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At least Jackson won’t be killed. Or Ham or Gail or any of the others.
They’ll be okay even if I’m not.
“Well, now you’re going to let me walk out of here, unless you want to see your girl’s brains spattered all over the ground.”
“You’re not going to do that. You’re not going to touch her. If you let her go, then maybe you’ll be able to walk out of here alive.”
“You think I’m going to fall for that?” Caden is still trying to sound tough, but he’s really scared now. I can hear it. So will Jackson. “Lower your gun and let me walk away, or I swear to God I’ll kill her.”
The pain and panic have subsided enough by now that I’m able to see more clearly. I look up at Jackson, and for just a moment, he meets my gaze.
I understand what the look means. We’ve practiced this—just like we’ve practiced every other scenario of attack our imaginations could come up with.
So when Jackson starts blinking at a slow, steady pace, I know it’s a countdown.
If Caden had ever paid attention during drill training, he might have recognized it too.
But he doesn’t.
On the fifth blink, I use the last strength I can muster to duck and wrench myself out of Caden’s arm. I can’t actually get away, but I distract him enough that he moves his gun.
Jackson shoots him in the head.
His arm goes limp and he falls. I end up in a painful sprawl right beside his dead body.
But I’m alive, and he isn’t.
That’s a miracle as far as I’m concerned.
***
IT’S PROBABLY ONLYa few seconds later. I’m not in a fit condition to judge the passing of time. But the next thing I’m aware of is strong arms lifting me up, pulling me toward a male chest.
A familiar one. And a familiar smell.
Jackson.
He’s got his arms around me as I sprawl limply against him, and he’s murmuring things I’m starting to understand. “Faith. Oh fuck. Are you okay? Talk to me, kitten.”
His hands feel urgent as they move over my body, checking for injuries, and his voice is so soft but also sounds almost scared. It’s enough to get me to blink open my eyes and rasp out, “I think I’m okay.”
He makes a guttural sound, and his arms tighten around me for just a few seconds. Then he asks in closer to his normal voice, “Did they do anything to you?”
Of course they did things to me. They kidnapped me and tried to use me to get through the gates of our home. But I know what he’s asking, so I answer it. “They just punched me a few times. Nothing serious. They didn’t do anything else.”
I’m feeling clearer and steadier now, so I try to sit up. I like how it feels slumped over Jackson’s lap like this, his arms tight around me, but I can’t stay that way. Too many things have happened. Too many things need doing.
Then I remember something and say with a break in my voice, “They killed Brett.”
Jackson doesn’t look surprised. He must already have deduced that. It pains him the way it pains me. I can tell even though his expression is characteristically stoic. “Tell me where they left him. We’ll go bring him home.”
I give the best description I can, and then I try to stand up.
“You need to take it easy,” Jackson says, keeping one arm around me even as I try to pull away. “You look really beat up.”
“It’s not that bad. Just a few bruises.” I turn toward the main house and remember everything. “I still have to talk to Molly.”
“I know. We can do that. But you’re bleeding. Let me clean you up and go get Brett. Then we can talk to her.”
