Under Fire. Carol Ericson
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“Can I do anything to help you?”
Ava touched his arm again, this time lightly, brushing her fingertips across the slick material of his jacket.
The human contact and the emotion behind it made him shiver. Max clenched his teeth. “You can’t do anything to help. You’ve done enough.”
She grabbed the door handle and swung open the door before the car even stopped.
“Hold on. I’ll walk you up.”
“I thought you were anxious to get rid of me.”
He didn’t want to leave Ava, but he had to—for her own safety. “I was anxious to get you away from the lab and back home. The police can pick it up from here.”
He followed her to the front door. She dragged her keys from her purse and slid one into the dead bolt. It clicked and she opened the door.
Apprehension slithered down his spine and he held out a hand. “Wait.”
But it was too late. Ava had stepped across the threshold and now faced two men training weapons on her.
And this time she wasn’t behind bulletproof glass.
Under Fire
Carol Ericson
CAROL ERICSON lives with her husband and two sons in Southern California, home of state-of-the-art cosmetic surgery, wild freeway chases and a million amazing stories. These stories, along with hordes of virile men and feisty women, clamor for release from Carol’s head. It makes for some interesting headaches until she sets them free to fulfill their destinies and her readers’ fantasies. To learn more about Carol, please visit her website, www.carolericson.com, “Where romance flirts with danger.”
To Marilyn, for all that you do.
Contents
The shell casings from the bullets pinged off the metal file cabinets. One landed inches from her nose and rolled one way and then the other, its gold plating winking at her under the fluorescent lights. The acrid smell of gunpowder tickled her nostrils. She smashed her nose against the linoleum to halt the sneeze threatening to explode and give away her position.
Someone grunted. Someone screamed. Again.
Ava held her breath as the rubber sole of a black shoe squeaked past her face. She followed its path until her gaze collided with Dr. Arnoff’s.
From beneath the desk across from her, he put his finger to his lips. His thick glasses, one lens crushed, lay just out of his reach between the two desks. With his other finger, he pointed past her toward the lab.
Afraid to move even a centimeter, Ava blinked her eyes to indicate her understanding. If they could make their way to the lab behind the bulletproof glass and industrial-strength locks they might have a chance to survive this lunacy.
The shooter moved past the desks, firing another round from his automatic weapon. Glass shattered—not the bulletproof kind. A loud bump, followed by a crack and the door to the clinic, her domain, crashed open.
Greg bellowed, “No, no, no!”
Another round of fire and Greg’s life ended in a thump and a gurgle.
Ava squeezed her eyes closed, and her lips mumbled silent words. Keep going. Keep going.
If the shooter kept walking through the clinic, he’d wind up on the other side in the waiting room. At this time of night, nobody was in the waiting room, which led to a door and a set of stairs to the outside.
Keep going.
He returned. His boots crunched through the glass. Then he howled like a wounded animal, and the hair on the back of Ava’s neck stood at attention and quivered.
The footsteps stopped on the other side of the desk—her pathetic hiding place. In the sudden silence of the room, her heartbeat thundered. Surely he could hear it, too.
He kicked at a shard of glass, which skittered between the two desks.
Ava turned widened eyes