He Can Fall (She Can... #4.5)(10)

“Yes,” he said, watching her for a reaction.

“Good.” She crawled out from under the pine boughs. “Then he can’t hurt us.”

“No, he can’t,” Sean agreed. He held a hand out to her, the same hand that had just killed a man with no hesitation. He reminded himself that a hesitation could have cost both him and Mia their lives. He sent a silent prayer that he could also save his wife and the other people being held hostage.





CHAPTER FIVE

“Put the gun down, Win.”

Amanda cringed on the floor as Carl called off Win. Would the younger man obey or defy his partner?

Carl climbed to his feet and retrieved his shotgun from the tile.

“Why?” Win’s eyes glittered. “We still have a couple of hostages. We don’t need her.”

“Maybe.” Cradling the gun in the crook of his arm, Carl rubbed his elbow. “But what if we do? You can’t unkill her later if we need her.”

Win lowered the gun. “Maybe you’re right. I might find a need for her later.”

“See if you can find some rope or something to tie her up.” Carl opened and closed drawers.

Win grinned, shoving his gun into the waistband of his jeans. “I like the sound of that.” He pulled a ball of cooking twine from a nearby drawer. “I can make this work.” He walked over to Amanda. “Turn around. Put your hands behind your back.”

Ears ringing, thighs trembling, she climbed to her feet and obeyed. Her head spun, nausea churned through her belly, and dread spurred adrenaline through her bloodstream, urging all her pain and fear to new heights.

Win wrapped the twine around her wrists a half-dozen times, then yanked tight. The binds dug into her skin, but the agony ricocheting around inside her skull dulled her other senses. She tested her binds. The thin string was surprisingly strong, though it would be easy to cut if she could rub it on something sharp.

“You just wait.” He pressed his lips to her ear and caressed her arms. “We are going to have a real party.”

Amanda’s legs shook as dread raced through her body. Win slipped a hand around her waist to squeeze her breast hard to leave a bruise. A tear leaked out of her eye and rolled down her cheek.

“Mmm.” His hot breath wafted across her neck. “You are ripe. I can almost taste you already.”

Win stepped away, pulling her with him by the bicep. She stumbled. He kept her upright with a sharp jerk that wrenched her shoulder. When they’d reached the long stainless-steel prep table that spanned the center of the kitchen, he shoved her down onto the floor and tied her securely to one of its legs. He reached down to cup between her legs. She pushed her thighs together. Laughing, he kneed her legs apart and pushed harder. “I can do anything I want to you. There ain’t nothing you can do about it.”

Amanda recoiled as pain radiated through her center.

He straightened and rubbed his own crotch. “Soon, baby. Soon.”

Amanda took a few deep breaths to settle her stomach and slow her runaway heart. The table weighed a ton. Amanda wasn’t going to be able to budge it. She began to twist the twine. It was a natural fiber. She might be able to stretch it a little. She moved her hands, shifting the position of her wrists to apply tension on the string, but it refused to yield.

Carl surveyed the room and nodded, seemingly satisfied that everything was under control. He set his shotgun down and picked up his coffee. With a grimace, he dumped the contents into the sink and poured fresh. Satisfaction crossed his face as he sipped the steaming liquid.

“What about Grandpa?” Win asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

Carl chuckled. “I don’t think he’s much of a threat now, but you have a point.”

Amanda tracked his line of sight to Glenn, his body curled in a fetal position on the floor a few feet away. Open-eyed, he lay still, his body stiff as if afraid—or unable—to move. Air wheezed in and out of his mouth in hollow, shallow breaths. How badly was he injured? Broken ribs? Internal injuries?

Carl grabbed the twine and tied Glenn’s wrists and ankles. Glenn groaned as the gunman forced his body into position. Carl went back to his coffee.

The room went silent, except for Glenn’s rough breathing and an occasional soft sob from the redhead. Amanda squinted at the gunshot man, trying to assess his rate of bleeding, but her vision kept tunneling, darkness encroaching from all sides. Not a good sign.

She tallied the score. Four gunmen, zero injuries. Four, no, five hostages. She kept forgetting the black-haired clerk, paralyzed with shock in the corner of the room.

Anyway, of the five prisoners, they now sported one gunshot wound, likely broken ribs, and a probable concussion. Of the two physically sound hostages, the clerk was too traumatized to be of much use, and the redhead was busy trying to keep her husband from bleeding to death. It didn’t look like she was having much luck. The stack of bloody dishtowels was growing into a Jenga tower.

Carl set down his mug and lifted a towel off a basket of fresh scones. “Want some?”

“Sure, but where the fuck is Uncle Dennis?” Win caught the pastry Carl tossed to him. The back door opened, but it wasn’t Dennis, the man who’d gone after Mia. It was the fourth man who’d been outside checking the grounds.

His bald head gleamed with moisture. “What’s going on?”