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The younger Grundenman had her by the wrist. He yanked Powell to her feet and covered her stomach with one hand. The gun pressed against the side of her neck. She froze. Her father cursed.

Her eyes met blue ones. “Gunnar.”

“Yes, precious Gunnar,” Trey mocked.

Everyone stood still.

“Trey, let her go. Right now,” his father said.

As sirens sounded outside.

“That your people, Fucking Heather? Call them off,” Trey ordered. Powell could feel him shaking. Feel the sweat on his hand where he touched her. Could smell it. Powell fought the urge to gag. “Call them off now.”

“That’s not our team,” Heather said. “Patrol unit probably.”

“From the gunshots. McKellen was looking for help,” Gunnar said. Powell looked at him, he was so pale. And the blood on his shirt—the stain was getting bigger. Utter fear for him threatened to send her to her knees. “Major Crimes will be here at any moment.”

‘Will it be too late for her, though? For little Baby Erickson right here?” He spread his fingers over her stomach. Almost reaching up to touch her chest.

Powell arched back.

She could see the gun. Right there next to her face.

Pointed at the man she loved.