He went silent again, gritting his teeth so hard that I was surprised I couldn’t hear it.
“I’ll beat you within an inch of your life if you leave that fucking room.”
“All right. Hang tight.”
“What?” I demanded as he hung up the phone.
“Dalton and Halle’s is under attack,” he snapped, limping out of the kitchen.
“What do you mean, under attack?” I asked, following on his heels.
“Exactly what it fuckin’ sounds like.”
“How many men?”
“Grant wasn’t sure. He said he saw maybe ten before he got your aunt and Seamus into the safe room.”
“Fuck,” I mumbled as Pop opened up the safe in the living room. “Did they get ahold of Uncle Dalton?”
“He’s black,” Pop replied, handing me a rifle.
“Shit,” I whispered, laying the rifle on the couch.
It made sense that Uncle Dalton had cut all communication. It was imperative that they weren’t interrupted while they were breaching Adamson’s beach house. It was just really fucking terrible timing.
I took another rifle and set it next to the previous one. “I thought they had security.”
“They did,” Pop replied grimly.
It took less than five minutes before every weapon we owned that was readily available was staged in the living room. Boxes of ammunition were stacked by caliber on the coffee table. The armchair held pistols in neat rows. Rifles covered the couch.
“Pop,” I said softly, looking from him to the weapons and back again.
There were only two of us, and one of us spent most of his time in a wheelchair.
Against ten or more assailants.
I was sure of my skill, but I wasn’t fucking crazy.
“I’m goin’,” he said, brushing his thumb over my cheek. “I’ll make some calls on the way, see if I can round anyone up. If you want to stay?—”
“Oh, fuck off,” I shot back, stepping away. “I need five minutes to get dressed.”
“Same,” he said, following me down the hallway.
Ignoring the way my muscles screamed and my guts clenched and my head pounded, I stripped down to my underwear and started from scratch. Luckily, when we’d set me up to be kidnapped, we’d moved everything that would look suspicious to someone going through my shit to Pop’s house. Kneeling beside the bed, I pulled out the long, shallow plastic bin and threw it open.
First, I tugged on a snug black sports bra. Then, a long-sleeved undershirt. Black trousers. Black socks. Black steel-toe boots. With every piece of clothing, I felt myself falling further into the familiar feeling of both detachment and laser focus.
I tossed the lightweight bulletproof vest on the bed, then the tactical vest, two holsters, two knife sheaths that hung on my belt, and my lucky hoodie. I started threading my belt as I got to my feet, adding the sheaths and one of the holsters.
Then I opened up my phone, found my contacts, and pressed the speaker button.
“Hello?” an unfamiliar accented voice answered.
“Erik?” I wrapped the other holster around my thigh, adjusting the tightness because I’d lost some muscle.
“Who’s this?”
