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Heather put her weapon down. She had no choice. The area of the house they were in was far too small. And Powell was between them.

“Stand up, bitch,” the man said.

“Let me check on him,” she continued to lean over the guard. Damn, he was young. His eyes were closed. He was breathing, shallow breaths. So small they were almost imperceptible. He was going into shock. She grabbed the decorative towel off the nearby table. Shocking white, it had probably been used to stage the house for showing. She balled it up, pressed it against the wound in his chest. Her phone was right there, behind him, where she’d dropped it. Heather leaned over, picked it up slowly, expecting to feel a bullet in her back at any moment.

She hit the record button. And slipped her phone just inside the bloody edge of Keith’s shirt. He might not make it, but he could be the key to someone finding her and Powell. She just had to keep them both alive in the meantime. She could see the terror on Powell’s face right now.

“He’s almost gone,” she said, standing up, keeping her hands visible. Blocking the young man, no older than Cashlyn or Cara, with her own body. He was just too damned young. And he had a family out there—a mother. Heather hurt for what that woman would go through now. “You are a murderer.”

The man with a scar smirked at her. He had Powell. Had his hand wrapped up in her hair. Holding her against him. “Hey, bitch. Guess we meet again.”

“Have we even met…before?” She was certain they hadn’t. But…she had arrested quite a few assholes in her life. Maybe he was one of them. “I don’t remember you.”

“Eastman was a colleague. Paid real well too. Don’t you remember me, sweet thing?” he smirked at her. She studied him. He had a long scar that ran down his cheek to his chin.

It was old, and it was distinctive, and she was certain she’d never seen him before. “Can’t say that I do. Should I?”

One of his pals came in. He’d been checking the windows to see if anyone had heard the shots that had taken Keith down. “That’s not her, dude. She’s not that cop bitch in Garrity Eastman had us watching. Looks just like her though. Related.”

Garrity. Cop. Related. No brainer, here. He thought she was Zoey.

“Then who the fuck is she?” Scarface asked.

“This is the other cop one. This is the bitch Eastman wanted originally until Steve knocked her up four years ago, and then did it a second time, for good measure,” the guy who apparently knew things said. “This is Steve’s precious bitch, boys. The one he got shot over.”

“Step over here, bitch,” Scarface ordered.

“My name is not bitch, and even if it was, I was never Stevie’s, boys. He was delusional and a rapist. Let’s just talk here. There are six of you and only two of us. And Powell is terrified right now. Why don’t you let her go? You and I can talk. Decide what to do next.”

His pal’s hand cracked against her cheek. Heather tried to stay on her feet, but he was a big bastard. She went down. Powell screamed. “I have been waiting to get my hands on you. Now we are going to party. Let’s just say—it’s all for Steve. You are finally going to get what you deserve.”

“I am going to call Three,” Scarface said, gloating as he yanked Heather from the floor. “He isn’t going to fucking believe this. She’s fucking hot. No wonder Steve was so into her. We’re going to have a lot of fun tonight.”

Heather tried to figure out what to do next. But she wasn’t stupid. They were outnumbered. Powell was a civilian, weighed around one hundred pounds, was terrified—and pregnant. Powell wasn’t going to be able to fight her way out of this. She just wasn’t.

Her eyes met Heather’s.

Heather would never forget the terror in the eyes of the woman who had always reminded her so much of Samia.

Heather just felt helpless.

There was nothing she could do now.