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His hand moved to the controls of his wheelchair, sending it into a pivoting turn toward the open door. At the same instant she was taking in that sight, Sloan saw Donovan coming toward her.
“I told you I’m not getting on that plane.” Instinctively, she drew back from him.
“Stay here if that’s what you want.” His broad, muscled shoulders moved in a seemingly careless shrug. In the next instant, the shrug became a precursor of a lightning-fast movement that wrested the baby from her grasp. “But your kid’s going on that plane.”
“No!” With that strangled outcry, Sloan threw herself at him. But with one back-handed sweep of his arm, Donovan flung her aside. The impetus of the blow sent her sprawling to the floor. Sloan fell hard, pain shooting through her knee, hip, and shoulder. Fighting through it, she struggled to rise as a frantic Tara sank to the floor beside her, hands reaching in a helpless need to do something.
“Sloan. Are you hurt?”
Deaf to everything but the uncertain whimpers coming from her son, Sloan scrambled awkwardly to her feet, pressing a hand to her sore hip. Only vaguely was she aware of the p
ainful tingling in her knee.
Rutledge observed the first hobbling step she took after Donovan said, “Let’s go. She’ll follow.”
Five minutes hadn’t passed yet, but time had run out. Trey couldn’t wait for Laredo to get into position. He lunged into the doorway, blocking the exit, and snapped the rifle to his shoulder, cocking the hammer and sighting down the barrel at Rutledge.
“You better hold it,” Trey warned. “You’re not going anywhere.”
In a fraction of a second, his senses registered a dozen details at once—the building’s dusty and closed-up odors, the sight of Rutledge in his wheelchair, with the muscle-bound Donovan off to the side, a small fist waving from the blanket-wrapped bundle clutched in one arm, the gasping call of his name by Sloan, the feel of the cold steel in his hand, and the heavy, solid thud of his own heartbeat.
Donovan backed up a step, his glance flicking to the rifle in Trey’s grip. Rutledge reversed his chair by a foot as well, then stopped, his hard gaze boring into Trey.
“You’re bluffing, Calder,” Rutledge mocked. “You’re not going to shoot—not in such close quarters where even a slight miss could mean it’s your son who might get hit.”
“I don’t miss a sitting target.” Trey shifted the barrel, aiming at Rutledge.
“Be careful.” Tara’s plaintive voice came from his left. “Don’t hurt the baby.”
His side vision gave Trey a glimpse of Tara pushing Sloan farther from Donovan and Rutledge. He could feel Sloan’s eyes on him, but he didn’t allow himself to look at her. A sudden sharp wail came from his infant son.
“You’re scaring your boy, Calder.” Donovan smiled and lightly jiggled the bundle in his arm. The action served to screen the movement of his other hand producing a short-barreled pistol from his pocket. “I guess this could be called a Mexican standoff, except I’ve got your kid.”
“Put the rifle down,” Rutledge ordered.
Briefly, Trey tightened his grip on the weapon and silently debated his chances. But the risk was too great; too many things could go wrong. As much as he wanted to see Rutledge dead, he wanted his son alive more.
“You win.” He uncocked the hammer and lowered the rifle from his shoulder.
“Lay it on the floor. Carefully.” Donovan gave a warning emphasis to the last word. The barrel of his pistol tracked along when Trey crouched and slowly set the rifle on the floor. “Now slide it to the side.” Trey did as he was told, then straightened again. “Step inside. Over there.” A twitch of the pistol ordered Trey to the right.
“Sorry.” Trey never moved, straining to catch some sound that might tell him Laredo had made it inside. “You’ll have to go through me.”
“You, a half-crazed husband who shows up to take his son at gunpoint? That’s not a problem.” Still smiling coldly, Donovan extended his arm out straight from his body and used Trey’s chest as a target.
When he saw Donovan’s finger slide onto the trigger, Trey glanced at Sloan one last time.
Suddenly there was Tara, her face contorted in a strange mask of fury and fear, rushing at Donovan, arms outstretched. Donovan saw her at the last second. He fired just as she struck his arm. Rutledge lurched to the side, but no bullet ripped into Trey. He took a step into the building, intending to charge Donovan, as Tara pulled the baby out of Donovan’s arm, leaving him clutching an empty blanket. Screaming at Sloan to take the baby, Tara held him out to her.
At almost the same instant, Trey saw Donovan bringing his gun around again. There was too much space between them. Trey dived sideways after his rifle.
“Sloan!” Laredo shouted from the opening to the rear hall.
Trey had a glimpse of Sloan running, the baby in her arms, and Tara right behind her. Laredo’s yell had drawn Donovan’s attention. He whipped around and snapped off two quick shots. There was a short cry of pain, and Trey knew somebody had been hit.
Not Sloan! he thought even as he rolled onto his back, pointed the rifle barrel up, and squeezed the trigger, firing at Donovan just as Donovan shot at him. A bullet plowed into the wall an inch from Trey’s head, and Donovan crumpled to the floor, the pistol falling from loose fingers. Trey’s own muscles went limp for a moment.
The silence that followed was eerily loud. It didn’t last, as Laredo plunged into the lobby, gun in hand and quickly kicked Donovan’s gun away from his body, then bent to feel for a pulse.
