Page 11 of Captive Heart: Armani
I can’t let her die. My heart races as I bolt down the stairs, out the door, and into my black SUV. I throw the vehicle in reverse, kicking up gravel as I slam it to a stop and shift to drive. Then I speed down the driveway.
There’s no time to lose.
I pull onto the main road, tires screeching as I take the corner too fast. The SUV fishtails before I get control of it and race to the highway. The reassuring weights of the guns strapped to my shoulder and hip calm me as I drive. I’m going to get my wife out of there. Alive.
Confidence has never been my problem. I am extremely secure in my ability to fight, strategize, and implement a deadly strike. Second-guessing myself is never an option. But this time, I don’t have a plan. Bruno’s men will shoot me if I’m spotted within ten feet of that building, and with Orloff inside, security is probably even higher than usual. I’m not sure how Riggante’s men planted the incendiary devices without being noticed, but he said they’d been “delivered,” and that means the fire could have already started by now.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I feel it, the lack of time. Every passing second ticking down to zero hour. What if I don’t make it?
This mission was supposed to go off without a hitch, without my involvement. I’m supposed to be sitting back, waiting to hear that Orloff is dead. Instead I’m speeding down the freeway ready to blow the entire mission if it means getting my wife out alive.
My body is taut as a wire with adrenaline by the time I reach downtown. Parking in the rear alley that leads behind the bakery, I grab a pair of thick leather gloves from the glovebox and pull them on. Then I jam a ball cap on my head and throw on a pair of sunglasses. It’ll have to do. Moving stealthily from my car, I creep along the back side of the building to reduce my chance of being seen, navigating toward the bakery.
Surveying my surroundings as I get closer, I catch the side profile of a man in black perched on top of a building to my left. Adjusting my line of sight, I find two more men, both of them holding machine guns aimed at the bakery’s back door. These must be Riggante’s guys. The first man probably has the detonation device. Problem is, they won’t know which side I’m on if they see me. My chance of getting shot is high. New plan.
Detouring around the cinderblock dumpster enclosure between me and the bakery, I’m just coming around the corner when a blast shakes the ground beneath my feet.
“No!”
I’m too late.
The moderately quiet street suddenly becomes a flurry of activity. Gunshots sound from the rooftops. Shielding my face with my arms, I peer around the side of the building to see the bakery engulfed in flame, black smoke billowing from the ventilation ducts on the roof, blanketing the atmosphere around the street. I hear car tires skidding, horns honking, people screaming. And then a row of gunfire belts the air behind the bakery.
I can’t see if there are any more gunmen. I can barely see anything in front of me as I race to the side of the bakery. Cutting through the smoke, I find a small window that has been blown out. Shards of glass dig into my leather gloves as I grip the pane and break them away so I can climb over and through without gutting myself.
Managing to land on my feet, I cover my nose and mouth with the collar of my jacket, hold my gun close and steady with my right hand, and get my bearings.
It’s an odd mix of silence interspersed with bursts of frantic voices, but I can’t tell where they are coming from. Men are shouting. In Russian. And a bit of Italian that I recognize.
“He’s dead. Leave him! Leave him!”
The back of my neck prickles at a feminine tone—high pitched, shaking, familiar—seemingly close. Shuffling through the smoke, I use my free hand to feel my way through. A sweet scent catches my nose through the acrid air and my heart jolts.
She’s close.
“Juliana!”
Candi’s voice is small and husky. She coughs painfully and calls again for her friend, but there isn’t another female response. The male voices sound farther away now, too.
Someone yells, and that’s when I spy the flames above me. They appear in a rolling wave, slinking insidiously across the ceiling like a living, breathing animal. Muted booms sound from far away. More gunfire. Riggante’s men are picking off Brunos as they exit the building.
Is Orloff dead?
The thought is fleeting as I follow the scent of Candi’s perfume. The trail dies as flames begin to lick at every available surface.
“Candi!” My voice chokes. “Where are you?”
Something touches my leg. Aiming my gun, I rear back at the small, pale hand reaching toward me through the melee. Her wedding ring glints red and orange as her fingers close around mine. Pulling her up, I try to look her over, but my eyes are burning and it’s too smoky to see.
“Are you okay?”
It takes her a second to answer. I’m already half carrying, half pulling her back the way that I came.
“I don’t know.”
“Can you walk?” I ask.
