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“That’s when I knew I wanted to be a lawyer,” she finished.
“So you became a hotshot lawyer, and now there’s a teenager who needs you.”
“Yes. And I will not let him down.”
He felt ashamed that he’d thought for even a second about using a runaway kid as a way to earn the Chilkoots’ trust. What was the point of an investigation into criminal activity if you crossed moral lines in the process? “I won’t either,” he said in a low voice.
She nodded, and he saw in her eyes that she believed him, and that meant something to him. More than he would have expected. A perfect zing of connection passed between them.
Before another moment passed, he had to clarify something. “I was happy to see you. When you got here, I mean.”
Her warm brown eyes widened. “Then why?—”
A movement from outside the house caught his attention. Just a flash, metal in the trees, where there shouldn’t be any. He reached across the table and grabbed Molly by the arm, yanking her to the floor. Her elbow knocked into her sandwich plate, which hit her water bottle, and all of it came tumbling to the floor after them. A sound whistled above them, then a sharp crack. He pulled her under the table, which was made of a solid oak that he prayed would shield them.
“Stay here,” he told Molly, whose eyes were huge with shock. All credit to her for not screaming or shrieking. He wrapped his arms around her for a moment, feeling her tension and the racing of her pulse. He wanted to reassure her that she’d be okay, that he would protect her, that he wasn’t going to let anything happen to her.
So he kissed her. Fast and hard, a firm pressure of his lips against her warm mouth, a fierce communication—I got you. Trust me.
Then he crawled on his hands and knees across the linoleum floor to his nearest weapon, a revolver that the FBI had issued him when he’d taken on this job.
He clicked off the safety and positioned himself to one side of the kitchen door. Holding his breath, he inched open the door and fired back.
22
Lovely.
Go to Alaska, it’ll be an adventure, Molly grumbled silently to herself. You’ll see a new part of the world. You’ll connect with an old friend. You’ll enjoy the spectacular scenery. And, oh yeah…you’ll hide out under a kitchen table while your pilot takes part in a firefight.
Another shot fired. She winced at the sound of Sam’s gun. No surprise that he had one; she already knew about the hunting rifle. But the fact that he had a weapon here in the kitchen, ready to fire, was a different story.
But obviously he needed it, since someone had fired at him first. At them.
Or was she the target?
Jesus. Was this about Elias Chilkoot? Maybe someone had gotten wind of her involvement. But how, if only she and Sam knew about it?
Maybe the Chilkoots had found Elias and he’d told them. She wouldn’t expect a fifteen-year-old autistic boy to stand up to threats from his family, although clearly he was a courageous kid.
She needed to get back to him and make sure he was okay. After this gun battle was over, of course. In other words, once Sam had gotten rid of the assholes, which she had no doubt he would do. Clearly he could take care of business, and not just the kind of business that went with being a pilot.
She had questions for him, and he’d better damn well answer them this time. After the gun battle, naturally.
The gun battle.
What the hell was she doing here? Why wasn’t she in New York deposing the latest scumbag billionaire who wanted to dump his wife? Why wasn’t she driving to brunch in her red convertible? Dropping fifty bucks on a mimosa and a croque monsieur?
Speaking of which…the remains of her ham and cheese sandwich had landed only a foot from her right elbow, still safely under the shield of the table. The plate had miraculously not shattered in the fall. Surely she should take advantage of that stroke of fate.
Cautiously, keeping her movements nice and slow, she reached for it. If she was going to be stuck here for some unknown amount of time, she should at least fuel up. Besides, Sam had made her the hands-down most-delicious sandwich she’d ever tasted.
She brushed off all surfaces and took a bite.
Another shot rang out. Still Sam. The other party hadn’t fired in a while. Maybe it had been a misfire from a hunting rifle. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that it must have been that. Why would anyone shoot at them inside Sam’s house? That was sniper shit. Assassination shit.
The moments ticked past. She counted. Twenty seconds, thirty, forty…no more gunshots. Sixty seconds. Two minutes. Was it over?
Then she heard soft footsteps coming across the floor. For a moment fear swept through her that Sam had lost the battle, and someone else was coming for her. Pure relief swept through her when Sam crouched next to her under the table. He was no longer holding the gun.
