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Nathan was too far away to read his eyes, but the set of his shoulders and raised chin said he was ready to prove there was no worse enemy than an avenging Marine. His handgun should’ve been in the inside-the-pant clip holster on his hip unless the Craig had confiscated it. Maybe he didn’t need it. Given his military combat training, he could disarm the gun aimed at him. She knew he was waiting for her to do something. For the right moment to take his eyes off her. What could she do?

She swallowed, her throat dry. The smallest mistake would cost him his life. And any threat to Roy’s life would beckon the nearby cops.

“Mr. Winslow is just an incentive for you to leave quietly.” He wrapped a hand around her throat, pinched her airflow, and dragged her to the vehicle. “If you draw attention, he’s dead.”

If she got in that SUV, Nathan was dead. She thrashed against him and screamed with burning lungs. Nothing came out. No sound. No air. There were a few stares in her direction, but no one moved to intervene.

He wrenched her through the vehicle’s open door by her neck. She grabbed the roof, bucked against him, and tried to make a scene.

The Craigs corralled. Her fingers slipped. The agony from the vise on her throat tapered her thoughts to one. Kill him. She released the roof and reached for the gun at her back.

Tires squealed and an engine rumbled, approaching from behind. More Craigs? The cops? Brakes screeched. Roy let go of her throat and spun toward the commotion.

Oh, thank God. Gulping for oxygen, she turned just as Roy shifted back. Face-to-face, she yanked the gun from her waistband. Flicked off the safety. Lined up the sights on his chest.

Inhale.

He looked at her gun. Looked at her. Then the monster smiled.

Exhale.

41

Crammed in the backseat between three of his bodyguards, Jay covered his head with the hood of the sweatshirt he’d borrowed from O’Neil and pushed the sunglasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Neverseparate us again.” The directive exploded from deep in his chest and echoed in the small space. He lowered his voice. “From this point on, Charlee is your principal. Her safety supersedes mine. And hurry the fuck up.”

With all the people in the street, it was taking an eternity to make their way back to the parking lot. He stared at the nasal spray in his hand, needing it to numb the rage that sent his jaw into enamel-grinding spasms.

“Yes, Mr. Mayard.” Tony held his gaze. “I’m aware of this as you advised me of your priorities before we left the apartment. I made the mistake in assuming a sniper aiming for your head superseded Miss Grosky’s security. I apologize. It won’t happen again.” Her glower didn’t look sorry.

Colson slammed on the brakes. Jay’s knees smacked into the console and his blow flew under the seat. Fuck the drug. She was out there alone. Every second counted. “Let me out.”

Too many bodies blocked his view. Bodyguards inside the car. Lollygaggers outside. “Can you see her? Let me the fuck out.”

A gunshot cracked the air and, for the second time that day, heart-stopping fear ripped his anger asunder.

Tony jumped out first, hand at the gun at her hip. Everyone but Colson followed.

In his hurry, Jay stumbled onto the pavement and slammed into a wall of fleeing people. They parted around him, spun him the wrong way, and holy shit, they were runningawayfrom him. He turned back and jerked to a stop a few feet short of Charlee.

She stood over a man, who lay face up on the ground. Roy Oxford? He looked paler in person than on TV and a lot less put together. Maybe because she pointed a gun at him as he pawed at a dime-sized hole in the chest of his leather jacket. His breath was ragged yet he longingly stared at her as if oblivious to the gun she aimed at him or the bullet she’d already delivered.

Red clouded Jay’s vision. This was the piece of shit who had raped her more times than she could count. His thirst for blood swelled at the epicenter of his rioting emotions. “Pull the trigger, Charlee. Finish him.”

Three men emerged from a break in the crowd. They wore common clothing—jeans, t-shirts—but the guns they pulled from their open jackets were big, scary, and probably illegal. The hostility in the air that followed them emulated their bloodthirsty eyes and hard features.

The parking lot exploded in a frenzy of screams. Not the squeals of fan girls. These were the oh-shit-save-yourself kind of screams.

The mayhem of the bolting crowd crested as two officers sprinted across the lot with guns aimed at Charlee. “Drop your weapon. Hands in the air.”

Shit. Jay locked his legs in an attempt to stop himself from lunging for her. “Don’t do it, Charlee.”

The gun didn’t twitch in the cup of her hands as she glared at Roy. “Don’t drop it? Or don’t shoot?”

She was wielding a gun in public, and the cops weren’t shooting her. Nor did they spare a glance at the three gunmen, which meant Roy was lining their pockets. They were still NYPD and, Christ almighty, she’d already killed one person. The last thing she needed was a prison sentence for killing another in front of the police. “Don’t shoot, but don’t drop it either.”

The cops jogged closer and one shouted, “Sir, do not engage the shooter.”