CHAPTER TWENTY SIX #2
The sound of impact echoed up from below—a body hitting something solid. Then came the unmistakable sounds of hand-to-hand combat: grunts of effort, the thud of fists finding flesh, furniture splintering.
Their guard's attention wavered, his head turning slightly toward the noise. The rifle barrel dipped a fraction of an inch.
"To hell with this," he muttered. The weapon swung toward Sheila's head, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Finn moved like lightning. He launched himself forward, driving his shoulder into the man's midsection. The rifle discharged, the round punching through the ceiling as they went down in a tangle of limbs.
Sheila was already moving. Her kickboxing training took over—muscle memory built through thousands of hours in the ring. As the man pushed Finn off and rose, Sheila drove her knee into the gunman's kidney. The man gasped, his grip on the rifle loosening.
Finn wrenched the weapon away, but the masked man pulled a knife from his belt. The blade slashed through air where Finn's throat had been a moment before.
Sheila caught the man's knife hand, twisting in a joint lock she'd learned from her father. Bone and tendon strained against the hold. The knife clattered to the floor.
But their attacker was skilled, professional. He dropped his weight suddenly, breaking her grip, then drove an elbow toward her face. Sheila barely managed to slip the strike.
The three of them grappled, each seeking an advantage. The man's training showed in his movements—military or special forces background. But he was facing two skilled opponents, and Sheila's years of competition fighting gave her an edge in close quarters.
She saw an opening and took it. Her right hook connected with surgical precision, snapping the man's head back. Finn followed with a knee strike that drove the air from their attacker's lungs.
The masked man stumbled backward, hit the wall hard. Before he could recover, Sheila stepped in with a combination she'd drilled countless times: left jab, right cross, left hook. Each punch landed clean. The man's knees buckled and he tumbled to the floor, unconscious.
Sheila and Finn stood panting in the sudden quiet, adrenaline singing through their veins. The sounds of fighting from below had stopped.
Footsteps on the stairs. Slow, uneven. Limping.
Sheila grabbed the fallen rifle, turning toward the door. Finn retrieved the knife, ready for whatever came next.
A figure appeared in the doorway, leaning heavily against the frame. Blood soaked one leg of his pants, and his face was a mess of cuts and bruises from what had clearly been a brutal interrogation.
"Dad?" Sheila's voice cracked.
Gabriel Stone managed a pained smile. "Hey, kid." Then his leg gave out.
Sheila caught him before he hit the floor. The bullet wound in his thigh was still bleeding, and his skin felt cold and clammy—early signs of shock.
The sound of an engine roaring to life cut through the morning air. Tires squealed on gravel.
"The Irishman," Sheila said, moving to the window. She caught a glimpse of a black SUV fishtailing onto the access road, disappearing into a cloud of dust.
He was getting away. The man who'd ordered her mother's death, who'd nearly killed her father, was escaping.
But as she looked at Gabriel's battered face, at the blood seeping through his pants, she knew pursuit would have to wait. Her father needed medical attention. Now.
"Finn, call it in," she said, already pulling off her belt to make a tourniquet. "We need medics. And backup."
"On it." He pulled out the phone they'd retrieved from their unconscious attacker.
Gabriel's hand caught Sheila's wrist as she worked. "Go," he said, struggling to get the word out. "You have to… you have to…"
"Just relax, okay? I'm not leaving you to bleed out."
His grip tightened despite his weakness. "That man… he's the key. He knows…" Gabriel swallowed hard and closed his eyes, clearly in pain.
Sheila felt a flutter of fear. "Stop talking, Dad. I'm staying with you."
Gabriel suddenly shoved her with surprising strength, his face contorting with both pain. "Go!" he croaked. "He's… he's…" He closed his eyes, and for a moment Sheila thought he'd passed out. Then he opened his eyes again and fixed her with an earnest stare.
"Please," he said.
Sheila wished she could be in two places at once.
"Sheila," Finn said gently, touching her arm. "I've got him."
Sheila stared at her father, whose eyes willed her to leave and go after the Irishman. She hated everything about this, and she knew that if she left now and her father didn't make it, she would never forgive herself.
If, on the other hand, she let the Irishman get away, which might prevent her from ever getting to the bottom of what happened to her mother…
"Okay," she said, gazing hard into her father's eyes. "But don't you dare die on me."
He blinked hard in acknowledgment. She squeezed her father's hand once, then rose. The unconscious gunman's keys lay where they'd fallen during the fight.
"Out back," Gabriel croaked. "Car…"
Sheila grabbed the keys, already moving.