He gagged. Here and now. He had to focus on the here and now . . . and remember his mother later.
Cases involving women usually took him back to the night his mother died, but not like this. Not like razor-sharp claws ripping into his chest to slash at his heart. He tore off a glove to wipe his cheek.
The blood brother scar across his palm caught his eye. Family. Brothers. He had to call his brothers. He reached for the phone in his back pocket to find nothing. Damn it. A quick glance around showed the killer had taken not only Heath’s phone but his gun, too. Neither could be traced to him, but the idea burned anger through him. He felt his other pocket. Ah hell. His wallet with the real picture but fake ID was also gone.
He shivered. It was freezing in the barn. His gaze went once again to the silent victim.
Cold. The woman on the ground was so cold. He didn’t give a shit that she was dead and wouldn’t feel the chill. She needed to be covered up. To be protected, even though he’d been too late. He yanked his glove back into place.
A side door he hadn’t noticed burst open, and he dropped into a fighting stance.
“Heath?” Denver asked, the storm swirling in with him. Snow covered his black hair, and his hard face was set in stone. His thick boots clomped across the concrete.
Heath blinked twice at his brother and straightened. The chill took over his bones. “She’s dead,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
Denver swallowed, surveyed the area, and finally walked toward the deceased agent to look down. His scruff-covered jaw tightened, and his bloodshot eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Heath’s vision blurred again.
Denver glanced at Heath’s hands. “Good. Gloves.” Then he leaned to the side, frowning. “Holy shit.” Rushing forward, he grabbed Heath’s head and tugged, scrutinizing his temple. “How bad?”
Agony lanced through Heath’s skull. “Not too bad. Minor concussion.”
“Knocked out?” Denver leaned in to study the wound above Heath’s right ear.
“Yeah. Not sure for how long.” The room took on a surreal glow, and Heath slowly went numb. No more pain—no more cold. He moved on autopilot and tugged his gloves up his wrists.
Denver released him. “Somebody actually got the drop on you? I thought that was impossible. Who is this guy?” Snow clung to his black leather jacket and faded jeans. The blue in his eyes overtook the gold flecks, darkening with concern. “Did you lose any blood?”
Heath looked toward where he’d fallen. Blood was everywhere, but it was probably all Loretta’s. “Not sure.”
“Not good.” Denver rushed over and kicked hay out of the way, scowling as he studied the barn floor. “Don’t see any.”
Yeah, but one drop would get them screwed. “We have to cover her up,” Heath said, his chest compressing. He hadn’t saved her. The woman deserved protection. Safety. Warmth.
Denver’s mouth gaped for a second, and he slowly focused on Heath. “No.”
“Yes.” Heath looked frantically around. There had to be a horse blanket somewhere. He moved toward one of the three stalls on the north wall.
Denver intercepted him with a hand against his chest. “We need to go, brother. Now.”
“No.” Something rose in Heath, something dark and fluid. “We’re covering her up. Period.” He couldn’t just leave her on the floor like that. Not cold and alone. Damaged. Destroyed.
“No.” Denver’s voice strengthened, and he leaned into Heath’s face until their noses were inches apart. “The police are coming, and we have to get the hell out of here.”
Heath caught his breath and tried to think through the rage. Rioting thoughts filled his mind, all with violence. The only thought he could grasp was that he needed to help Loretta. To protect her even though it was too late. He shoved Denver out of the way and strode toward the tack room. Had there been a blanket in the far corner?
Denver wasn’t the type to attack a brother, ever, so Heath didn’t see him coming. Within seconds, Denver had him in a headlock and was dragging him toward the side door.
“What the fuck?” Heath wheezed, digging his gloved fingers into Denver’s rock-solid forearm.
“Gotta go.” Denver’s breath brushed Heath’s hair.
Heath struggled, scattering hay in every direction. He never would’ve thought Denver would grab him from behind, or he wouldn’t have turned his back. “Let go.”
“Nope.” Denver continued relentlessly dragging Heath toward the door, his arm exerting enough pressure to restrict breathing.
Heath struck back and hit Denver in the thigh. Hard.
