Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(66)

They paused in front of my motorcycle. I had parked it on the sidewalk near the bookstore. One of the men nodded toward it. As though expecting to see something, and then seeing it.

They continued toward the bookstore.

My ears vaguely registered a cracking sound. The mug I’d been holding had fallen to the floor. I hit the intercom button in a rush, my voice urgent. “Jess? Are you there?” Praying for no response. Silence would mean she had already gone home.

The men had almost reached the door.

I heard Jess’s voice in the intercom. Casual, unconcerned. “Yeah, what’s up?”

My heart was hammering. Danger. Not arbitrary. Not distant. Right on top of me. “When I hired you,” I said. “You made me promise. No micromanaging. You remember?”

She was confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Have I ever told you to do anything?”

She was more confused. “Nikki, what is this—”

“I’m telling you now. You need to hide. Get out of sight. And no matter what you hear or see, don’t move.”

Even through the cheap intercom speaker I could hear the sudden fear in her voice. “Nikki, what are you talking about? Is this a joke? You’re scaring me.”

“Do it,” I hissed. The three men were huddled around the entrance to the bookstore. One of them stepped forward. He tried the door. It was unlocked.

They walked inside.

I climbed onto my desk, holding the envelope full of photographs. A ceiling panel was loose. I slid the envelope underneath, got down from the desk, and unlocked my safe.

The monitors showed the three men dispersing into the store.

I pulled a customized pump-action Remington shotgun out of the safe. I’d removed the standard walnut stock and replaced it with a stainless-steel folding stock and pistol grip. More portable. Better for close range. I worked quickly, loading the shotgun from two different boxes of shells, back and forth. I glanced at the monitors. The biggest of the three men stood at the door to the downstairs office, which was now closed. The other two had fanned out in the store. The man by the door tried the handle. Locked.

He started to turn away.

I breathed out in relief.

He turned and delivered a savage kick. I watched. Trying not to think about the bedroom door of the Narwhal Cottages, forced open with that same strength. The man walked into the office. I couldn’t see Jess but my eyes moved from a desk in the back of the small room, to a couch set against the wall opposite the door, to a Japanese-style hinged, three-panel screen accenting a corner. Jess would be under or behind one of the three.

She had to be. There was nowhere else to hide.

The big man’s eyes were on the Japanese screen. His feet took him a step closer to it. Couch, desk, or screen. A one-out-of-three chance she had chosen wrong. Like a card game, except the stakes were indescribably higher than in any casino.

Another step moved him within arm’s range.

His hand shot out and ripped the screen away.

Blank wall.

Two places left.

The big guy’s eyes turned to the couch. The couch, maroon upholstery on short cylindrical legs, was just high enough to fit a body under it, but low enough to the ground that someone standing would have to duck down to see all the way underneath.

The big guy stepped toward the couch, squatted down.

One gone, two possible places remaining. Down to a fifty-fifty chance.

With despair I saw movement from under the couch, like an arm shifting to pull back out of sight. She was there. The man saw the motion, too. He leaned forward on one hand for a better look, his big frame visibly tensing.

More movement.

Bartleby the cat emerged sleepily from under the couch, his gray tail unfurling.

Frustrated, the big guy reached a hand out and shoved Bartleby out of the way, hard.

Bartleby had been a shelter cat before Jess had adopted him. There was no telling what he’d been through early in his life. He was sociable by nature, but he valued his own space, too, especially fresh from a nap. And no one liked being shoved. He answered the intrusion by raking his claws hard across the extended hand with a motion so fast I could barely see it. Deep tracks of blood appeared instantly. The big guy leapt up, cursing silently on the monitor. He aimed a tremendous kick at Bartleby, who was already halfway to the door. The man chased after him, holding his hand, and launched another kick that had even less of a chance of landing than the first. He reappeared back on the previous monitor, in between the shelves, shaking his head in pain or disgust and rubbing his bleeding hand. The cat had vanished. Bartleby probably knew the bookstore’s space better than I did. If he didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be.

The big guy kicked a table over in frustration. Books scattered across the floor. The office search forgotten.

I pushed my relief aside as I saw the men regroup and eye the EMPLOYEES ONLY sign on the door leading upstairs. I had left it unlocked. On the next monitor the three men climbed the stairs. Their pace purposeful but unhurried.

Now each of the men held a gun.

My turn.

Shotgun braced against my shoulder, I knelt behind the open door of the safe, the steel blocking most of my body. I had a clear line of fire straight through to the door.

The first of the three men reached the top of the stairs.

When loading the shotgun, I had alternated between buckshot and metal slugs. Six in total. The buckshot would punch a circular, twelve-inch pattern through inch-and-a-half-thick plywood. The solid metal slugs could take fist-size chunks out of hardwood trees or stop a thousand-pound charging grizzly. The pump action would fire as fast as I could work the slide and pull the trigger. I could get off six rounds in less than three seconds if I wanted.