Broken Dove (Fantasyland #4)(2)

Three years ago, I’d never phone the police. Pol had taught me not to do that.

For the three years I’d been on the run, I didn’t get them involved either since I’d learned that lesson well.

Now, I’d need them to clean up the mess (maybe).

I made it to the safe in my closet before I heard, “Nine one one, what’s your emergency?”

“My husband—” I started, jabbing the first two digits of the code into the keypad on the safe but hitting the third wrong when I jumped because I heard a loud thump on my front door.

I shook my head and closed my eyes hard.

Focus, Ilsa. Focus. I told myself, opening my eyes and clearing the code on the safe.

“Ma’am?” the 911 operator called. “Your emergency?”

“My husband found me,” I told her, hitting the correct digits and the release button and gratefully hearing the whirs of the door opening on the safe. “His name is Pol Ulfr. Apollo Ulfr. He’s a drug dealer in Portland, Oregon. He’s abusive and I’ve been running from him for three years. Now he’s caught me. I’m in apartment 3D at twenty-six, sixty-one Rampart Street.”

I heard another thud on the door.

Therefore I added, “And he’s right outside my door.”

I reached into the safe and wrapped my hand around the grip as I kept speaking.

“I’ve got a gun. You need to send someone soon. If he gets to me first, I’ll use it.”

“Ma’am, do not arm yourself. I’m dispatching officers immediately to your location,” the 911 operator told me but I ignored this.

She didn’t know. She didn’t have a clue. And I hoped to God she never would.

Instead of sharing that, I warned her, “He’ll have men. At least one. And trust me, badges and uniforms will not stop them from getting what they want.”

And they wanted me.

Or at least Pol did.

But with the loyalty his men showed him, they’d go down in a hail of gunfire before they’d give up doing whatever they had to do to get Pol what he wanted.

“They’re en route now,” the operator continued. “So find a safe place and please—”

Another thud on the door which included some splintering wood.

They’d be through soon.

Thus there was no safe place. Not in this apartment.

Not anywhere.

Unless I made it safe.

I darted to a corner of the room and hunkered down, eyes aimed through the dark at the door, saying, “Gotta go now.”

“Ma’am—”

“Bah-bye,” I whispered, hit end call, dropped my phone on the floor and shrugged my purse off.

I then lifted the gun to point it at the door.

Shit.

The outside door crashed open.

Shit!

I checked to make certain the safety was off.

It was off.

Could I do this?

I sucked in breath through my nose.

I could do this.

But only because I had to.

I moved my finger to the trigger.

I heard the thumping feet. Running. One man, not several.

Pol wouldn’t be running. That wasn’t Pol’s style. He sauntered, he didn’t run. Not unless he was on a state-of-the art treadmill while making drug deals on his Bluetooth.

Then again, he’d been deprived of his favorite toy for three years. He didn’t treat that toy nice, far from it. But it was still his favorite, he’d want it back and he got what he wanted.

Always.

I sucked in another breath, then whispered, “Not tonight.”

A shadow came through the door.

My throat closed and I froze.

I’d planned for this. Damn it, I’d planned. I’d been psyching myself up for this exact moment for years.

Why was he getting closer and I wasn’t pulling the stupid trigger?

“Stop, I’ve got a gun!” I shouted my warning.

He didn’t stop and was almost on me when my finger remembered my plans and squeezed.

I jumped at the loud sound of the gunshot, heard a surprised, pained grunt and the shadow was reeling back.

Oh God.

I’d shot a man. Crap! I’d shot a man!

God, how I hated Pol.

But I saw now that man wasn’t Pol. I knew it because I could feel it and see it. Pol was taller than that staggering shadow, not as bulky.

And he was right behind that shadow when it fell back.

I knew this because I heard his hated but nevertheless deep, attractive voice that I so never wanted to hear again clip, “Jesus, what the f**k?”

I wasn’t prepared for him to be so close.

So I wasn’t prepared when his hand snaked out catching mine that held the gun at the wrist, twisting so hard the pain shot up my arm, shoulder and even my neck, making my ear tingle.

I’d planned. I really had.

But I’d also planned before.

And Pol, f**king, f**king Pol always got the best of me.

In order to focus on not getting some part of my arm broken, I had to twist my body with it and my fingers let loose around the grip of the gun.

Pol let me go, caught the gun and clearly flipped it to hold it by the barrel because the next thing I knew, the butt was coming down hard on the flesh under my cheekbone.

Freaking ouch.