Capturing the Commando. Colleen Thompson
at stake to take any chances.”
There was a rattle at the outer door, the scrape of a key before the door pushed open and was stopped by the security chain that kept it from going any farther than that first half inch. From the back of his waistband, Rafe produced a compact semiautomatic and aimed the handgun at the crack.
“It’s me, Rafe. Let me in, will you? My hands’re full, and—”
“Your head’s empty?” Rafe demanded, dragging Shannon along as he moved to look through the crack before opening the door. “You had me worried, not answering your phone.”
Garrett came in, several plastic shopping bags looped over his wrist and his hands filled with a pizza box that smelled of hot cheese, tomato and oregano. When Rafe had mentioned eating earlier, Shannon hadn’t been interested in anything except finding some way to escape—or turn the tables on her captors. But now that her stomach had reawakened, it was howling urgent demands.
She was suddenly parched, too, and grateful that Garrett had thought of bringing sodas. Not exactly health food, but she found herself straining against Rafe’s wrist in her eagerness to take the can Smith offered.
Turning her annoyance on Rafe, she argued, “Come on, Lyons. Eating chained together is going to be a huge pain. For both of us.”
Her stomach growled noisily, but Rafe ignored her as he stared a hole into Garrett and waited for his explanation. So the Ranger had been listening to what she’d told him after all. Maybe they would finally get some answers to the questions her investigation had raised.
Finally noticing Rafe’s expression, Garrett stopped—the can of soda a frustrating two inches short of her hand. Paling visibly, he stammered, “When you called, I was busy paying for the pizza. I was fumbling for my wallet, worried about getting back, and—”
“So why not call me as soon as you got to the car? Unless you were tied up talking on the phone with someone else?”
“What’re you saying?” Garrett slammed the can down beside the pizza box on the room’s cheap laminate table, his voice turning defensive. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”
Shannon lowered her hand to stare a question at him. Such as talking to your mistress?
“I thought we agreed. Throwaway or not, if anyone figures out we’re using these phones, our location can be pinned down. They’re only for emergencies. Contacting each other. As I tried to contact you three separate times.”
Garret’s pallor gave way to an angry redness. “What is with you tonight?” Flinging a furious gesture in Shannon’s direction, he accused, “She got to you while I was out picking up her damned things, didn’t she? She’s messing with your head, Rafe. Turning you against me.”
Rafe’s stare never wavered as he said, “Why don’t you set my mind at ease, then? Let me see that cell. I want to check your call log.”
“I told you she’d be trouble. I warned you, Rafe. I did,” Garrett shot back, making no move to hand over his phone.
As the silence lengthened, the weight of suspicion crushed the air from Shannon’s lungs. Would Rafe, clearly in charge and all too handy with his weapons, continue to press a man he knew and sympathized with, or would the two of them unite against her?
Or was it possible that Rafe, still shackled to her, would decide Garrett was right about her and opt to leave her somewhere? A shallow grave sprang to mind, or maybe he would just leave her here in this room, dead.
She wanted to say something, to defend her earlier accusations. But instinct warned her that a single word could prove disastrous.
Rafe’s hard gaze moved from Garrett to her, then back to the thin blond man.
With no warning at all, the tension exploded in a shattering burst. Before she could cry out or react at all, she was hurtled off her feet, landing hard on her back with Rafe thudding down across her.
With the breath knocked out of her, her rattled brain was slow to react, to piece together the continuing rain of shards behind the drawn curtains, now perforated with round holes.
Bullet holes, she realized as she spotted Garrett where he lay moaning on the floor, clutching at a burst of dark blood that had spread over the lower left sleeve of his white shirt. What she’d heard had been a spray of automatic gunfire coming through the window. What she’d felt was Rafe taking her down, his swift reflexes saving her life—maybe both their lives—in the process.
As he struggled to rise, Garrett clamped a hand over his forearm. “It hurts. God, it hurts. I’ve got to—”
“Stay down.” Sliding off her but staying low, Rafe whispered to her, “Stay down, or I’ll put you down for good—you understand that?”
Sinking back to the floor, Garrett stared around the room with wild eyes. From the parking lot outside, they heard a car alarm’s shriek, but other than that, nothing. Neither voice nor siren made it past the eerie wail.
“Someone followed you, didn’t they?” Rafe demanded. “You were so busy on your damned phone, you didn’t even notice you had a cop on your tail.”
“Not the police,” Shannon whispered. “They wouldn’t fire through that curtain blindly, especially not with me here.”
“Good,” Rafe said, digging the key from his jeans pocket and using it to unlock the cuff from his wrist. “Then we can return fire.”
“Where’d you put my Glock?” she asked, as he crawled toward the duffel he’d been wearing over his shoulder moments earlier.
“You’ve got to be freaking kidding,” he said through clenched teeth. “You just be a good girl and keep quiet—and stay out of my way.”
With that, he unwrapped an AK-47 from his bag, which he dragged behind him as he crawled toward the window.
Riding a wave of pure adrenaline, she glared as fury flooded her veins. Be a good girl and keep quiet? As God alone knew who picked them off one by one?
While Rafe was distracted by an attempt to peer out the window without getting his head blown off, she scooted toward the duffel, reasoning that where he’d stowed one weapon, there could well be others.
What she meant to do with them, she had no idea, other than defending herself as best she could. You could take out Lyons while his back is to you. Garrett might not be armed—or in any condition to offer resistance.
Her heart stopped as a second burst of gunfire erupted, punching into the wall behind them. Instinctively, she dropped to her stomach, hugging the floor while creeping slowly forward. With her hand stretching before her, she drew close as Rafe thrust aside the ragged curtain’s edge and returned fire.
The rattling boom was deafening and the swirling reek of gun smoke choking. Yet Shannon fought her way through it to grasp the duffel’s strap and yank the bag in her direction, then reach inside. It was all she could do when she felt the butt of a familiar pistol under her hand.
“No!” Rafe bellowed, firing only once more before twisting clear of the window frame and turning his head away from the opening.
Startled by his shout, Shannon only gripped the pistol tighter.
Her next move was cut short by the sound of glass splintering against the window frame, followed by the whoosh of the flaming liquid that spattered over the remaining shreds of curtains. The cloth ignited instantly, falling inward as the thin fabric crumbled, feeding the fire with new fuel in the form of the nearby bedspread.
Shannon rolled away, coming up on her feet. Rafe was on her in an instant, his forward motion carrying her away from the open window toward the side of the motel room nearest the door. Garrett was there, too, his face a mask of terror as he cradled his useless right arm and yelled, “We have to get out of here!”
The room was blazing, the cheap, synthetic carpet filling the air with acrid