Page 28

Allie

The sight of Thatcher tied to that chair in the center of the room, his head bowed, blood dripping from a nasty gash above his eye, several bruises blooming across his jaw and cheek makes my heart stop.

He looks so still; so broken.

I press my back against the rough brick wall, my breath coming in shallow, frantic gasps.

Biscuit quivers in my arms, a warm, reassuring weight amidst the suffocating fear.

I can hear the thud of Admiral Brady’s boots and the snarl of Drakon’s goon’s voices as they shout orders.

Seconds stretch into eternities as I stand there, frozen, afraid that even the slightest movement will give me away.

Biscuit nuzzles into my neck, a silent plea for comfort I can’t give.

Not now.

Not when everything hangs in the balance.

How did it come to this?

How did a simple story I wanted to write about a mysterious matchmaker spiral into a life-or-death rescue mission?

But even as the questions swirl through my head, I know the answer.

It’s Thatcher.

It’s always been Thatcher.

From the moment he pulled a gun on me in that alley, he’s been the center of gravity that my world revolves around.

And now, with him in danger, with the very real possibility of losing him forever…

I would risk everything for him.

And I know he would do the same for me.

The footsteps fade, Drakon’s voice receding into the distance along with Ivan from the bathhouse and a third man I don’t recognize.

Ivan wears a badge on his uniform that reads Enforcer .

He doesn’t go with his boss.

Instead, he turns and goes back into the warehouse.

I exhale a long, slow breath, my knees nearly buckling with relief.

But I can’t rest.

Not yet.

I text Griffin.

Allie:

ETA?

Griffin:

We’re almost there.

Do not go in!

I peek into the window once more right as the Enforcer pulls a gun from the waistband of his pants and cocks it.

No!

Thatcher needs me.

Now.

There’s no time to wait for Griffin and Hunter to arrive.

I have to act now.

I need to get all of Drakon’s men out of that room.

I need a diversion.

I dig inside my purse searching for something, anything that might help.

Gum, no.

Chapstick, no.

Travel manicure set, no.

My fingers brush a small bit of plastic and I gasp.

My personal alarm.

It’s blaringly loud when it goes off.

Yes .

I keep digging and I feel the pocket rocket vibrator my sister gifted to me.

These could work!

No…

they have to work .

I scan the perimeter of the warehouse and spy a pile of construction junk.

Scrap wood, broken old bricks, and some empty paint cans.

Perfect.

With a fortifying inhale, I peel myself off the wall and start moving back to the bicycle and grab two empty paint cans.

As quietly as I can with Biscuit still in my arms, I set them up on the far side of the property, as far away from the warehouse as I can get.

I first turn on the vibrator and from within the bucket, the sound is amplified.

Not quite machine gun levels, but enough that when they’re out here searching, their attention will be split.

I leave that bucket on one side of the trees and run as far as I can in the other direction.

“Okay, Biscuit. We’re not going to have a lot of time once I turn this on,” I whisper.

And there’s no way in hell I’m leaving my dog out here like a sitting duck with these monsters.

I hold him tighter, trying to cover poor Biscuit’s sensitive ears and reach into the paint can, flicking the personal alarm on.

The sound is piercing, loud, once again amplified by the paint can and I run as fast as I can back to the window, peering carefully inside.

Biscuit whimpers softly, and I hush him, cupping his furry head against my chest.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, more for my benefit than his.

“We’re gonna be okay.”

As predicted, the Enforcer and Admiral Brady take off running toward the commotion, guns drawn.

And I use the opportunity to slip through the side door, wincing as it creaks on rusted hinges.

The interior of the warehouse is a labyrinth of shadows and debris, the air thick with the scent of dust and decay.

Shafts of sickly light filter through high, grimy windows, barely illuminating the path ahead.

I barrel through, running down the hallway and into the room I spied Thatcher in through the window.

I pick my way across the cluttered floor, my eyes straining against the gloom.

Thatcher’s voice echoes in my head, snippets of survival training he’s drilled into me over the past couple weeks.

Stay low.

Watch your step.

Breathe.

And then I see him, still tied with his hands behind the chair.

He lifts his head, his green eyes locking onto mine, and the world starts spinning again.

“Allie?” His voice is hoarse, disbelieving.

“I told you to run.”

I’m already rushing towards him, my feet carrying me across the distance before my brain can catch up.

“And let them kill you?” I hiss, pulling out the scissors from my travel manicure pack.

I get to work cutting the zip ties around his wrists and ankles.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he growls, but there’s no heat in it.

Only fear.

Fear for me.

“It’s too dangerous. Drakon?—”

“Isn’t here,” I cut him off, setting Biscuit down so I can better work on Thatcher’s bonds.

My fingers shake as I work at the plastic zip ties, clumsy with adrenaline.

“And I wasn’t about to leave you to face him alone.”

“Dammit, Allie! This isn’t some game. These people, they’ll kill you without a second thought.”

“You think I don’t know that?” I can’t keep the tremor from my voice, the barely contained hysteria.

“You think I could sit there in your panic room, knowing what they might do to you? Knowing that I led them right to you!”

Thatcher’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath the bruised skin.

“I can’t lose you,” he says, so quietly I almost don’t hear him.

“I can’t.”

For a beat, my hands still, my heart a lump in my throat.

But there’s no time for pausing right now.

I get back to work and snap the first zip tie free, then get to work on the one at his ankles.

With his hands free, he pulls out a nail clipper from inside my discarded manicure bag and he gets to work on his second ankle.

“If anything happened to you because of me...” He shakes his head, still angled down and concentrating on the zip tie.

“I couldn’t live with myself.”

His left ankle restraint splits, breaking free.

Only one more to go.

I reach out, cupping his face, my thumb brushing over the rough stubble of his cheek.

“We’re almost free,” I whisper.

“You’re not losing me. And I’m not losing you. Not today.”

He looks down at me and the raw emotion in his gaze takes my breath away.

“We’re in this together. No matter what,” I whisper fiercely.

The final restraint snaps free and he kicks the chair away, standing and yanking me to him, his lips finding mine in a kiss that’s all desperation and relief, fear and hope tangled into a knot that I can’t even begin to unravel.

His mouth opens under mine, and for a glorious, shining second, I forget where we are.

Forget the danger.

Forget everything except the feel of him, warm and alive and mine.

And then the creak of the door combined with Biscuit’s bark shatters the illusion.

We spring apart, instantly on high alert and Thatcher tucks me behind him, putting himself between me and the door.

“How touching,” a cold voice drawls, and my blood turns to ice in my veins.

Drakon.

He steps out of the shadows, flanked by the Enforcer and the other man I didn’t recognize.

I look around, behind him in the shadows of the doorway, searching for Admiral Brady, but I don’t see him.

Drakon is smiling, but there’s no warmth in it.

Only a cruel sort of amusement, like a cat toying with a mouse.

“Young love,” he says, shaking his head.

“So pure. So…fragile.”

Thatcher reaches back for me, his hand finding mine, lacing his fingers through my own.

A lifeline.

An anchor in the storm.

I think back to a moment not so long ago, a moment that feels like a lifetime now.

Thatcher and me in the gym, his hands guiding me through the motions of self-defense.

The press of his body against my back, the rumble of his voice in my ear.

“Like this,” he’d murmured, adjusting my stance.

“Firm, but flexible. Ready for anything.”

I hadn’t understood then, not really.

It had all seemed like a game, a sexy little diversion in the midst of our burgeoning…

whatever this is.

But now, facing down the barrel of Drakon’s gun, I get it.

It’s not about strength, or even skill.

It’s about resilience.

About bending so you don’t break.

And right now, with Thatcher’s hand in mine, I feel like I could bend myself into impossible shapes and still come out standing.

“Enough games,” Drakon says, all pretense of civility gone.

“It’s time to end this.”

“For once, we agree on something,” Thatcher replies, his voice steady despite the tension coiled in every line of his body.

Under his breath, so low I almost miss it, he whispers, “Do you trust me?”

I squeeze his hand once.

A silent affirmation.

From the corner of my eye, I see him reach behind his back with his free hand.

A glint of metal presses into my other palm.

The cool, small weight of the scissors.

Not exactly a weapon that can win against a gun, but it’s better than nothing.

Drakon steps forward, his own weapon raised.

“Any last words?”

“Yes. Four of them.” Thatcher smiles then, a sharp, feral thing.

“You better not miss.”

“I never do.”

The first shot shatters the air like a thunderclap, a jagged sound that tears through the charged silence.

Instinct takes over, Thatcher’s hand wrenches me down and behind the scant cover of a rusted barrel.

We hit the ground hard, concrete biting into my knees, my palms.

But there’s no time for pain, no time for anything but the frantic pounding of my heart, the deafening roar of gunfire.

Bullets ricochet off metal, off concrete, filling the air with a deadly hail.

I flinch as a spray of shattered glass rains down on us, my breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps.

Beside me, Thatcher is a coiled spring, his jaw set, his eyes narrowed in fierce concentration.

“Stay down,” he orders, his voice barely audible over the cacophony.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

My fingers tighten around the scissors he pressed into my hand, and I see as he grabs a long, sharp shard of broken glass as a weapon, seeming to fully ignore the single stream of blood that glides down his wrist.

Thatcher risks a glance over the top of the barrel, his gaze darting, assessing.

I follow his lead, my eyes straining against the chaos.

The two men flank Drakon on either side, both armed, both moving with the deadly grace of trained killers.

I scour the room for my Biscuit and it’s bittersweet that I don’t see him.

I hope he found a good hiding spot.

Somewhere he can escape from later…

even if I don’t make it out of this alive.

Nerves clench my stomach and suddenly, everything I’ve eaten today threatens to come back up.

It’s one thing to practice self-defense with a friend in a cozy, warm gym.

It’s another entirely when it’s a living person with a gun in their hand, pointed directly at you…

and it’s your life or theirs.

“One more thing, Allie,” Thatcher whispers.

“I love you, too.”

He barely has the words out before he’s on his feet, charging at the men and dodging their bullets.

He tackles the Enforcer first, plunging the shard of broken glass into his shoulder.

The gun skitters across the floor, far out of reach of them.

But not so far out of reach for me .

Even though he told me to stay put, stay down, there’s no way I’m letting him fight three against one.

Even if I can get one hit in, it’s better than nothing.

I tuck the scissors into my pocket and, still ducking, I army crawl my way over to where the gun has landed across the room as Thatcher pulls a knife out of the Enforcer’s belt, using it against him and the other goon he’s fighting.

Thatcher slashes the younger man’s arm, enough to disable him, but not take him out entirely .

Drakon, typical of any dictator, backs away from the hand-to-hand combat.

Equally typical of men…

none of them notice me slithering across the floor, ducking behind barrels and boxes wherever I can.

No one suspects the woman can or will fight back.

And I plan on fully using that to my advantage.

I’m within arm’s length of where the gun has fallen and I reach out from behind the crates.

The tips of my fingers hit cool metal and I pull it closer to me, my heart racing as I wrap my hand around the handle.

It feels alien, wrong, so much different than my fake gun lighter.

But I push down the revulsion.

There’s no room for hesitation, not now.

Not with Drakon’s men bearing down on us, their intent lethal and clear.

I swallow hard, my mouth dry as bone.

It’s terrifying to know that the twitch of my finger could end a life.

But then I think of Thatcher, of the blood on his face, the bruises mottling his skin.

I think of the coldness in Drakon’s eyes, the casual cruelty in his voice as he threatened everything Thatcher holds dear.

And suddenly, my hands are steady.

I lift the gun over the stack of crates, using the sights to take aim at the man I don’t recognize.

I have the clearest shot of him.

I’ve only fired a gun a few times in my life; always under my father’s supervision and always in the middle of the woods while he was trying to teach my sister and I how to hunt for ducks.

Neither of us took to it.

But I’m grateful for those lessons now.

I exhale and squeeze the trigger gently in a smooth, practiced motion.

The recoil jolts up my arms, the sound deafening in the enclosed space.

But I don’t flinch.

Not at the ringing in my ear.

Not at the cry of pain across the room.

And not even when one of Drakon’s men goes down, his cry lost in the din.

A fierce, grim satisfaction surges through me, chased by a sickening wave of guilt.

But there’s no time to process, no time to feel.

Because I see Drakon’s eyes land on me from where I’m hiding behind the boxes.

Somewhere across the room I hear Biscuit bark and I whisper a silent prayer that he stays hidden wherever he is.

I duck back down just as one of Drakon’s bullets pings off my makeshift bunker.

My heart is a wild thing in my chest, my breath sawing in and out.

Even the best soldiers can be overwhelmed.

Even the strongest shields can break.

I close my eyes for a heartbeat, the thunder of my pulse in my ears.

And then I move.

I burst from behind the crates, aiming at the Enforcer, but I don’t have a good shot.

He and Thatcher are in the midst of their fight, both worse for the wear, but from the looks of the blood streaming down Thatcher’s face, he’s starting to lose steam.

“No,” I whisper.

I whip my gun back to where Drakon was, but he’s no longer standing there.

Where did he go?

From the corner of my eye, I see Thatcher break away from the Enforcer, his movements precise, purposeful.

I utilize the moment and take aim, and this time, I don’t hesitate.

One shot, two shots.

The first bullet hits the wall behind him.

But the bark of my gun is sharp and final as the Enforcer goes down clutching the point where my bullet entered—his thigh.

Not a kill shot, but hopefully enough to stop his advances and give Thatcher the edge.

There’s no time for triumph, no time for relief.

Because Drakon comes out of nowhere and is on Thatcher in a flash, a blur of savage fury.

They grapple, a tangle of limbs and snarls; fury against skill, brutality against precision.

And for a moment, it seems like Thatcher might win.

For a moment, I allow myself to hope.

But the Russian mobster fights dirty, and Thatcher is already wounded.

A vicious blow to his temple sends him reeling, his knife clattering to the ground.

Drakon is on him in an instant, pinning him down, the barrel of his gun pressed to Thatcher’s head.

“No!” The scream tears from my throat, raw and ragged.

Drakon looks up, his smile a twisted, terrible thing.

“Drop the gun, little girl,” he croons.

“Or lover boy here gets a bullet for breakfast.”

My hand shakes, my aim wavering.

I can’t think, can’t breathe.

All I see is Thatcher, his face pale, his eyes locked on mine.

All I feel is the yawning chasm of a world without him.

I start to lower my weapon, despair a leaden weight in my chest.

“That’s right,” Drakon says.

“Kick the gun away.”

A sob tears from my throat as I reluctantly do what he says and I slide the gun across the room, careful so that it isn’t within arm’s reach of Drakon.

But far enough away that he feels safe.

As covertly as I can, I reach into my pocket, pulling free the little scissors.

I’m not sure what they can do yet, but I feel better having some sort of weapon in hand, no matter how small.

“Good girl. This isn’t how this was supposed to go,” Drakon says.

“He’s supposed to watch you die. He’s supposed to witness the death of everyone he holds dear. You really threw a wrench into my plans.”

Thick arms grab me from behind and I gasp.

Admiral Brady came from nowhere.

I try to kick free as Thatcher’s previous boss’s hold tightens around me.

Before I can respond, a flash of fur runs past us with a high-pitched battle cry.

Biscuit, my fearless, foolish, wonderful dog, latches onto Drakon’s leg with the tenacity of a pit bull.

Drakon howls, more in surprise than pain, his gun swinging wildly away from Thatcher’s head.

But it’s the opening we need, the split-second chance we’d prayed for.

Thatcher fights for the gun, knocking it free from Drakon’s hands.

Meanwhile, I don’t hesitate either.

Using the defense moves Thatcher taught me, I stomp my heel as hard as I can down on his instep, then elbow Admiral Brady in the ribs.

He grunts and loosens his hold on me, but doesn’t let go entirely.

I try to run as Thatcher taught me, but the admiral is gripping one of my arms still.

I whip around to face him and slam the scissors into the admiral’s eye, whipping around in time to watch helplessly as Thatcher reaches the discarded gun first.

Rolling onto his back, he aims and shoots.

Drakon staggers, his eyes wide, disbelieving.

He looks down at the crimson blooming across his chest, his fingers coming away red and slick.

And then he falls, a puppet with his strings cut.

For a moment, there’s only silence, broken by the rasp of labored breathing.

And then Thatcher and I are both moving, crawling to where Biscuit lies whimpering where Drakon had kicked him away.

“No, no, no,” Thatcher murmurs, his hands infinitely gentle as he scoops my little dog into his arms.

“Biscuit, buddy, you’ve got to be okay. You’ve got to.”

I’m there in an instant, my heart in my throat.

Biscuit’s tail wags weakly, his tongue darting out to lick Thatcher’s chin.

He’s hurt, that much is clear, but he’s alive.

He’s alive, and so are we.

The realization hits me like a freight train, the adrenaline draining out of me in a dizzying rush.

I sag against Thatcher, my face pressed to his shoulder, my tears soaking his shirt.

“We made it,” I whisper, hardly daring to believe it.

“We actually made it.”

Thatcher’s arm comes around me, holding me close, holding me up.

“Thanks to you,” he says, his voice rough with emotion.

“And this little guy.”

Biscuit whines softly, as if in agreement, and a watery laugh bubbles up my throat.

We’re bruised and bloodied, battered beyond belief.

But we’re still here…

together.

In the distance, sirens wail, a promise of help on the horizon.

I can hear the thud of boots, the shouts of familiar voices.

Griffin.

Hunter.

Backup, finally.

But for now, in this moment, it’s just us.

Thatcher and me, holding each other amidst the wreckage, Biscuit cradled between us.

A family forged in the fire.

I tilt my face up to Thatcher’s, as his lips find mine in a kiss that tastes of salt and copper and something else…

something like hope.

“Maybe next time we can battle something easier,” I say.

“Like…sharks.”

He groans, dropping his head.

“We both almost died, Allie. Maybe save the jokes for later?”

I shake my head, lips twitching into a smile.

“Unfortunately, if I stop talking, I might have to actually process what happened here, and that sounds exhausting.”

A laugh bubbles out of him—half relief, half delirium.

I’m still shaking, still a little in shock.

Biscuit’s tail is wagging and Thatcher is here, smiling down at me like he didn’t just survive a literal villain monologue.

Griffin and Hunter burst into the room, guns aimed, suited up in Kevlar vests and helmets and flashlights, but they quickly spot us, taking in the scene.

Four fallen men.

Two dead.

Three with bullet holes in them.

And one—their previous commanding officer—writhing on the floor with my manicure scissors sticking out of his eye.

“Jesus Christ,” Griffin says, lowering his weapon.

“You fuckers are a little late,” Thatcher rasps.

“It seems like you had it handled,” Hunter says.

Thatcher looks at me.

“ We had it handled,” he says, squeezing my hand.

“But it would’ve been a lot less stressful with you two here.”

Other cops file in around them along with EMTs, shuffling around the scene, rushing to the aid of Admiral Brady and the Enforcer before arresting them.

“Hey,” Thatcher says softly, brushing my hair back.

“You’re shaking. We need to get you checked out by the EMTs, okay?”

“Me? Have you seen yourself?” I brush my fingers tenderly over his swollen eye, careful not to put any pressure on him, but he winces all the same.

“Eh, I’ve had worse,” he says.

“So macho.” I laugh.

“I swear to God, if another armed criminal so much as looks at me this week, I’m locking myself in my apartment with a lifetime supply of cookies and never coming out.”

“Sounds reasonable.” He smirks.

“Can I join? I’ll bring the milk.”

I roll my eyes, but my heart swells, and before I can overthink it, I grab his collar and kiss him— hard .

He makes a surprised sound, then groans against my lips, pulling me closer.

When we finally break apart, his forehead rests against mine, his hands still tangled in my hair.

“So,” he murmurs.

“Since we just survived a life-threatening event together, this seems like the perfect time to say it?—”

I arch a brow.

“If you say you’re going to give me a refund for your matchmaking services, I will literally end you.”

His laugh rumbles through his chest, warm and deep.

“A refund? Why would I do that? I promised you a memorable meet cute and I don’t think you can argue that you got it.”

“No, I can’t,” I admit, holding him in my arms until an EMT peels me off of him and takes us each away.

I already miss him more than I can stand.