Gabe (In the Company of Snipers, #8)(113)

No quiet breakfast-making kitchen sounds. No hint of bacon frying. A prickle of fear dumped acid into his gut. Where is she?

He opened the bedroom door to a dark hallway. A too-quiet house. The hair on the back of his neck lifted. He pulled both pistols, securing their power in his hands.

Might be over-reacting. Let’s find out.

Three long strides took him to the front room at his left, the kitchen at his right. A shadow moved near the boarded up front room window. The same sound. A whimper. Gabe flipped the front room light on. Anger flooded his soul.

Fallon. The sonofabitch had Shelby pressed against his chest, one hand over her mouth, a snub-nosed revolver stuck in her neck.

Gabe raised pistols both on target, every fiber of his being begging to be let loose to destroy the man who dared touch Shelby. His inner sniper analyzed the odds of getting a clean shot off without hitting her. Not good with adrenaline hitting his body with a freight train load of flight or—fight, damn it!

“Let her go.”

The poor thing’s eyes were wide, her chest heaving. Both hands clutched Fallon’s arms, her elbows jutting in front of her. At least she’d requisitioned Gabe’s black TEAM polo for morning-wear. Smart decision. It hung to her knees, but the thought that it might be all she had on stalled his heart.

What else did Fallon do to her while I slept, damn it?

The bastard sneered, his lip cut and his nose bleeding. The fact he was dressed from head to toe in Army green added to the demented look. So did the Green Beret expertly angled over his bristly crew-cut. The black ink of Army-shit tattoos covered what his short-sleeved shirt didn’t.

The man had to be stark raving, certifiably nuts to be dressed in spec ops gear, right down to his spit-polished black boots. He nailed Gabe with a cold, hard look over Shelby’s shoulder. “Where is she?” he snarled.


“There’s no one else here,” Gabe countered quickly, hoping to God that Shelby kept her cool.

“I won’t ask again,” Fallon bellowed. “Where is she?”

“Who are you looking for? Do you mean—”

BLAM!

The round blasted Gabe backwards over the kitchen table and to the floor. He found himself blinking up at the ceiling, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. Heat engulfed his right shoulder, radiating down his arm and outward to his fingertips. The coppery scent of blood—his blood—filled his nose.

Shit. I’m—shot?

Shelby screamed.

Damn. I’ve failed her. Too.

“Gabe. No! Please let me go to him and—”

“Shut up, bitch! On your knees. Watch and learn something smart for a change.”

Gabe struggled to draw in one solid breath, but the sheer weight of the pain drilling him to the floor stole it back again. He clutched the hole in his shoulder. Bloody. Hot. Gut-wrenchingly painful. The kitchen filled with shadows and bouncing white stars. Panic choked him, but he shoved it back inside where it belonged.

Not now. Get up. Gotta get up.

Rolling to his knees, all he knew was that he needed to live long enough to finish the job. He lifted his head and forced his vision to clear. By then, Fallon had Shelby kneeling, her hair wound tight in one fist, and the revolver hard at the back of her head. He kept jerking her off balance, toying with her.

It pissed Gabe off, even as wrecked as he was.

She clutched at Fallon’s wrists and forearms, struggling to keep her knees on the carpet. Her sweet face was paralyzed with fear, like a fawn in a wolf’s jaws, already given up and prepared to die.

Gabe braced himself to rise. It’s not going down like that, Shell. I promise.

“I’m only asking one more time, hero.” Fallon jerked Shelby’s head back, the barrel of his gun pointed downward at her skull. “I’ll blow her away the second another line of shit comes out of your yap. Where’s Stewart’s wife? Where’d she go, gawddamn it?”

“Richmond,” Gabe rasped, his eyes searching the floor for the pistol he’d dropped when he fell. He lifted to one knee, gripping the edge of the kitchen table with a bloody hand. “Let her go. She’s got nothing to do with this. She can’t hurt you.”

Fallon growled and released Shelby with a mean shove. “Get on the couch!”

She scrambled on all fours to Gabe instead.

“Get the hell away from him!” Fallon roared, stabbing a finger at the couch. “I said sit!”

“You’ve hurt him,” she cried defiantly. “I won’t let you hurt him again.”

Gabe groaned at her foolish insolence. She thinks she has to save me?

Fallon cocked his head in annoyed disbelief at the crazy woman in front of him. He aimed at her, his eyes wide and crazy. “I got news for you. You ain’t no sniper and you ain’t no soldier. All you are is bait. Now git your ass on the couch where you belong!”

No. Don’t do it. Don’t shoot her.

Once again, Shelby angled herself into the line of fire. “You’re right. I’m no soldier, but he needs my help.”

“Shell. Move,” Gabe gasped, his strength fading, but needing to keep her alive. “Do what he says.”

The damned woman never did know how to listen. She yanked a kitchen towel from the table and used it as a compress to slow the bleeding instead of doing what she was told.

“I don’t give a shit if you’re God.” Fallon stomped into the kitchen to snare his victim again. He yanked her to her butt, dragging her backward by her hair, his eyes fixed on Gabe the whole time.