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Shane grabbed her around the waist and hauled her up over his shoulder. The smoke from the hallway was billowing into the room, so he carried her into the bathroom and shut the door behind him, buying them a few precious seconds. The large picture window behind the tub was the only way out. Black smoke crept under the door, and he grabbed one of the towels hanging on the hook next to the shower and shoved it beneath the crack in the door.
“Stand back,” he said, grabbing the small vanity chair tucked under the counter and smashing it through the window. Fresh oxygen whooshed into the room and he gulped in a breath before the smoke found the opening he’d made.
Shane looked down three stories to the ground below. He’d been in a lot of deadly situations and thought he was going to die on more than one occasion, and his mind immediately started searching for ways to solve the problem. It wasn’t over until it was over.
They couldn’t jump three stories. It was out of the question.
The bathroom window overlooked the side of the house, and if he leaned out far enough he could see the wide wraparound porch that led to their front doors. Black smoke still billowed out the front door and open windows, but the fire department was at work, taming the beast as best they could with gallons of water. If he could throw her far enough and then jump himself, they might just have a chance. It was their only option.
Shane glanced at the woman and noticed her eyes were wide with shock. He stripped his shirt off and used it to clear the glass shards from the window so he didn’t cut them both to pieces.
“How you doing, sugar?” he asked, swiping his thumb across her sooty face. “Don’t go into shock on me yet. I’m going to toss you over to the railing. Do you think you’re strong enough to grab hold?”
She nodded, but her eyes were glassy and he wasn’t sure she really understood what he was about to do. “I’m strong enough,” she assured him. “And I’m not your sugar.”
Shane smiled, impressed with her bravado. Most women he knew would be in a heap at his feet. “Yes, ma’am.” He grabbed her around the waist, lifting her, until he’d maneuvered them so he straddled the windowsill. “Use your feet to propel you,” he instructed as he showed her where to place her feet.
“On three,” he said.
He waited for her nod and began to count. “One, two…”
Shane heaved with all his might at the same time that she pushed off the windowsill. Time was suspended as she flew through the air. His heart thudded in his chest as he waited—what seemed an eternity but was only seconds—until she caught the railing with both hands.
He took a split second to heave a sigh of relief and then went after her, propelling himself off the ledge with a survival instinct that had been lying dormant for two years. He climbed over the railing quickly and helped pull her over before grabbing her around the waist and hurtling down the stairs as fast as his legs could carry them.
Shane noticed the other tenants standing back away from the house in their nightclothes. They were unharmed and stood transfixed as the wild orange fire was conquered. The cop in him looked around to see if anyone was overly interested in the blaze, but there was no one that stood out in the crowd. He noticed the woman was doing the same, but she was fading fast into exhaustion and shock. If someone wanted to kill her, she would be an easy target after the ordeal she’d just gone through.
The EMTs met them both with oxygen, and a cop unlocked the cuff around the woman’s wrist. Shane could tell the officer wanted to ask questions, but the woman went into another fit of coughing and he backed off so the medics could do their job. Shane stayed as close to her as he dared and kept his eyes moving over the faces in the crowd. The lady had some explaining to do, and he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight until she answered his questions.
The medics tended to her wrist, wrapping it in gauze and tape, and then left the two of them sitting in the back of an ambulance. Shane took the oxygen mask off his face and turned to look at her. She met his gaze with weariness and distrust.
“I’m Shane Quincy,” he said, extending his hand. “I live across the hall from you.”
“I bet between your looks and that accent there aren’t many women who don’t fall at your feet the second you open your mouth.” She said the words through chattering teeth, which dulled the bite he was sure she intended, and looked at his hand like it was poisonous before briefly returning the handshake.
He arched a brow and smiled at her, enjoying the irritation that played across her face. “It was just an introduction, sugar. I don’t expect women to fall at my feet until the second conversation. I’m a real gentleman like that.”
“I didn’t recognize you when you came in my room,” she said. “I guess I should thank you for saving my life.”
“I’d settle for your name.” Shane could tell she was thinking about lying to him. “Your real name.”
“Rachel.”
“Do you have a last name, Rachel?”
“Just Rachel,” she said firmly.
“Well, just Rachel, do you want to tell me who your uncle is and why he sent someone to murder you?”
* * *
Jimmy Grabbaldi knew his plan was going to fail as soon as he saw Rachel’s neighbor appearing out of the misty rain like a phantom. Who the hell jogged in the middle of the night, anyway?
But he decided to stay and watch the scene play out. Maybe he’d end up with two casualties instead of one. As long as the job got done. That’s what was important.
He’d done surveillance on the big white mansion for the last two weeks, snapping pictures of the tenants and their patterns as he made his way to the market or daily walks in the park across the street. There was a church on the opposite corner and an old graveyard that did daily ghost tours. There were plenty of secluded areas hidden by magnificent trees and large shrubs, and though the air was chilly once the sun went down, the weather was still warm and slightly humid in the daytime.
Jimmy couldn’t have hidden his Italian roots if he wanted to. New Orleans was one of the most populous cities for Italian immigrants, and in general it was a melting pot for culture, so he embraced his heritage and didn’t try to fit in with the tourists. He’d managed to secure an Airbnb in the Garden District and could see his mark from his balcony. No one bothered him, and it was easy enough to get a read on everyone who lived in the house.
