The tall brunet propped his limp father against the doorjamb leading to the main room and pointed his gun at his head.
“Pick!” Ackermann demanded.
“How the hell can I do that? I won’t choose!”
“Jarrett. Stop. It’s okay.”
Marissa’s shaky voice seeped through the red haze in his mind. His pounding heart skipped a beat.
She clutched the assassin’s arm with one hand and held out her other hand, palm up. “Pick me. I’m tired. I’m ready to end this. I know what I’m doing.”
What? End this? No way. She couldn’t give up. Not like this. Not for anything. He shook his head and winced as a muscle pulled in his neck.
“How sweet is that? She’s sacrificing herself for your daddy.” Ackermann grinned. “Take her to the living room, Scotty. I want it done in front of the damn tree. This Christmas is one to remember.”
“Stop it. God, please don’t.” Jarrett swallowed as much as he could as Ackermann dragged him into the adjoining room.
Scotty hauled her in next and dropped her by the fireplace.
How could he have let this happen? Ackermann was pushing sixty, for fuck’s sake. Damn Scotty and that other goon. This was all his fault. He should’ve forced Marissa and his dad to go into witness protection. He should’ve waited for Whittaker to arrive before he pried out that damning confession.
Marissa braced her back against the cold fireplace and hugged her knees to her chest. Her eyelids fluttered as she slumped her shoulders. The deep lines crimping her forehead faded. Then she straightened with her face hardening like marble.
Oh, no. He’d seen that look more times than he cared to count. She wasn’t giving up, not at all, but the spitfire he’d never stopped loving would break his heart if whatever she planned failed. Dear God. If he lost her, what would he do? How could he go on? As she opened her eyes, he shook his head as much as he could, desperate for her to let him handle this.
Marissa grabbed a wrought iron fire poker from the rack and swung it at Scotty.
He lurched back and howled in pain, grasping his thigh.
She swung again and jabbed the sharp bottom edge in the side of his leg. Black fabric tore away from his pants and blood squirted when she yanked the prong out from his skin.
“Fuck!” Scotty shouted as crimson mottled his face. As she drew back her arm for another strike, he pivoted and backhanded her so hard she tumbled sideways. He kicked the poker away and pounced on top of her. “You stupid bitch.” He slapped her and ripped the sleeve of her sweater.
She kicked and struck out her arms to block his attack.
As Ackermann laughed and relaxed his bruising grip, Jarrett gulped hard and elbowed his captor in the stomach. The pathetic excuse of a man barreled over, gasping for air, as Jarrett twisted free and wrested the gun from his hand.
Paulo shoved his father aside and raced toward him.
Jarrett fired the weapon.
The bullet burrowed deep in the assassin’s chest. Blood bubbled from the wound. Color drained from his face. He collapsed with a thud as death rattles seized him.
“Stop. It’s not too late.” What a lie. They’d crossed that bridge as soon as Scotty grabbed Marissa. As Ackermann swung his meaty fist, Jarrett tackled him around the waist then ran him backward until they crashed into the hallway. Ouch! The glass shards from the broken light fixture pricked the side of his face. Warm blood beaded on his cheek.
Ackermann stood and stole the gun. “You fucking ass.” He spat blood and rammed his foot into Jarrett’s shoulder. “I’ll see you in hell.”
Searing pain burst through his shoulder and into his chest. His vision winked in and out. Where was Marissa? What was that monster doing to her? His heart ached as though a bullet had already ripped through it.
Gunfire blasted.
Jarrett jumped, his throat closing.
Blood sprayed out of Ackermann’s chest as the bullet exited then slammed into the wall. His eyes widened before rolling back. He dropped to the floor, dead.
“Shit.” Jarrett struggled up and leaned against the wall.
Marissa stood in the doorway, shaking so violently that the gun she clutched clicked against the gold ring on her pinky. Blood smeared her torn, disheveled clothes.
