Page 12 of Seal of Honor
The door clicked and opened, catching on the chain she’d at least had the foresight to slide home.
“Policía,” the man called. His Spanish was perfect, and even carried a Colombian accent, but she didn’t believe him for a second. “¡Abra la puerta!”
Uh-huh. Hell would most definitely freeze over before she acknowledged his command to open the door. The way she saw it, all she had going for her was the element of surprise. He figured someone was inside, but he didn’t know who or where or whether she was armed.
She grabbed the closest thing, a heavy glass lamp on the end table beside the couch—such a girly weapon and not as heavy as she’d hoped, but it’d still make the fake policeman see stars—and moved to the right side of the door.
“¡Policía!”
Ri-ight. And if she had a cup of tea and a biscuit, she’d be the Queen of England.
Holding her breath until her ears buzzed, Audrey waited for him to kick the door, her hands beginning to sweat on the lamp. Any second now.
Any…
Second…
The door flew open, banging into the opposite wall, and she went into pure adrenaline-fueled fight or flight mode, slamming the lamp down as hard as she could on his blond head. Once, twice, a third time for good measure, her heart hammering so hard she thought for sure it was going to pop out of her chest and join in on the beating.
The fake policeman collapsed with an oomph, and she scrambled over his big body. And, boy, was he big. A solid lump of muscle lying dazed on the floor, blocking her only escape. He looked more like a frat boy than a kidnapper in his Pink Floyd T-shirt, jeans, and Nikes, one of which connected with the back of her left knee, buckling her leg.
She managed to keep from slamming face-first into the floor by catching herself on her hands and knees. Tried to crawl away from her attacker, but he snagged her skirt. On instinct, she kicked out, crashed the heel of her sandal into his nose, and wished like hell that she were wearing a stiletto instead. As blood spurted, he lost his grip, and she scrambled to her feet.
He cursed in a language that was definitely not Spanish—Russian? Holy shit, was he Russian? Ignoring his bleeding nose, he was back on his feet as if he hadn’t ever been down.
Who was this guy, the freaking Terminator? If he was this resilient, she didn’t want to stick around and meet his friend with the cane.
“Hey, stop! I just want to talk to you.” His English was also perfect, carrying notes of the Deep South, bringing to mind great food, pudding-thick humidity, and dangerous swamps. He repeated the command in Spanish.
American, some tiny, rational portion of her brain realized as she darted toward the stairs at the end of the hall. Still, that didn’t mean he was a friend. He wouldn’t have kicked down the door if all he wanted to do was have a simple chat. She hit the stairs at a sprint, half-expecting him to vault over the railing and cut her off at the bottom. He didn’t, but a glance over her shoulder as she crashed through an emergency exit at the back of the building proved he was still right behind her.
He had a gun now, holding it alongside his leg.
Oh God.
She turned to flee down the alleyway toward the street and smacked into a rock wall of a chest covered with a white short-sleeved cotton shirt.
The man with the cane.
She was not going to outrun them, so she did the only other thing she could think of. She screamed. And screamed. And screamed.
CHAPTER 5
Gabe wasn’t entirely sure what just happened. One minute he’d been reconnoitering the alleyway, wondering if Bryson had been taken from here because it had easy access to two different streets at both ends, and the next, a wisp of a woman shot out of the apartment building’s emergency exit like her ass was on fire. She took one look at his face and gave a bloodcurdling horror movie scream. As a SEAL, he was trained to handle anything an enemy could throw at him, but a hysterical woman?
What the fuck was he supposed to do with her?
“Shh,” he said. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She didn’t seem to hear him. Or maybe she spoke Spanish and didn’t understand him. She had smooth, tanned skin and light brown hair, but he’d seen enough light-skinned Latinos in his travels to know that wasn’t the best judge of ethnicity. He dug around his admittedly rusty Spanish repertoire for the right words: “Tranquillo. Está okay. No voy… a hacerte daño.”
She screamed.
Jesus.
At wit’s end, he clamped one palm over her mouth and circled her slender neck with his other hand, felt her pulse pounding wildly against his thumb as he applied just the right amount of pressure. She slumped into blessed silence. He had to drop his cane to catch her before she hit the ground, and the extra weight ignited fireworks of pain in his foot.
Now what?
