She needed a weapon.
Cameron had her gun in his waistband at his back, but she wouldn’t risk trying to take it back—yet.
They rode in silence for a good half hour. Signs for West Virginia told her they were heading south.
“Daddy, where are you taking us?” Emmy finally asked. “I want to g-go hooome.”
“Quiet. You are going home. With me. Where you belong.”
“No! You’re mean. I won’t go with you!” Emmy’s piercing cry sliced the air.
It took every effort not to turn to her daughter. If she gave the wail too much attention, Cameron might snap at Emmy even more. Laine balled her hands into fists, ready to attack if he so much as lifted his hand.
But Cameron didn’t say a word in response to Emmy. His stare burned her cheek. “You did this. Turned my own daughter against me.”
Laine swallowed.
“You’re a coward,” he spat. “You could have been happy with me.”
She scoffed before she could stop herself. His eyes blazed, but she couldn’t back down now. Couldn’t stop the flow of hate.
“You never asked me if I wanted to be your wife. Nor did you tell me Fatima existed prior to taking us to Iraq.” Her courage grew. Some of his men would disapprove of such a transgression.
“How could I possibly trust you after that? After Fatima?” The accusation sizzled in the stale air.
His expression morphed into one she couldn’t place, but it made her skin pucker with warning.
“Didn’t I tell you what would happen to your tongue if you spoke out of turn?”
Laine’s breath halted at the back of her throat. She couldn’t take her gaze off him for fear any sudden movement would make him follow through with his threat. Emmy, as if sensing the shift, stopped crying.
Cameron steered his focus to the driver and said something in Arabic.
They needed to escape before it was too late.
Roarke knelt nextto his friend’s almost-lifeless body. Deep-red blood flooded the hardwood floor around Striker’s hips.
His brain reeled as he pressed a dish towel to the gunshot wound on his thigh. Wraith pressed his weight into the one on his shoulder. Two shots. Broken glass from the window and the blood on the couch indicated he’d been shot without warning.
Guilt gnawed at him.
Wraith spoke rapidly into his phone, giving 911 dispatch their location. They’d called Viper when they left the airport, and he was already less than an hour from Pittsburgh.
Would it even fucking matter? He had no way to find Laine and Emmy. No clues. Nothing but an empty house.
And his almost-dead best friend.
“Come on, man,” Roarke barked, pressing harder into the wound, part of him trying desperately to staunch the bleeding, the other part trying to rouse Striker, even if it caused his friend pain.
“I fucking need you,” he choked.
He couldn’t lose another man. Another brother on his watch.
He knew Striker. If he were conscious, he’d tell Roarke to leave—to find Laine and Emmy before it was too late. The sound of sirens made hope fire through him.
He handed Wraith the towel, so he could press on both wounds, and Roarke leapt to his feet. He met the EMTs at the door, and they rushed in and knelt beside Striker.
Wraith backed away, his face grim. He approached Roarke. “You all right?”
