Page 21 of Stolen By the Billionaire
Logan’s rasping breath sounded like he’d been sprinting. “Mary Varvara put out kill order for Sarah as soon as she got off phone with you. I just found out. She’s already sent the torpedoes. They’re flying out of Newark first thing this morning to Cedar Rapids. They’ll be at her farm by noon.”
Blaze backed his car out of the garage, the engine whining as he stomped on the accelerator and shot backward. His equipment was still loaded in the trunk and rear seat. “I’m on my way.”
“When are you going to get there?”
“My ETA is eight-fifteen.”
“They’re going to kill her. She’s only family I have left.”
“I’ve got you. I will get to her first.”
“Jesus, Blaze. This is driving me out of my mind. I’m not even on same continent. How will I know she’s safe?”
“I said I would protect her, and so I will. You’re my brother from another mother, and my word is my bond.”
“But how will I know you got there in time? How will I know you didn’t crash on the way to Iowa and no one is going to help her?”
“I’m not going to crash.”
He didn’t mention to Logan that his car could probably drive itself all the way there and fight off any attackers short of military-grade aircraft.
“Share your location with me,” Logan said. “I need to know that you have her and she’s safe.”
Before Blaze whipped the car around to point it toward the wrought iron gate, he tapped his phone screen several times. “Location shared. I told you I’m on my way. These mafia amateurs your aunt is sending are no match for a Navy SEAL.”
Even a retired one.
Blaze said, “I’ll reach Sarah before Mary Varvara Bell’s hitmen do, and I’ll make sure she’s safe, no matter what I have to do.”
8
Can’t Die
Sarah
The following day, Sarah Bell was up and doing the farm chores—mucking and raking, curry-combing and chicken-feeding—while the sunrise was still a pink suggestion in the dusky red sky.
Remi the guard dog was reluctant to leave his chickens. He pawed and pranced in the dusty yard around the henhouse. His dark eyes scanned the horizon, analyzing every twitch in the cornstalks, as she fed him his breakfast of dog food and meat scraps.
Something must have happened during the night. Sarah gave Remi a good once-over, sinking her fingers into his thick white fur, but he was unscathed. He stood in the chicken pen, alert, protective, and fluffy.
An eagle or another bird of prey had probably swooped at the flock, and Remi must have scared it off. In early summer, fledgling bald eagles learned to hunt and left their nests, always a dicey time for easy-pickin’ chickens. Why go after a wily catfish swimming in the river when a fat chicken will just sit there and let an eagle snag it? Before she’d gotten Remi, gangly teenager bald eagles used to fly into her henhouse and perch in the rafters, picking off another stupid chicken whenever they got the munchies.
As Sarah was walking back to her barn, the shadow long on the hard-packed earth and cool on her arms, her phone rang, buzzing in her back pocket. The screen read Tiff Meeks. “Hello? Tiffany? What’s up?”
“Sorry for the early call.”
“I’m up and doing chores in the barn.”
“I knew you would be. The weirdest thing just happened. Four men stopped by the house, looking for you.”
“Yeah, Google Maps still thinks my address is somewhere on your back forty.”
“They were talking like Easterners.”
“Did they say what they wanted?”
“They said you’d won the Publisher’s Clearing House lottery. I didn’t know that thing was still going on.”
