, Sergeant Rollins,” Agent O’Toole said once her partner had pulled the back bumper past the outer edge of the building. “If you’ll close the garage door, we’ll get Miss Meadows loaded up and get this?—”
Fisher stopped listening because a glint across the way caught his eye.
Had he been out in the desert or ghillie-suited in the woods somewhere, he’d have reacted immediately. But because it was the city, because there was glass everywhere that reflected the morning light, he hesitated.
That was a mistake.
He saw the orange glow of muzzle fire a split second before he heard the deafeningcrackof the report echoing through the open space separating the compound from the bagel shop.
“Shooter!” he yelled as the bullet lodged itself into the garage door motor with a loudthwackjust as Britt hit the button on the brick wall to bring the big, metal door down.
No go.
The shooter’s aim had been true. The motor whined and then exploded in a shower of sparks, leaving the garage gaping wide like a mouth frozen in shock.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Fisher’s focus narrowed. And he automatically dropped Eliza’s duffel to reach for the weapon in his waistband.
He’d just wrapped his fingers around the familiar grip when—Crack!Another shot echoed and he felt the air displaced by the bullet as it whizzed by his cheek andpingedinto the metal staircase behind him.
He now understood why he’d felt the need to grab his gun and why the instant the garage door had rattled open he’d been stabbed in the gut with impending doom.
After more than a decade and a half of being out in the field, his sixth sense when it came to danger had been honed to a razor’s edge. He cursed himself for having ignored it at the same time he threw himself down on Eliza, covering her head with his hands even as he lifted his chin to recon the area and see if there was more than the one shooter.
He noted three things in quick succession.
One, whichever Connelly brother was on duty had hit the switch to close the gate—and then, no doubt, taken cover beneath the guardhouse’s console panel. The little building was reinforced with steel plating, so as long as the big redhead stayed low, he should be safe. Two, Agent O’Toole had taken cover against the brick wall next to Britt. And three, Agent Douglas had flung himself from the vehicle and had found shelter behind the SUV’s big hood.
Glancing toward the hallway that led to the kitchen, he ran through his options. One, he could stay on the floor in front of the steps, protecting Eliza with his body. The gunman didn’t have a clear shot. The angle was bad and the SUV was in the way.But sometimes a bastard just gets lucky.Or two, he could risk rising to a crouch to drag Eliza into the hallway. They’d be exposed for a few seconds, but then she’d be safe from?—
Before he could spring into action, another shot rang out, fracturing the cool, calmness of the morning. He heard the bullet hit the floor in front of him a second before a chunk of concrete bounced up and sliced into his face.
He felt the sting as his flesh laid open. Felt the hot rush of blood down his cheek. But both things he noticed as an aside when, from the corner of his eye, he saw movement.
“Stay down, you fool!” Agent O’Toole yelled because Douglas had turkey-peeked his head above the vehicle’s hood to take aim at the gunman.
“Damnit!” Fisher cursed aloud. Agent Douglas was an even bigger idiot than he’d given the guy credit for if he thought his Ruger was powerful enough to hit the assassin perched on the rooftop across the way.
