Page 47 of Nightfire

“Chloe,” he said, his voice raw. “Chloe, honey. Talk to me.” She was soft in his arms. Still and boneless.

He pulled her to him, lifting her to his chest, and rocked. There was a keening sound in the air and it took him a second or two to realize it was him, that awful sound coming from his throat.

His head snapped up at a sound across the room. More assailants? If there were, good. He ached to punch, to maim, to kill.

Instead, there was a bunch of sad-eyed women at the door, one holding her hand in front of her mouth. The one who’d let the sob escape, which was the sound he’d heard. He must have looked crazy, because they all took a step back when his head lifted.

“Chloe,” the woman who’d sobbed whispered. “Is she—is she dead?”

There wasn’t much hope in the woman’s voice. There hadn’t been much hope in their lives, either. They all loved Chloe, but took it as a given that she could be taken away from them by violence.

No. Mike rejected even the thought of it with every cell in his body. He hunched over her even more, pulling her into him, as if he could transfuse energy from his body to hers.

“Call 911, medical emergency,” he said, his words barely comprehensible as he shouted around the boulder in his chest. “And call the cops.”

They stood there, staring at him, a phalanx of white faces.

“Now!” he shouted and they scattered like birds at the sound of a shot.

A pressure on his arm, a shifting of the body he was holding so tightly. “Mike,” Chloe murmured.

She was alive! Oh God!

Mike wiped at his eyes which for some reason were wet.

“Chloe, honey. You’ve been hurt. Don’t move. Medics are on the way.”

Even as he said don’t move she did, shifting slightly so she could sit up. She looked down at herself then up at him, placing a small hand on the side of his face.

“Don’t look like that, Mike,” she said softly. “I just passed out. But I’m okay.” She frowned, touching her left forearm, discolored and slightly swollen. “I hope that’s not broken, just sprained. It’s been broken twice already.” She touched her head, a slight frown between ash eyebrows. “What–what happened? Two men—" She stiffened in his arms, alarm in her eyes. “Two men, Mike! They came in and⁠—"

A shift of her gaze and she saw them. One unmistakably dead, the other slumped against the wall, face a red mess, wheezing to get breath, blood burbling around his smashed nose and mouth.

“Don’t worry about them, honey. They’re never going to hurt you again.” Mike’s head fell to her shoulder. “Oh God, Chloe. I thought you were—I thought you were…” he couldn’t even say the word. Couldn’t form the thought. Could only remember the cold emptiness when he thought she’d gone from this world, leaving him behind.

Her skin was the color of ice, pupils dilated, entire body shivering from the aftermath of shock. He held her close and kissed her forehead gently, a mere brush of his lips because she seemed like glass, ready to shatter at any moment.

“No.” Her voice was a whisper as she reached up a shaking hand to wipe wetness from under his eyes. “I’m still here. Thanks to you.” A hard shudder ran through her. “What did they want? Do you know? Besides, um, raping me?"

Jesus. It hadn’t even occurred to him to try to keep them alive to get intel. One of the fuckers was still alive only because he was distracted by Chloe. Because what if this wasn’t a random act of violence? What if it was directed specifically at Chloe? What if she was still in danger?

He couldn’t stand the thought, literally couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t go anywhere with it, was incapable of processing it. He shook with terror.

This wasn’t like him.

He kept his cool during combat, always had. He was a fucking sniper, one of the very best. Snipers don’t do terror. His heart rate had been tested at a cool, calm sixty beats per minute even under live-fire training. He knew how to use violence precisely, like a surgeon wields a scalpel. He knew how to measure his violence out into precise amounts, applied at specific times. He knew how to hold his fire, how to wait.

And yet he’d smashed into the room with no thought of strategy or tactics, no thoughts at all, just a wild blood lust in his head drowning out all thought. And maybe his lack of control had endangered Chloe.

Still holding Chloe with one arm, Mike reached out to the guy slumped against the wall and bunched his shirt in his fist, lifting him up and away from the wall. “Hey, fuckhead. What are you doing here? What’s your mission?”

Because even through the blood lust, the wild singing desire to hurt and kill, he recognized one thing. He was dealing with trained men. Soldiers. Their moves, their demeanor. These weren’t punks off the street who’d maybe seen a beautiful woman and followed her inside. No, they’d kept their cool even when he hadn’t. The combat moves had been expert.

In a normal situation, it wasn’t likely Mike could have prevailed over two highly trained men, but in this case, to defend Chloe, he’d have taken on a hundred men and won. He’d have taken on an entire fucking army.

But the inescapable fact was—these guys were pros. They’d been on some kind of a mission.

Mike shook the man, hard. His head lolled. Mike backhanded him, the sound of the slap loud and shocking in the room. “Hey!” he shouted, to get through to the semi-unconscious man. “What are you doing here?”