Yes, the rooftop gunman might be 35,000 feet in the air. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t another assassin hiding around the corner, biding his time until her head lined up in his crosshairs.
Better to stay here at BKI where I’m surrounded by brick walls and my guys.
It was only after the final window had been covered, the busted garage door had been manually rolled down and locked, and after the remaining Knights had promised Agent O’Toole they would look after her, that Eliza had been allowed out of the pantry and O’Toole had finally gone to spring Fisher from CPD custody.
“I’ll bring him home,”the lady agent had vowed.
That had been…what?
Eliza checked her watch.
Two hours ago.
Since then, a million what-ifs had drifted through her head.
What if the police refuse to drop the charges?
What if Fisher ran into some sort of trouble while in custody?
What if another assassin took out Agent O’Toole before she could evengetto Fisher?
But the most profound and agonizing what-ifs had been…What if I lost him? What if he’d been killed trying to stop the man who came for me?
The instant he’d thrown himself atop her at the bottom of the stairs, she’d been hurtled back in time to the cocktail party and the feel of Charlie knocking her to the ground. All she’d been able to think was…No! Not Fisher too! Never Fisher!
“We don’t want you visible when they come in. Stand against the wall,” Sam instructed now when the cameras showed the SUV coming to a stop outside the front door.
Eliza forced herself to blow out a calming breath. It did her little good. Her heart continued to race out of control, making her feel lightheaded.
Pressing her back against the rough bricks, she welcomed their solid presence.
Britt, Graham, and Hewitt arranged themselves in front of her. Human shields. Just in case. But that was the last thing she wanted. The thought of one more person sacrificing themselves for her was enough to?—
All thoughts fell out of her when Sam grabbed the doorknob and peeked cautiously outside before moving back to hold the door wide.
She craned her head to see around Hewitt’s broad shoulder and was disappointed when it wasn’t Fisher, but Agent O’Toole who stepped into the building.
The poor woman looked like Eliza felt. Bedraggled, bone-tired, and surviving on adrenaline, caffeine, and stubbornness.
Of course, every ounce of tiredness weighing Eliza down melted away the instant Fisher walked into the shop.
He looked like he’d been through hell and back. His already ratty shirt was ripped at the collar. A result of him chasing the shooter or a result of what was likely a not-so-gentle arrest? His black jeans were smeared with something that looked like mud or blood—she wasn’t sure which. And the cut on his cheek had been crudely closed with butterfly bandages.
Despite the weariness etched on his face, he cut an imposing figure when he turned to close the door behind him. Thanks to his military background, his mile-wide shoulders remained straight and true. His square jaw was held at a determined angle. And there was an impatient glint in his eyes when he swung back to let his gaze dart over the faces staring back at him.
Sam whistled. “Damn, man. Bet you took one helluva mugshot.”
Always quick on the draw, Fisher quipped back, “GQhas already hit me up for the rights.”
Sam shook his head. “You’re proof that God has favorites, that’s for sure.”
“If I was his favorite, one of those shots I managed to squeeze off would’ve hit that sorry sonofabitch. Instead he’s on his way to who knows where.”
“Somewhere in East Asia say my sources in the bureau,” O’Toole spoke up and all heads turned toward her.
“No way to intercept the plane before it touches down?” This from Britt.
O’Toole’s expression was one of disgust. “Not in international airspace. And once that sorry sonofabitch is in sovereign airspace, we have no jurisdiction. He’s lost to us.”
