Page 49 of Holding His Hostage
Sloan moved carefully to the sliding door and opened it, his weapon ready to fire. There on the floor was April, tied up and sobbing as Joanne untied her bindings. He checked the men in the front seat, finding them both dead—Bannon and a younger man. “Tangos down,” said. He moved to the back and took April’s tied ankles into his lap, cutting the ties with his tactical knife and a shaking hand. “Any injuries?” he asked, aware of the strange emotion-filled quality of his voice and the tears that streamed down her face.
She shook her head.
He gestured to the younger man. “Is that the guy from Instagram?”
She nodded, her face crumpling as she sobbed. “He has a big cut on his arm.”
“You scared the hell out of me, April. Thank God you’re all right.”
“I’m sorry.”
Joanne opened her arms and held her. Mac ushered the three of them out of the car as local law enforcement arrived on the scene, blue and red lights bouncing off Thomas Jefferson and the park.
With April and her mother settled together on a bench, Sloan walked back toward the library, dropped into a squat, and wept for the terrible things that could have happened that day. He cried for the loss of Joanne and for finding her again, for her children and the chance to be part of their lives, if only for a moment. Bannon was dead. They’d gotten him. Joanne and her kids would be safe from now on, and no matter what happened between Sloan and Jo, he would forever be grateful.
He wiped his face and stood, turning back to the chaos, and was startled to find a man silhouetted against the emergency lights. Sloan was hyperaware of his lack of a gun, having left his Sig Sauer with the police officer in charge. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“It isn’t over.” He took off his hood, his features just barely visible in the low light. “I wish for Joanne’s sake it was.”
There was something familiar about this man, his height, his build, his voice…
“Bannon was only the beginning. It’s McKenzie you need to be worried about.”
Suddenly, Sloan knew exactly who stood in front of him, and dread settled in his stomach like a heavy weight. “David fucking Regan. I was wondering when you would rise from the dead.”
26
David is alive.
Joanne rode in the backseat of Mac’s SUV, her arms around April. Sloan had called her aside at the park and told her about David’s appearance. “I had Gavin take him to the house.”
“Where are Lucas and Fiona?”
“A hotel about fifteen minutes from there with my mom. I think we should wait until morning to get them. No reason to wake everyone.”
She agreed. “What about April? I don’t want her seeing her father. It will just upset her. At least not right now.”
“Already taken care of.”
It was raining again, and her eyes caught on streetlights and signs, absently staring into the night. Bannon was dead, her clothes and April’s both splattered with blood, the image of Bannon’s open skull not likely to leave her memory anytime soon.
That should have been the end of it, but David told Sloan it was just the beginning, and that made Joanne want to cry. What had she done to deserve this? What had the kids? All of their current strife was David’s fault, David and his inability to keep his dick in his pants.
They made it back to Sloan’s house and she ushered April up the stairs, helping her into the shower, then tucking her into bed. The girl was exhausted, asleep before her head hit the pillow. Jo showered, then picked up their bloody clothes and threw them in the trash.
She was overly aware of David’s presence in the house, waiting, a migraine taking root in her temples as she made herself hot tea. Sloan appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Are you ready?”
“I guess so.” She followed him to the study, and he knocked. The lock clicked and the door opened. She was holding her breath as she looked at the man she’d thought she buried standing in the entrance to Sloan’s favorite room.
David tucked his hands into his pockets. “Hi, Jo.”
She wanted to slap him, but she clenched her jaw and walked past, sitting in the leather club chair as the men took their seats. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”
“I know.” He sat on one end of a long matching couch, Sloan at the other. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know where to start.”
“How about you start with why you faked your own death.”
“I didn’t mean for that to happen.” He hung his head. “You know I was seeing McKenzie,” he said sheepishly.
