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Shit! Shit! Shit!
He had to finish shooting now! Backing up, cat on his leg, he fired into the bedroom, emptying his pistol.
Pop, pop, pop!
He fled down the stairs toward the kitchen, emptying the gun, kicking at the cat.
Pop, pop, pop!
“Hey!” a voice yelled from the living room. A man’s voice. “What the hell’s going on?”
Oh, for the love of St. Jude! Noah Scott isn’t in the bed with Remmi! He’s in the fucking living room, and he probably has a gun!
“Noah?” Remmi Storm’s worried voice.
They were alive?
“Down!” Noah yelled. “Get down!” And he was coming. In the darkness, Milo saw a dark shape vault from where the living room couch was backed against a window.
And he was out of ammo.
Fuck! Spinning, Milo headed for the kitchen and the back door; he threw himself forward, dragging the stupid cat, his leg on fire.
He should have shot the damned beast.
Crrracck! The sound of wood splintering roared in his ears.
The kitchen wall seemed to explode.
He stumbled, nearly fell.
From what he’d thought was a cupboard, something—no, someone—rolled out!
What the fuck?
He whirled quickly, the cat flying off his leg, his thigh burning like a son of a bitch. Before he could react, the tiny person jumped up and, in one motion, spun like a top and, with a weird shriek, kicked his gun from his hand.
Jesus Christ!
In that second, the interior lights snapped on.
Blinking against the sudden illumination, he saw the Asian caretaker, who had kicked her way into the room from some kind of dumbwaiter. She was winding up again just as he heard, “Stop!”
From the corner of his eye, he spied Noah Scott, standing behind the coffee table, legs spread, expression grim, pistol aimed straight at Milo’s head. “Don’t move,” he ordered.
For a split second, Milo thought about taking his chances and bolting, but he noticed the Asian woman in a half-crouch, muscles coiled to strike again. The cat who had attacked was glaring at him from the top of the couch, its black lips pulled into a snarl of fury.
Remmi, her hair mussed, was off the couch and staring at him in shock. “Milo? You? You were going to . . . kill me?”
The back door was only fifteen feet away. If he could just—
“Don’t,” Noah Scott ordered again, as if he could read Milo’s mind.
The female karate fiend’s face was a hard mask, eyes glittering. She looked like she would enjoy nothing more than kicking him to kingdom come and back again.
Damn his bad leg. That was Ned Crenshaw’s fault.
“Call the police,” Noah told Remmi, but she was already picking up her phone.
