And I hadn’t seen it.
Has he been acting alone? And what is his connection, if any, to the French fuck I just put on a plane?
I replay the conversation we had the day we met.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Am I that obvious? I’ve been here every day this week.”
“That so?”
He nods, before lifting his cup in salute. “Greg.”
“Tobias.”
“That a French accent? You sure are a long way from home.”
“Fuck!” Heart pounding, hope plummeting, I do my best to catch up with Greg, but he’s too far ahead—in every way that counts. I blow out Dom’s engine making good time, but it’s not enough. By the time he’s on Cecelia’s road, he’s got me by six car lengths.
“Please, be okay, Trésor, goddamnit!” I lift my phone to see nothing, not a single message from any bird or her, as more fear slams into me. What I do know is that I’m driving straight into a trap, and I have no fucking choice. If they’ve taken her somewhere remote to deal with me, I have no fucking chance of saving her. But I could see it in Greg’s eyes, he’s a monster of a different breed, he’s hungry, and he wants this to hurt. And he knows she’s the way. “Be here, baby, please be here, God, please not again, not again!”
The sun has fully set by the time Greg speeds into her long driveway, and my stomach dips when I see the house is completely dark. The streetlight at the end of her yard isn’t enough to see what’s ahead or who, but mild relief covers me when I see her Audi.
Odds are she’s breathing.
Please God, this one thing I’ll ask of you. One thing. Nothing more.
Forgoing the driveway, which the piece of shit decides to use, I tear through her trees to make up time, shredding her yard. I slam to a stop just feet away from her door, effectively pinning him just past the entrance as his first shot hits the passenger side of the windshield. Confusion mars his features as a shallow hole appears but doesn’t puncture, and I grin back at him because my brother wasn’t a fucking idiot.
“Bulletproof glass, motherfucker.”
I already know by the pitch black of the house and radio silence, Greg isn’t working alone. Somehow, he’s managed to goad my birds away or distract them at the very least. My only hope is that Tyler is watching and can see the fucking spectacle I’m making with Dom’s car. And from the way Greg just baited me, it seems he wants me for himself. He hasn’t slipped into the house yet for cover, which tells me a lot. And he’s either a horrible shot, or he’s just playing with me.
Bring it on, bitch.
Camaro idling, I open both doors and glance over the dash to see his eyes darting between them to see which route I’ll exit. Instead, I press in the clutch, put the car in reverse, and floor the gas. The car whips into motion, effectively shutting the passenger door as I rotate fully facing him to get a clear shot. He lunges over the hood as I unload a clip to get him away from the front door. I can’t afford to take him out yet. I gun the gas, correcting the wheel as he scurries to the side of the house and speed toward the gate, again pinning him. He turns back and shoots on instinct, which has me chuckling until he jumps on the hood like some kind of fucking commando and begins raining bullets on the windshield, the holes he’s putting in cloud my vision.
Our eyes meet just above his last shot as he reaches for a new clip from his slacks as I roll down my window. “You’ve got a horrible fucking tailor.”
Before I can position my hand enough to get a shot off to immobilize him, he’s on top of the car, his footsteps above me. With no choice, and time running short, I jump out, Glock upturned just as his tasseled loafer lands square in my jaw.