Page 68 of Savage Hearts
He misses. The slug embeds itself into the drywall over my shoulder.
I’m aware of Riley screaming, but block it out, concentrating on the bodyguard. I plug him with two more rounds before he’s down, coughing up blood.
The blond bodyguard with the spiderweb neck tattoo appears in the doorway. He’s crouched low, weapon at the ready, finger on the trigger. I expect to feel a bullet rip through me somewhere, but movement from my right distracts me.
It’s Riley.
Jumping in front of me. Screaming, “No!”
There’s a split second of confusion where I don’t understand what’s happening.What is she doing? Why isn’t she staying on the bed?
Then a shot rings out. Her body jerks. She slams back against me with a cry, then drops to the floor at my feet and lies there, unmoving.
The bodyguard crouched in the doorway stares at her in blank, white-faced horror.
The moment of confusion clears, and I understand what happened.
She just took the bullet meant for me.
Deliberately.
Howling rage burns through my soul. A roar of fury rips from my chest. I step over Riley, gun pointed at the guard’s head, but stop short when she groans.
“No, Mal. Please. Don’t hurt him.”
The guard is frozen in place. He can’t look away from Riley. He’s still holding his gun out, but his eyes are wide and unblinking, focused on her.
I’ve seen this before, this type of disbelief. It’s a kind of denial so powerful, it can shut down a man’s entire nervous system.
His brain is refusing to acknowledge what he’s done. His whole being has become nonoperational. I could empty an entire magazine into his chest and he wouldn’t even blink.
“Mal. Please.”
It’s weak. The barest of whispers.
But hearing it, hearing the way she says my name, takes just enough edge off my murderous impulse to rip the guard to pieces with my bare hands.
I bludgeon him with my gun, instead.
He topples sideways with a grunt, blood pouring from his temple.
I turn around, pick Riley up, and cradle her motionless body against my chest as I walk out the door.
TWENTY-ONE
DECLAN
When I answer the phone, Spider is in such a state of distress, I can’t understand a word he’s saying.
All I hear is a garbled mess of English and Gaelic, shouted at high speed.
“Calm down, mate. You’re not making any sense. What’s happened?”
He drags in great gulps of air, then produces a single word that raises all the hair on the back of my neck.
“Malek.”
Bloody hell.
