Page 32 of The Captive (The Kelley Legacy #5)

W hen the van came to a stop three hours later, the slam of the brakes nearly sent Lana flying off the bench. She steadied herself and shot a rueful look at Deacon. “This is it.”

He met her gaze. “Yes it is.”

Car doors slammed, followed by the sound of footsteps. A tremor of fear dashed up her spine. Lana lowered her hands to her belly, covering the small bump protectively. Deacon didn’t miss the gesture.

“I won’t let them hurt you,” he said quietly.

She sighed. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do to stop it. Not this time.”

Pure helplessness exploded in his eyes. When he looked at her like that, she almost believed he might love her.

That the heartless words he’d hurled her way last night had been nothing but a last-ditch attempt to avoid his true feelings.

But she knew better. Deacon wasn’t one to mince words.

They’d spent two months together, long enough for her to get to know him, to grasp that he said what he meant, even if it wasn’t something the other person wanted to hear.

He didn’t love her. But at least she got comfort from the knowledge that he would do everything in his power to protect her and their baby.

“When this thing goes down, I want you to stick close to me,” Deacon said. “Don’t move an inch unless I tell you, okay?”

Swallowing, she nodded. “Okay.”

Footsteps approached the doors, which were thrown open. Lana blinked from the sudden flood of light. Kilo’s large body loomed in front of them. His nose was caked with dried blood, and the expression on his face revealed the anger he still felt over Deacon besting him.

“Get out,” he ordered.

Lana exchanged a look with Deacon. He gave a small nod.

She climbed out of the van and immediately examined her surroundings.

They were in an abandoned industrial area, judging from the crumbling brick buildings and random pieces of machinery scattered on the gravel.

A long line of storage units stretched out to her right, but many of the doors gaped open, revealing dark empty spaces.

There was some metal scaffolding to the left, broken and rusty, and then a whole lot of nothing.

Just a paved lot that ended after a hundred yards or so, and a field with yellowing grass and a sagging chain-link fence.

Lana turned as Deacon hopped out of the van, his bound hands clasped to his stomach. Like her, he did a thorough sweep of the area. His lips thinned, as if he weren’t happy with what he saw.

Le Clair stalked up, cell phone in hand. “Any minute now,” he said with a smile. He glanced at his men. “Make sure we’re secure.”

The men headed off, weapons drawn, in the direction of the deserted buildings. One by one, voices crackled from Le Clair’s radio to declare, “Clear.” Lana recognized each voice, noticing that Echo had yet to report in. She’d seen him creep around to one of the farther storage units.

Le Clair frowned, clicked on the radio. “Echo, check in,” he barked.

A moment of static, then, “Clear.”

Le Clair’s features relaxed. He ordered Echo and Tango to station themselves by the buildings, then barked for Kilo and Oscar to return to the vehicles.

Tension gathered in Lana’s body. Le Clair’s hawklike gaze scanned the area, focusing more than once on the pebble-littered road they’d driven in on. He was on guard. Impatient.

Her father would be coming from that direction. And if Deacon’s warning to the FBI had gone unheeded, there was a great chance her dad wouldn’t be leaving here alive.

Seconds ticked by painfully slowly. Le Clair glanced at his watch. Kilo and Oscar were ready with the rifles.

A minute passed. Two. Three. Lana’s ears perked as the distant hum of a car engine broke through the cold afternoon air.

She craned her neck, peered at the gravel road, gasping when the front bumper of a beige Mercedes came into view.

She didn’t recognize the car, but it was a model her father enjoyed.

Her pulse kicked up a notch.

“About time,” Le Clair muttered.

The Mercedes crept closer, driving unbearably slowly. The nearer it got, the faster Lana’s heart thumped in her chest. She could just make out the driver—male, salt-and-pepper head, a tailored black suit jacket.

Her father.

She swallowed down a lump of panic. He’d come alone. Damn it! Deacon’s warning had fallen on deaf ears.

The Mercedes stopped twenty yards from the van.

Lana’s heart was in her throat as she watched her father get out of the car.

The very sight of him shocked her to the core.

He looked nothing like the man she remembered, the man she’d seen only six months ago.

His face was thinner, haggard and weary defeat swam in his eyes.

He was in his late fifties, but suddenly seemed far older. Gaunt and broken and completely beaten.

Lana took a step, then thought better of it. Deacon’s order to stay put resonated in her mind, but she wanted so badly to alert her father of her presence. Le Clair and Tango were shielding her from his view.

Le Clair nodded at Kilo. “Search him.”

Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, Kilo strode to the car.

As Lana watched, Kilo patted her father down with enormous hands, then proceeded to inspect the interior of the Mercedes.

She heard some muffled words. Her father bent through the open driver’s window and released the trunk lever.

Kilo rounded the car, lifted open the trunk and slammed it down a second later.

With a satisfied nod, Kilo rejoined the group. “He’s clean. So’s the car.”

Le Clair glanced at Lana’s father. “Walk toward us, Senator. Do it slowly.”

“I’m not doing a damn thing until I see my daughter,” Hank said loudly.

“As you like.” With a gracious sweep of the arm, Le Clair stepped aside and gave Hank what he wanted.

Tears filled Lana’s eyes the moment she met her father’s gaze.

Hank stumbled, leaning against the car for support. “Lana! Baby, are you all right?” he shouted at her.

Her throat was so tight she couldn’t get a word out. Instead, she nodded, while tears ran down her cheeks.

“Safe and sound, as you can see,” Le Clair said impatiently. “Now walk toward us. Hands on your head.”

Hank lifted his arms and clasped his fingers together at the crown of his head.

He took a step forward, as Lana battled the tears seeping from her eyes.

She wanted to shout for him to turn around, drive away, save himself, but the hinge of her jaw seemed to be welded together, her teeth chattering as the fear and horror of these past two months flooded her body like water from a dam that had broken inside her.

The closer her father got, the faster her heart raced.

No. She couldn’t let this happen. She didn’t know why Le Clair hadn’t shot her dad outright, but it wouldn’t be long before he did.

Wouldn’t be long before her father lay on the cold ground with a bullet hole between the eyes.

Like Rick Garrison. Oh, God. She couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t—

Chaos!

Lana barely had time to blink before the entire area erupted in commotion. Men seemed to pop out of nowhere like cardboard targets in a shooting range. They swarmed out of the buildings behind them, weapons drawn from all directions as shouts for Le Clair to surrender echoed in the deserted area.

From the corner of her eye, Lana saw Echo being dragged out of a storage unit, arms cuffed behind his back.

And then an explosion of gunshots ripped through the air.

Beside her, Kilo dove for cover behind the SUV, his rifle spitting out bullets that clanged against the metal scaffolding and bounced off the pavement.

Tango rolled to the ground, shooting at the approaching attackers.

Lana’s pulse shrieked, her ears ringing. Her feet were suddenly yanked out from under her, just as a bullet slammed into the side panel of the van, right where her head had been. Dazed, she found herself staring at the gravel, while a heavy weight pressed down on her back.

“Stay down,” a voice hissed in her ear, and she realized what had happened. Deacon had thrown her to the ground. He was keeping her out of the crossfire.

A loud thud came from beside them. Kilo had fallen to the ground. She turned, saw the hole in his forehead, the lifeless expression on his face. Sick satisfaction coursed through her. He was dead.

She heard an enraged roar, and when she peered up from under Deacon’s heavy arm, her body became paralyzed with panic.

Le Clair was charging her father like an incensed bull looking to gore a matador.

A blur of movement flashed before her eyes.

Blue jackets with the letters FBI blazed across them.

The glint of sunlight reflecting off the Mercedes’ windshield.

Le Clair’s arm lifting, gun raising, aimed at her father.

“No!” Lana screamed.

She struggled to get out from the unrelenting shield of Deacon’s body, but he forced her down, one strong arm pinning her by the collarbone.

“Put your weapon down!” Loud voices barked orders at Le Clair, but the man was beyond listening.

Lana couldn’t see his face, but she could imagine his expression. Fury. Desperation. He’d come here to do a job, and he would finish it, no matter the cost.

She tried to peer around Deacon again. “Don’t move,” he ordered into her ear. “Stay down until it’s over.”

Another gunshot cracked in the air, followed by a second one.

Fear jammed in her chest. With a sudden jolt of strength, she shoved Deacon’s arm off and rolled to the side, lifting her head just in time to see Le Clair tumble face-first to the pavement.

A red stain bloomed on the back of his shirt.

Relief crashed into her. Le Clair had been shot.

Not her dad. Not—a crushing weight of horror nearly knocked the wind right out of her.

Her father’s motionless body lay on the gravel.

Nausea rose up her throat. “Dad!”

She heard Deacon’s rough protest. Ignored him. Stumbled to her feet.