Marital Privilege. Ann Voss Peterson
from the slash across his throat. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.
There was no helping him. No saving him. Cursing his father, Alec moved on to the next body.
A waitress no older than twenty curled around a table leg at the edge of the dining room, as if she’d been hiding when the bullet had drilled into her chest and stolen her life. Her face was swollen, purple with bruises. She’d taken a beating before the bullet. And that pointed to one man. A sadistic bastard who got his kicks beating women before he killed them. His father’s right-hand thug, Sergei Komorov.
Gritting his teeth, Alec left the waitress and moved to the final prone form. The middle-aged guy who delivered produce had made it as far as the tile floor in front of the hostess stand before he’d been shot. His blood puddled under him and ran in rivers between the tiles.
Panic roared in Alec’s ears. The odors of blood and gas clogged his throat. Three dead. Where the hell was Laura?
There was one place left. He straightened from beside the produce guy’s body and forced his feet to move. Laura and Sally usually opened the kitchen first thing in the morning. By this time, they had moved to the bar.
He raced into the lounge. The room was cloaked in shadow, heavy wood blinds drawn over the windows. He led with the meat cleaver, checking behind half walls and plants, glancing under the row of bar stools. No blood. No bodies.
No Laura.
Relieved, he tried to block the image of his beautiful wife bloodied, dead. He had to find her. She had to be okay. Laura was his life, his future.
Laura and their unborn son.
He stepped behind the bar. Booze bottles that spent the night under lock and key lined the rail. The till was open, its tray of cash not yet in place. Someone had been opening the bar when this had happened.
Alec tried to breathe, tried to stay calm. He strode over the rubber mats, straight for the closed office door at the end of the bar.
Dread blared in his ears like a siren. He closed his fingers around the cool brass doorknob. Turning it, he yanked the door open.
A body leaned back in the chair. Long blond hair streaked dark with blood. A plastic tie clasped feminine hands together at the wrists. Broken and battered, fingers jutted at strange angles.
A sob shook from his chest. He grasped the back of the chair with trembling hands. Holding his breath, he spun it around. Blood coagulated, sticky beneath a slashed throat. Her face was so bruised and swollen, it was almost unrecognizable. She stared at him through blue eyes glazed with death.
Blue eyes.
Another sob tore from his gut. Sally, not Laura.
He averted his eyes from her face, ashamed at the relief welling within him. Spilling over. Sally, not Laura. Laura might still be alive.
But where was she?
If Laura had left to run errands, there might be a clue as to where she went, what the restaurant needed. He studied the desk. Blood spattered the surface, the three-ring binders, the papers detailing the Blue Ox’s liquor order—the order he was to pick up later that morning. He raised his eyes to the computer screen. A pink message slip stuck to one side of the screen, a simple message scrawled on the front.
“Laura sick. Won’t be in until late. Sally, could you open bar?”
Cold dread throbbed in Alec’s ears and pumped through his veins. He had to get home. He only prayed he wasn’t too late. Because if he had spotted the message, he could be sure his father and his men had spotted it, too.
And they’d already be on their way.
Chapter Two
Alec raced into the restaurant’s entryway. The odor of gas had grown stronger. It now completely choked out the coppery scent of blood. Any second now it would hit the furnace flame, and the whole place would go up. He couldn’t do anything more here. He had to get out.
Instead of retracing his steps to the back kitchen entrance, he raced for the closed front door. He twisted the dead bolt and threw the door open.
Fresh air hit him in the face like a splash of cool water. He launched into a run, sprinting down the sidewalk toward the parking lot.
Movement caught his eye. A woman stepped out of the Cup-N-Sup, steaming coffee in hand.
Oh, hell.
He veered for the coffee shop. “Get out of here. There’s a gas leak next door.”
The woman’s eyes widened. Clutching her cup, she ran for her car.
He dove for the coffee shop’s door and yanked it open. “Everyone needs to evacuate.”
Two employees and half a dozen customers turned to stare at him. None made a move.
“There’s a gas leak next door. The building is going to blow. You need to get out.”
Several customers shot for the door. Others narrowed their eyes, as if trying to figure out what he was up to.
He glanced out the coffee shop’s window, willing flashing red and blue lights to appear on the street outside, a siren to pierce the air. Where the hell were the police?
He turned his attention back to the skeptical people in front of him, raking his mind for something to make them move before it was too late. “It’s a terrorist attack. Get out.”
They headed for the door in a wave.
He followed. “Get as far from the building as you can. Run.”
People scattered.
Alec moved to the clothing store. After shooing the owner and a customer out, he circled to the parking lot in the rear of the building where he’d left his SUV. He needed to get home to Laura. To get her out before his father and his men found their house.
Please God, don’t let me be too late.
He cleared the hedge surrounding the rear parking lot. Feet hitting pavement, he raced for the SUV.
A rumble caught his ear. A thundering boom hit him in the chest, followed by the whoosh of sucking air. The ground shook. Sound exploded. He dove back behind the hedge. Flattening his body to the ground, he covered his head with his arms. Heat seared him. Debris hit him, cutting his arms, striking his back. The taste of blood flooded his mouth.
He raised his head, peering over the hedge. A ball of flame enveloped the building. His SUV stood silhouetted against the inferno, it and the produce truck reduced to nothing but twisted and blackened heaps of steel.
Hell.
He forced himself to his feet, trying to draw breath. His lungs seized and burned. There wasn’t enough oxygen. Wasn’t enough air. He stumbled toward the street. He had to find someone to take him home. He had to reach Laura before it was too late.
The street looked as solid as a jammed parking lot, drivers gaping at the ball of fire where a strip mall used to be.
He forced his legs to carry him over the curb, across the asphalt to the cars. The first driver hit the gas when she saw him and raced past wide-eyed. A man driving a panel truck rolled down the window. “Hey, buddy. You need an ambulance?” He pulled out a cell phone and punched 911.
Alec leaned on the hood to steady himself. “I need you to take me to my house. Please.”
“From the look of ya, an ambulance is a better idea.”
Alec looked down at himself. His white dress shirt was tattered. Blood soaked through the right sleeve. His tie hung like a cut noose around his neck. No wonder the first driver had hit the gas when she’d seen him coming. No wonder this guy wanted to strap him to a stretcher. But it didn’t matter. Reaching Laura was the only thing that mattered. “You don’t understand. The men who did this, they’re after my wife. I have to get home.”
The