Shocked by their unexpected escape from the bindings his men had presumably constructed, Stanton wasn’t ready for the meaty fist that had just slammed into his jaw. His head flew to the side, and he stumbled back a few steps from the force. He didn’t go all the way down, however, and recovered quickly from her father’s hard punch.
As the jerk started to raise his weapon, Shadow spun around and grabbed her chair. It was solid wood and heavy as hell, but she ignored the pain in her battered body and swung it toward him as hard as she could.
Stanton cried out as the chair’s legs struck him across the back. A shot rang out, the bullet going wild and slamming into the concrete wall to her left.
“Fucking bitch!”
He started to swing the barrel toward her with the clear intention of shooting her dead. Before he got the chance, her father grabbed for the gun.
The two men immediately became enthralled in a fight to the death. Shadow stood to the side, desperate to find a way to help. But her father and Stanton were both struggling to regain control of the weapon, and if she got in the middle, she might make matters worse.
Their bodies twisted this way and that as their hands and arms became intertwined. And when the gun blasted again, she thought for sure it was finally over.
Then the unthinkable happened, and her father stumbled back. He looked down at the place where Stanton’s bullet had struck.
No!
Shadow charged at Stanton, releasing an animalistic growl. She didn’t feel the pain in her ribs or the pounding in her head. She only felt a rage unlike any she’d ever known.
Her body slammed into his, and they both tumbled to the floor. The gun in Stanton’s hand went flying, sliding across the concrete past her injured father. Without missing a beat, Shadow turned and punched Stanton square in the jaw.
Once.
Twice.
On the third strike, she heard the crunching of bone.
And then, just because it felt too damn good not to, Shadow grabbed two fists of the man’s silver hair, and she slammed his head against the unforgiving wall.
His eyes rolled in the back of his head half a second before his entire body grew limp. With him incapacitated for the time being, she pushed herself up and ran to where her father still stood.
“Dad!” Her hands went to his wound as his strong legs gave out beneath him.
Thick, crimson blood oozed from the through her fingers. Her hands became covered with the stuff as tears fell freely from her eyes.
Behind her, Shadow sensed before she saw Stanton stirring back to life. She looked over to where the gun had come to a rest, but a quick calculation in her head said she’d never make it there in time.
“It’s okay, sweet girl.” Her father brought a trembling hand to the side of her face. His pain-riddled gaze held a moment of clarity long enough for him to tell her quietly, “You know…what …to do.”
His eyes lowered as if he were looking down, toward his belt. He was telling her without words to continue on with the plan.
But their original plan had been destroyed the second that bastard pulled his trigger. Her father wasn’t supposed to get shot. This wasn’t howanyof this was supposed to go down.
Plans change, princess. You can either adapt to those changes or die.
The words were her father’s from earlier, when he’d been explaining the plan, and she’d started in with the what-ifs. But in her head, it wasn’t his voice she was hearing. Instead, it was…
Slade’s.
If he were here, he’d be telling her the same thing, of that she was certain. And since he wasn’t here and her father was in no position to fight, it was up to her to finish what had been started.
Twenty-six years ago, Michael Stanton made a choice that led them here, to this very moment. He’d started this war long before she understood what that even meant.
He may have started it, but I’m damn well going to end it. Starting now.
Making a show of putting pressure on the wound in her father’s lower belly, Shadow hunched herself more so Stanton wouldn’t see the move she was making with her right hand.
She found the tiny button hidden behind the buckle of her father’s belt. The one he’d told her about shortly before the man who’d shot him entered the room.
