Lucky had his hand on his Glock, crouched on the floor before he’d taken another breath. He backed up to Walter, scanning the windows, searching for movement. Night had fully fallen now.
The darkened yard indicated the street lamp in front of the house lost power too. Lucky slithered over to the window and glanced out. Lights shown from the house windows across the street.
Walter murmured into his cell phone.
Oh, shit! Mrs. Smith!
“I’m going to find your wife,” Lucky hissed, passing his boss his .38, the same .38 Walter gave him when Lucky’d finally been able to carry a gun on the job.
Walter nodded, but continued his call, whites of his eyes showing in the minimal light.
Keeping low, safety off and gun at the ready, Lucky crouch-walked to the kitchen and stopped, straining his hearing. Nothing. Surely if she could she’d have come running to check on Walter the moment the power failed.
Lucky turned and crept down the hall. He’d only been into the back of the house a couple of times. Was the Smith’s bedroom on the left or right? Maybe she’d fallen asleep, blissfully unaware of what was going on.
A muffled “Umpph” drew his eyes to the den. A figure stood in the middle of the room, clutching a wriggling Mrs. Smith, one hand over her mouth.
Damn it! They must have gotten past when Lucky went to the kitchen.
He hunkered down, making himself as small as possible.
“Where is Harrison?” a blatantly Southern voice drawled.
“He’s not here,” Walter replied coolly. All the tells Lucky had been taught to look for in a liar weren’t there. Better to never play poker with the boss. He gave away nothing.
“I know he was here.” The man gave Mrs. Smith a shake.
As cool as her husband, she said or did nothing, though the captor had to crouch down to hold her, as small as she was. Good. He’d be off-balance.
Outside a car passed by, lights hitting the window. For a moment Lucky caught a good look at the man, and the gun he’d pressed to Mrs. Smith’s temple.
Oh, shit! So, ramming the man wasn’t going to work. He’d not put Mrs. Boss in danger. His pulse thundered in his ears.
“Yes, he was here,” Walter said. “But he left. Now, unhand my wife.” He kept both hands on the arms of his chair, no gun to be seen. Oh, man. Surely the asshole who’d broken in wasn’t stupid enough to think Walter harmless.
“Then call him back.” The man gestured with his gun to Walter’s cell phone.
Lucky lunged, knocking the man’s legs out from under him. “Run!” he shouted at the Smiths. He whirled, coming to his feet, well-practiced boxing moves posing his body without conscious thought.
The guy struggled to his feet and took a swing—too high.
Lucky kept a chuckle inside. Sometimes being structurally impaired paid off. Trusting the Smiths to get the hell out, he charged, tackling the larger man to the floor.
Athunksounded on the tile, something heavy sliding across the floor and hitting the wall. Hopefully, the gun.
Lucky fought as best he could while holding on to his own weapon.
His weapon. He hit the safety, turned the gun, and pistol whipped the motherfucker.
The would-be hitman slumped to the floor.
“Freeze!” a voice shouted behind him. “Atlanta PD.”
Lucky held up his hands, still holding his gun. “Agent Simon Harrison with Southeastern Narcotics Bureau. My badge is in my wallet.”
“What name did Agent William Schollenberger use while undercover in Mexico?” The owner of the voice circled around to stand in front of Lucky.
That voice. Slightly lilting, with a hint of a Mexican accent.
