Page 17 of The Captive (The Kelley Legacy #5)
“They’ll let you go if you give me up,” she burst out. “If you do this, we’ll both get killed.”
“One.”
“Hand her over,” Le Clair demanded, sounding increasingly annoyed.
Her heart was beating so fast she was surprised it didn’t rip through her chest. “Rick, please.”
“Two.”
Her kidnappers shifted their weapons. Trained them on her.
Oh, God. She and Rick would both be killed if he went ahead with this suicidal plan. If it was just her, she might be willing to take her chances, but no way was she going to be responsible for Rick’s death. And no way in hell was she putting her unborn child at risk.
She glanced at Rick, saw his mouth open, saw his lips begin to form the number three.
Without pausing to analyze her actions, Lana threw herself in front of Garrison’s rifle and shouted, “Stop! I’ll come back!”
* * *
Deacon’s heart jammed in his throat as he watched Lana dive in front of the mercenary’s rifle. Terror pummeled into him like angry fists, making his gun shake in his hand. What the hell was she thinking? The damn woman was going to get herself shot!
When the silent alarm had gone off, Deacon had figured one of the other men had screwed up, maybe tripped a wire.
But when he and Echo had been sent to investigate and discovered the bodies of Charlie and Yankee up in the hills, he’d realized this was no error.
Charlie or Yankee must have triggered the panic button on their radios before getting their necks snapped, and now the entire situation had erupted in chaos.
“Please!” Lana was shouting, her blue eyes imploring Le Clair. “Nobody has to shoot anybody!”
Deacon could hear the faint muttering of the mercenary who’d nearly aided in Lana’s escape, but she ignored the man behind her.
“I’m going to lay my gun down,” she said, her voice shaking in the cold night air.
“And I’m going to walk over to you, all right?
Everyone just put down their guns before someone gets hurt. ”
Le Clair chuckled softly. The sound sent a chill through Deacon’s body. Lana was dead wrong. Someone was going to get hurt. And the moment she was back in Le Clair’s clutches, Lana would realize the price of her sacrifice.
“Sounds fair,” Le Clair called. “Walk over to us nice and slow, princess.”
Deacon’s pulse drummed in his ears as Lana placed the handgun down on the grass.
The man beside her still had his weapon trained on them.
The dark hair on his upper lip curled downward as he frowned in frustration.
But there was no stopping Lana. Deacon experienced an odd sense of pride, watching Lana walk across the brightly lit clearing.
Her shoulders were held high, her refined features hard with determination.
“See, here I am,” she said calmly as she reached the men. “Just let him go like you promised.”
The moment she joined the group, Tango had an iron grip on her arm, keeping her in place. Without even blinking, Le Clair nodded at Kilo and murmured, “Do it.”
The deafening report of a rifle cracked in the air, followed by a soft thud as the man across the clearing slumped down to the ground, a bullet hole between the eyes.
Lana screamed in horror, the piercing sound cutting through Deacon like a hot, sharp blade. She shrugged out of Tango’s grasp, trying to hurtle toward the lifeless body lying twenty yards away. Tango yanked violently on her arm, forcing her to stay put.
With tears streaming down her cheeks, Lana spun around to shout at Le Clair. “You promised! You said you’d let him go if I came back!”
“I lied,” he said with a smirk.
Before anyone could stop her, Lana launched herself at Le Clair and started beating at his chest with small fists. “You bastard! You just killed a good man, you sick, twisted maniac!”
Le Clair laughed in delight, letting her pound at him with her fists.
She was strong for her size, but Le Clair was stronger and bigger, and it was obvious her attack didn’t cause him an ounce of pain.
Instead, it only seemed to amuse him further.
His chest rumbled with laughter, the amusement pouring out of him making Deacon ill.
Le Clair let her go at him for a couple of more seconds, then stepped back with a bored expression. “Do you feel better?” he asked congenially.
Lana slowly let her arms drop to her sides. She was sobbing softly. “You’re evil,” she whispered, her blue eyes drifting in the direction of her almost-savior’s body.
“I’ve been called worse.” With a shrug, Le Clair glanced at Echo and Kilo. “Take care of the body. Let’s send our friend back where he came from.” A withering glance at Lana, then a sharp order to Deacon. “Get her back to the room. And try and calm our little princess down, will you?”
Nodding in assent, Deacon took hold of Lana’s arms and forcibly dragged her back inside.
She was shaking so hard his own body was vibrating.
Damn it. He recognized the signs of shock when he saw them.
Lana’s blue eyes had become glazed, her face paler than the snow capping the mountains out in the distance and her shuddering was uncontrollable.
“Oh, God,” she said over and over again, her voice coming out in rapid gasps. “I killed him.”
Deacon’s heart twisted in his chest. He forced himself to keep walking, now practically carrying her forward with his hands on her waist. She was so tiny, so fragile. He wanted to murder Paul Le Clair for making Lana witness a man’s cold-blooded execution.
In the bedroom, he set Lana down on the bed, where she immediately curled on her side, her cheeks stained with moisture, her voice dull as she kept mumbling to herself. “I killed him. Oh, God, I killed him.”
Deacon sat beside her. He awkwardly placed a comforting hand on her lower back. She jerked abruptly, wiggling away from his hand. “He said he would let him go! How could he say that?” Sobs racked her slender body. She curled into herself tighter, bringing her knees to her chest. “God, Deacon!”
At least she knew he was with her. That was a good sign. She hadn’t completely gone off the deep end yet.
He reached for her again. “Lana—”
“I killed him!”
Deacon propelled into action, hauling her balled-up body and lifting it into his lap. He wrapped one arm around her trembling shoulders, stroked her cheek with his other hand. “You didn’t kill him, sweetheart.”
“Yes I did,” she mumbled, the tears pouring down her cheeks.
“Hey. Hey!” He grasped her chin with his fingers and yanked it up. “Look at me. Look at me.”
Her gaze reluctantly focused on his.
Deacon kept his voice low and even. “You did not kill that man, Lana. He knew the risk he was taking when he showed up here.”
“To rescue me! This is my fault, Deacon. My fault! Oh, God…”
Her sobs returned and she buried her face against his chest, soaking the front of his sweater.
Deacon held her tightly, letting her cry and shake in his arms. Something shifted in his chest, moved and cracked and made his heart ache.
Just when he gave up on deciphering the strange reaction, his chest squeezed and then a dam broke inside of it.
Pure, raw emotion filled his body, clogging his throat, tangling in his gut.
He nearly pushed Lana out of his arms. The shock was so immense, so paralyzing, he could barely breathe. He was feeling things he’d thought himself incapable of. Worry. Tenderness. Fear. Desire. And thrown into the mix, something hot and painful, something he’d never experienced before.
What was happening to him?
Better question, what was happening to Lana?
As he tried sifting through the kaleidoscope of emotions suddenly spinning through him, Lana lifted her head and practically glued her mouth to his.
A groan lodged in his chest. Her lips were soft, slightly cold from her foray into the chilled night and wet from her tears.
And the kiss was almost violent. He was helpless to stop it, latching his mouth to hers, letting her tongue slide through his lips.
It was a far cry from the kisses they’d shared in the hotel room.
Their noses bumped, teeth clashed, tongues fought a wild, desperate battle for domination.
“Lana—” he choked out, the sound of her name vibrating against their lips.
She didn’t answer. Just kissed him again, while the tears continued to slide down her cheeks and stain his face.
And then she took off her shirt.