Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“What a terrible tragedy,” Sara says, her gaze still locked on the screen. “I hope he recovers.”
“Mm-hmm.” There’s no need to upset her by disagreeing. “Do you want anything to eat, or do you still feel nauseated, my love?” All she’s had so far this morning is a piece of dry toast, though I’ve made her favorite omelet and pancakes.
She turns toward me. “I’m good for now, thank you. The nausea is almost gone, but I think I’ll just eat at my parents’ while you do your thing with Dad’s receiver.”
“Okay, sure. Ready to go then?”
She stands up and comes over. “Yep. Let’s go.”
I take a different route to my in-laws’ house and make sure that my guys sweep the area ahead of our arrival. The hackers are still investigating the explosion, but my danger meter is pinging nonstop.
Maybe Sara and I should get out of town, go on our honeymoon now, instead of around the holidays as we originally planned. It could be an early babymoon, or whatever those things are called.
Sara’s parents greet us warmly, and her mom goes into her usual hostess mode, offering us tea, crackers, fruit, and everything else under the sun. I politely decline—I had a big breakfast—but Sara goes to town on her mom’s offerings while I set up Chuck’s new receiver.
“You need to plug that in here,” he says, pointing at the audio wire, and I nod, thanking him as though I didn’t already know that.
Sara’s dad needs this to be a team project, and I’m happy to oblige.
I’m almost done testing the surround sound when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Pulling it out, I glance at the screen—and ice invades my veins.
SWAT on the way, a text from my crew states. Three minutes out.
28
Sara
I hear it right before Peter bursts into the kitchen, where Mom and I are discussing potential nursery themes.
The unmistakable roar of helicopter blades.
“Let’s go.” He picks me up before I can blink. “Excuse us,” he says to my stunned mother, and holding me tightly against his chest, he steps around her, heading for the door.
I grip his shirt spasmodically. “Peter, what—”
“No time.” He yanks open the door and backs out, holding me—only to freeze in place as a huge black van screeches onto our street and figures in SWAT gear pour out, face shields down and assault rifles aimed at us.
My brain feels like it’s suddenly turned to sludge.
I can’t process this.
Can’t even begin to.
Slowly and very deliberately, Peter lowers me to my feet and steps in front of me, shielding me with his body. “Don’t shoot.” His tone is oddly calm as he raises his hands above his head. “There’s no need for violence. I’ll come with you.”
My tongue somehow untangles itself. “Wait!” I lurch forward on unsteady legs. “There was a deal. You can’t—”
“Back up, ma’am!” the front-most agent barks, and I freeze as several weapons swing in my direction.
“I said there’s no need for this.” Peter’s voice sharpens as he steps up, putting me behind him again. “I’m not resisting. Nobody has to get hurt, you understand?”
“What’s going on here?” Dad demands from behind me, and I realize with a surge of panic that my parents came out of the house.
“Get back in.” My voice shakes as I risk a glance behind me. “Dad, please get Mom back in.”
The chopper is now almost directly overhead, its roar drowning out my words.
“On your knees!” someone shouts, and I look back to see my husband obeying, his movements as slow and deliberate as before.
He doesn’t want to make them nervous, I realize with nauseating fear. They know what he’s capable of, and even though he’s unarmed, they’re terrified to be confronting him.
“Peter Garin, you are hereby charged with federal employee assassination, destruction of government property, use of explosives, and conspiracy to commit murder,” the agent who spoke earlier shouts over the chopper noise. He edges toward Peter with handcuffs as his colleagues hold their assault rifles pointed at my husband’s face. “You have the right to—”
His helmet explodes before he gets the next word out, and all hell breaks loose.
29
Peter
I’m moving before I fully register the crack of the sniper’s rifle.
It’s instinctive, purely automatic.
I have only one agenda.
Survive long enough to protect Sara and the baby.
As always in such situations, my thoughts are clear and sharp.
Sniper at five o’clock, identity unknown.
One agent dead. The rest about to open fire.
Nine opponents in front of me. Sara and her parents behind me.
I seize the M4 from the agent whose brains I’m wearing, and throw myself sideways as I spray his colleagues with bullets, aiming at where I know the gaps in their armor are likely to be.
I need to draw their fire away from Sara, to have them focus on me as the sole threat.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sara’s parents dragging her inside the house. She’s screaming something, but it’s impossible to hear over the helicopter noise and the rat-tat-tat of automatic gunfire.