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Every muscle in his body tensed.
A bad taste formed in the back of his throat and he reached for the knife tucked under his jacket, the big blade he’d lifted from Mia Long’s kitchen.
Without making a sound, he started to turn, and from the corner of his eye caught sight of a glint of metal in the darkness.
Shit.
He tried to spin. Lifted his weapon.
Too late!
A big, gloved hand closed over his mouth and twisted his head.
He jabbed wildly with the knife but couldn’t connect.
Whoever the bastard was, he held him close.
Jonas struggled. Kicked. Tried to scream.
Kept stabbing wildly in the air.
No, no, no!This couldn’t be happening. Couldn’t.
The voice that whispered against his ear was cold, hard and filled with malice. “You should have stayed in prison where you belonged,” it rasped, hot breath against his skin.
His insides curdled. Who? What?
“This is for my son!” the voice hissed.
The blade flashed near his eye.
Shit!!!
No!
Jonas felt the tip of the blade prick the skin beneath his jaw.
“No,” he tried to scream, trying vainly to lurch forward.
The knife was drawn quickly and sharply across the base of his throat and in that instant, Jonas McIntyre was gone.
