His Rs were clipped and slightly rolled. Vs became Ws, like the men in the warehouse with Cheyenne.
“Get out of my house.”
“I will. But you come with me. My employer wants to meet you.”
Her mind raced. The pepper spray was on the counter. Knives in a butcher block by the stove. Dammit! Why had she never bought a gun? This was Texas!
As she edged toward the kitchen, he advanced, unhurried but coldly menacing. “Don’t make this trouble.”
She spun to run—
His fist tangled in her hair and jerked her off-balance. Pain burned across her scalp, making her eyes water, but the cry that tore from her lips came from the vision that hit.
A dark office. A heavy wooden desk. An older man sat behind it, hands folded. She felt nothing. Not the quiet she felt with Vince. This was different. Controlled. Indifferent. Bone chilling in its emptiness.
Lamplight glinted off a diamond ring she’d seen too many times, in too many nightmares. When she forced air into her lungs, a distinct scent overwhelmed her… mint.
The images changed. The office fell away, replaced by a vague, enclosed space and Shannon’s tear-streaked face. But she looked different. She was thinner, her hair lighter.
The vision broke apart, scattered by the searing burst of pain in her scalp as the intruder dragged her toward the door. She clawed at his hands, desperate to relieve the pressure.
He didn’t seem to notice, ordering as he walked, “As a guest of Mr. Kedrov, you will be polite.”
A crash exploded from the front of the house, wood splintering and the unmistakable sound of a door giving way. Pain lanced through her scalp as he jerked in surprise. The metallic click of a gun followed, distinctive even to someone who’d never chambered a weapon.
“She’s not going anywhere with you.”
She knew that voice. It was cold and lethal, but unmistakably his. Relief rushed in.
Her captor whirled, shoving her hard. She stumbled straight into Coop. He caught her with one arm, keeping her from falling, and surged forward in the same motion.
Dazed and hurting, the room tilted. Erica braced a hand against the wall, unable to do anything but watch as the Russian bolted for the back of the house. Coop was faster and tackled himin the kitchen. The man went down hard but came up fighting. A chair overturned, and a cabinet door splintered as they grappled.
A knockout punch swung at his head. He ducked and drove his shoulder into the man’s ribs, slamming him into the counter hard enough to rattle the cupboards.
Wood cracked. Pans clattered onto the floor. She flinched but couldn’t look away.
The thickset man grunted, twisting and reaching into his jacket. Coop caught his wrist mid-draw, wrenched it down, and drove him face-first into the tile.
There was a sickening crack of bone, then the man bucked, roaring something in Russian. Boots scraped. Bodies strained. The man was powerful, thick through the shoulders, built like a battering ram, but Coop was fit and had training.
He shifted his weight, pinned a flailing arm at an angle that stole its strength, and snapped a cuff around the wrist. The man thrashed wildly, but he didn’t budge.
“You’re done,” he growled. A few more grunts, and the second cuff ratcheted shut. He reached into the man’s jacket and pulled out a gun. “You’re also under arrest. Aggravated assault to start with.”
Sirens wailed outside, growing louder. Red and blue lights flashed against the kitchen walls.
The Russian lay facedown on the tile, breathing hard and no longer resisting. With his arms pinned behind and a knee anchoring him, he couldn’t.
Boots pounded across her porch. Voices raised. Officers rushed in, weapons drawn.
Coop held up his badge. “Is someone across the street? He may not have been alone.”
“We’ve got men on it,” one officer said.
Her living room filled with uniforms. Radios crackled. Voices overlapped, lower now. The crashes and sickening thuds of flesh on flesh, and bone cracking had stopped. It was over.
Erica’s heart pounded like it hadn’t gotten the message. Her legs gave out, and she slid down the wall. She sat trembling, her house in shambles.
