Chapter 14 #4
“Don’t fucking move!” The man barked. “Both of you, back inside. You robbed the wrong motherfucker’s house.”
She took in Milo’s profile with her peripherals. The jagged edge of his jaw flinched. “Do what he says,” Milo said, loudly enough for the man to hear.
The bag of diamonds burned a hole in the pocket of her jacket. She inched her fingers up her thigh toward it. If she could reach it without being noticed, she could throw the bag over the rail and hopefully Brock would find it.
“Hands up and turn around!”
Shit. There was no time to be subtle. She jammed her hand into her pocket, but the man seized her wrist from behind her and whipped her around to face him.
Milo lunged at the guard, but he froze when his gaze landed on the gun pointed at Serena’s chest. Panic fired up and down her body as she stared at the barrel of the weapon.
The guard’s hold tightened on her wrist until she cried out.
She narrowed her eyes at him. Deep brown eyes bore into her. Then a flicker of recognition widened them. “I know you. You’re that realtor. Holy shit. Titus is going to have a fucking field day with this.” He shifted his hold from her wrist to her bicep. “Move inside.”
Her stomach lurched and she rooted her feet to the concrete. She wouldn’t, couldn’t go with him. The panic that had been radiating across her limbs let loose. She yanked her arm, but he held fast. Milo dove for the man’s knees and took him down. The two of them landed at her feet with a thud.
“Get out of here! Now!” Milo barked as he connected his chest to the guard’s and locked his arms in place.
The guard’s hand shook, but he still held the gun, and he raised the mouth of weapon until it connected with Milo’s side.
Crack
Serena stumbled backward. Her palms jarred against the rough surface of the concrete.
She searched the darkness. A gun had gone off.
Who had been shot? Terror exploded in her chest and a deep, gut-rattling scream crawled up her throat.
Milo and the man lay unmoving on the balcony.
Hands seized her under her armpits and hauled her to her feet.
“Go!” Brock barked. She stood frozen, her focus locked on Milo’s body harder than the rottweiler’s grip had been on his arm.
Clouds blocked the moon’s glow, making her eyes work overtime to identify who was injured.
Her gaze followed the line of inky fluid that had sprayed from the spot where the men lay on the balcony.
Blood and marred flesh were spattered on the glass door next to her.
The air in her lungs turned to icicles and her chest ached with the need for oxygen.
Tears soaked her lashes, and she pressed her fingers to her lips on a sob.
No, he couldn’t be gone. Please, god . .
. She took one shaky step toward Milo’s body, but Brock’s hold prevented her from getting closer.
A grunt sounded from the pile of tangled male limbs. Then Milo’s hands pressed into the pavement, and he shifted into a plank position.
“Jesus, Brock. You shot him in the head.” The complaint rode on a gravelly voice.
Brock made a guttural sound and gagged. “It wasn’t me. Peyton did it.” He nodded in the direction of the landscaped yard below.
“You’re welcome.” Peyton’s cool confidence rang through the earpiece.
Milo got to his feet and his attention fell on her. He rushed toward her and caught her face in his palms. “Honey, are you all right?”
Numbness crept over her throat. She’d thought he was dead. Shot. But he was here, holding her. She forced a nod, but her head felt unsteady, as if it stood on a strand of spaghetti.
Brock swung his leg over the railing. “We need to get out. I’ll go first, then Serena.”
Milo nodded. His hands loosened their grip on her face, but she caught his wrist before he could pull away. “You’re not shot?”
“No, I’m fine—other than the dog bite. But I don’t think it penetrated the leather.”
Brock whistled sharply from below, and Milo moved her to the railing.
“There they are! Stop them!”
“Shit,” Milo hissed, his gaze moving to the hallway beyond the bedroom.
His hands caught her by the waist, and he hefted her up so she was sitting on the railing.
She lunged for his shoulders and pinched the material of his jacket between her fingers, but he kept her ass settled on the bar and not in his arms, where she much preferred to be.
“What are you doing?” she whispered. The sound was strangled.
His dilated pupils locked with hers, and the tension around the corners of his eyes sent a quake through her. A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Trust me.”
She swallowed.
“Ready.” Brock’s voice carried over the night.
Milo moved his hands to her wrists and shoved her off the balcony. Her body fell, but his death-hold on her wrists snapped her weight in the air, jarring the muscles in her shoulders.
She shook her head. “No!”
His eye twitched, and he let go. She flailed but plummeted like a stone. The thickness lodged in her throat blocked the sound of her scream.