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And that was an important detail.
It was planned.
It was unusual.
It was tactical.
Ethan’s mind raced as he moved through the logistics and best actions.
The next few seconds were make-or-break.
He raced to the wall, planted his hand, and launched himself over it, landing hard in a rosemary bush.
Sliding along the shadow cast by the house to the conservatory, he grabbed the handle and threw the glass door wide to the startled faces of the guests and host alike.
“The house is under attack,” he yelled. “The house is under attack. Get to an upper-level room with no windows and barricade yourselves in. Then call 9-1-1 and keep calling until you get through. Tell them to send help. Mrs. Harcourt has been taken.” Ethan truly believed that was the mission goal. But it was also possible that Amanda Harcourt was the bright shiny thing that would lure him off the property, leaving the house unprotected.
Nobody moved.
He didn’t have time for this crap. “Safe room. 9-1-1.” He bellowed, “Do it now!”
Ethan sprinted back to the garden and over the brick wall.
Where Tango had dashed off like a breath blowing out a candle, Ethan was bound by physics.
He raced forward over the rough land with its vole mounds that squished under his feet as he collapsed their tunnels, sapping him of forward momentum.
Tango had her feet on the oak. Panting with excitement as she figured her way up.
With a quick glance to acknowledge that she was aware of Ethan’s proximity, Tango focused on his hand gesture that reiterated the command to hunt and bite.
She circled back toward the field and took off as a streak, launching off the trunk.
Tipped into an angle probably a hundred years back, it provided a ramp—albeit a steep one—getting Tango to the roof.
Ethan trusted Tango’s training. If someone was up there having a cigarette, they’d be fine. Tango was trained to clamp down on a trigger hand, applying a bone-crushing crunch and a shake.
Suddenly, a high-pitched shriek of surprise and pain slashed the air.
From a sniper’s prone position, there wasn’t jack shit that anyone could do to protect themselves from a determined Malinois.
Amazing, Tango had intuited the shooter from the start.
Ethan left her to it.
He’d reached the spot where the driver had stood beside the limo.
Squatting, Ethan stared down at a veterinary tranquilizer dart.
This, most certainly, hadn’t been in Ethan’s threat matrix calculus or on his bingo card.
Ethan had to decide whether to leave it in place or not. It was evidence. And everyone who might touch it should be quaking in their high heels in one of the upstairs bathrooms.
But if he caught up to the limo, the hospital might need to analyze the meds to figure out their treatment plan.
He’d have to leave it for now.
The person in the most danger at that moment—besides the shooter who was dealing with Tango’s bite—was Mrs. Harcourt.
