Hawk whirled around: a ruffian a few yards away aimed a gun at him. Devlin barreled into him as the shot went off. Hawk staggered back while Devlin cursed. As Pearson grabbed the shooter and began pounding the latter into a fare-thee-well, Hawk turned his attention to Devlin, whose sleeve was torn and soaked with blood.
“Your arm,” Hawk said tersely.
“Flesh wound.” Devlin gritted his teeth. “Consider it an apology. Go get your lady.”
Now was not the time to ask Devlin what he meant. With a gruff nod of thanks, Hawk continued fighting his way to his beloved. Seeing a bearded brute charging toward her, he shoved at the foe he was grappling with.
“Fiona, watch out,” he roared.
Her gaze turned to the oncoming danger. A blade appeared in her hand. In a balletic movement, she let the dagger fly. The brute screamed, dropping to his knees, clutching the knife embedded in his shoulder.
Damn and blast.Hawk blinked.
He knocked out his opponent with a jaw-cracking punch. Then he sprinted over to Fiona, who was facing off another attacker. She stomped on the bastard’s foot. As he yelped, she brought her knee up so hard that Hawk instinctively winced. Christ, his wife fought dirty. Her feminine ruthlessness cheered him immensely. Not that she needed the help, but he finished the job for her, punching the bastard’s lights out.
Then Hawk stared into his countess’s beautiful eyes, his heart thundering.
“My love,” he said. “Are you all right? Did Sterling hurt—”
“I’m fine, darling,” she said tremulously. “I knew you would come for me.”
She shifted her gaze behind him. In the next instant, she whipped out a pistol, letting off a shot. Another brute hit the ground.
“Maybe I should have saved myself the trip.” Hawk smiled slowly. “You seem to be holding your own.”
Wariness entered her gaze. “I told you that I can take care of myself.”
“Thank bloody Christ for that,” he said with feeling. “I love you, Fiona—all that you are. Now, shall we wrap this business up…together?”
Her eyes sparkled, her dimple peeking out. “That is a brilliant idea.”
They scanned the milling room together. Hawk saw that the Angels and the Quorum had everything well in hand. Except…
“Lillian is missing,” Fi said alertly. “Wilkes as well.”
“And Sterling,” Hawk said. “We have the building surrounded, so they couldn’t have escaped through the main exits. They’re probably headed for the underground waterway.”
“We have to save Lillian,” Fiona said. “She helped me to escape. Wilkes must have forced her to go with them.”
“We’ll find them. Ready, love?”
Hawk held out his hand. He frowned when, instead of taking it, his lady dashed off. She bent over a fallen brute, yanking her dagger from his shoulder, wiping it off on the moaning fellow’s shirt. Tucking the weapon neatly into her skirts, she pranced back to Hawk, her hair a wild, fiery mass over her shoulders, her eyes shining with passionate resolve.
To Hawk, his Sól had never looked more beautiful.
“Now I’m ready,” she said.
Fi and Hawk entered the storage room. Lanterns on the wall sent flickering shadows over the low-ceilinged room, the perimeter heaped with old flour sacks. As she advanced, Fi felt the grit of milled wheat beneath her shoes. At the back of the room was a pair of wooden chutes that led to the underground boats; Sterling and Wilkes were trying to shove Lillian down a chute.
The trio spun around at Fi and Hawk’s approach.
With his uninjured arm, Wilkes held a knife to Lillian’s throat.
“Let her go,” Fi demanded.
“I don’t think so.”
It was Sterling who spoke. All signs of the genial policeman were gone. His eyes were cruel and pitiless.
