Page 116 of Defending You
“Falcone’s no Harvard student,” she said, “but the fact that he doesn’t know anything is working in his favor. Obviously, you’re a thousand times more competent than Falcone. Anybody can hold a gun on a defenseless woman. Gagnon has you in here because you know too much. When he comes to kill me, you think he’ll go to any lengths to protect you?” She let that simmer, half-expecting Souza to respond. But he didn’t.
He was thinking. She was getting through to him.
“It’s a shame,” she said after a few moments. “Obviously, your little brother needs you, but…”
“Leave my brother outta this.” Venom spilled out with the words, but she heard genuine fear in them.
“Ididn’t bring him into it. You can thank Gagnon for that. I just wonder who’s going to be there for Alfonzo when he gets out of prison.”
“I’ll be there. Gagnon’s not gonna… If he wanted me dead, then I’d be dead.”
“You will be when he’s done using you. If I were you…” She shrugged. “Not that you want my advice.”
“What?”
“I’d escape while I still had the chance.”
He swallowed, staring past her, hopefully thinking about what she’d said? Hopefully, planning his escape. Maybe, maybe…
A sharp crack echoed from somewhere outside. Gunfire?
Souza’s head snapped toward the door, his hand moving to the comm unit in his ear. “What’s going on?”
She couldn’t hear an answer. Maybe he didn’t get one because he scowled and turned his back on her, facing the exit.
She snatched the letter opener and concealed it behind her back, tucking it into the waistband of her jeans.
She prayed Souza would leave. That he’d heed her advice and take off. She’d started the conversation to plant doubt, but the more she’d talked, the more convinced she was that she was right. If Souza stayed, he’d be killed right along with her.
But that didn’t mean he’d listen. And if he didn’t…
She felt the cold metal pressed against her back and prayed that, if it came down to it, she’d have the courage to use it.
CHAPTER THIRTY
When gunfire erupted, the acidic taste of fear coated Asher’s mouth.
He pressed himself between the chain-link fence and an overgrown bush. Through his earpiece, the staccato reports painted a grim picture. The second group of mercenaries had found his team.
He readied his Glock.
“Taking heavy fire on the east perimeter.” Whiteman’s voice crackled through the static. “I’m pinned down behind a transformer station.”
“Copy that,” Grant said. “Yartym?”
“Four on this side. I’m circling to get behind them.”
“Copy.” Grant’s response was clipped, professional. “Bartlett and I are in position behind the main factory. Callan, status?”
A pause stretched too long, then Callan’s voice, barely a whisper. “Four—no, five armed men closing from the north. I’m taking cover.” After a breath, he demanded, “Alyssa, report.” His desperation bled through his controlled tone.
Silence.
“Alyssa!” Callan’s whisper was vehement.
Then—three deliberate taps through the comm system. A pause. Three more taps.
“Switch channels,” Grant ordered. “Now.”
