Jacob charged through the haze and sidestepped right. His peripheral vision caught Stockwell going left, and the layout of the office—sofa to the right and a desk to the left, a small seating area in between. Movement at his one o’clock position drew the muzzle of his 357 Magnum; the hint of blackened steel drew his eye. He touched the Magnum’s trigger twice. Fireballs billowed in the low light, and a man, clutching his chest, got off two shots before backing into a bookcase and sliding to his butt. Jacob put a round into the center of the man’s head.
“Twelve o’clock!” Stockwell sent a barrage of gunfire in that direction.
Seeing flashes coming from that position, Jacob whipped his 1911 left, found the light source and dropped the opposition with three shots. He moved in front of the couch, his feet feeling for objects ahead of each footfall.
Stockwell went left—around a straight-back chair—and behind the desk. “Door at nine o’clock.”
“Copy that. Right side’s clear.”
“Left side’s clear.” Stockwell pulled up short, to the left of the closed door. Her gun high, she grabbed the doorknob below and turned her head toward Jacob, who was recharging his pistol. “On three?”
He curled his thumb, and the slide went forward and the gun’s muzzle dipped. Nodding, he wrapped his second hand around the first.
“One…two…three,” she threw open the door and took a step backward.
Jacob rushed in and went right.
Stockwell followed and darted left. “Contact—one o’clock.” She squeezed off three quick shots. A black-suited man spun around and crashed into the bathroom door before falling face first onto white marble tile.
Jacob advanced and lined up the Coonan’s front sight with another man, at his ten o’clock, on the opposite side of a king size bed.
“Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed. Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.”
Stockwell raced forward. “Hands! Get those hands up now.” A roundhouse kick to the back of one leg dropped him to his knees. She grabbed a handful of hair, “I said,” threw him onto the bed and pushed his face into the mattress, “let’s see those hands.”
Gambrisi slid his arms above his head.
“Cover me.”
Jacob pointed his gun at the mobster’s head. “I got him.”
After holstering her weapon, Stockwell affixed a handcuff to one wrist, brought both around to the man’s lower back and secured the second manacle. She yanked Gambrisi to his feet and pushed him. “Move.”
She marched the man behind a desk, “Sit,” and shoved him into a high back leather chair.
Jacob slipped the three-fifty-seven into the gun’s holster, “Watch the door,” before attaching the snap. “Mr. Gambrisi, we need to have a little chat.” He lifted a leg and lowered one butt cheek onto the edge of the desk. He folded hands and rested a forearm on the horizontal thigh. “We need to come to a mutual understanding about a certain young girl.”
Shutting his eyes, the bound man shook and lowered his head.
“I see you know the young girl in question. Good. That gets us beyond the introductions. Now let’s get to the meat.” Jacob picked a letter opener from a pewter mug and ran a thumb over the tip. “I’m going to make this very easy for you. Leave…Amanda Applegate…alone…forever.”
Gambrisi lifted his head and glared at Jacob. “You must know who you’re dealing with. People don’t hand me my hat. I always get what I want.”
Jacob laughed, pointed at the two dead men in the room and gestured behind him. “And you must see what I just did. You know your security measures. You know how many men you have in this building. And yet,” he held hands out at his sides, “here we are…just the two of us.”
Gambrisi scoffed. “You fool. You won’t get away with any of this.” He leaned forward in the chair. “I know your partner over there’s with the FBI. So go ahead and arrest me. You’ve got nothing that’ll stick.”
Jacob twirled the letter opener and plunged the point into the man’s leg. After waiting several moments for screams to subside, he got up and stood behind the whimpering Mafioso. “I’m not looking to arrest you. You’ll either live or die tonight…based on your answer.” He waited a beat. “And as for anything sticking to you…” he glimpsed the letter opener in the man’s thigh, “I’ve covered that one already.”
Tipping the executive chair backward, Jacob stared at the man’s upside down face. “I want to do the right thing here and give you a choice, a chance to live…something you would not have given Miss Applegate had you gotten to her first. So tell me. What’s it going to be, Mr. Gambrisi?”
Don Gambrisi tamped down the leg pain, set his jaw and squinted at the man above him. “You can go f—” gunshots coming from the short hallway outside filled the suite.
Standing by the door, Stockwell pivoted and retreated, returning fire. Her lower legs ran into the armrest of the couch.
Jacob looked up to see her black shirt split open in a couple spots, as she fell backward onto the sofa. “Stockwell!”
Aviator entered the room, running straight for Jacob, firing his gun.
Jacob ducked behind Gambrisi. Reaching for his 1911, he felt two objects strike his chest.
Aviator leapt onto a straight-back chair and pushed off, while emptying his pistol at Gambrisi and Jacob. He landed on the desk, let go of the weapon and threw both feet forward into his employer’s chest, hurling the man and Jacob across the room.
His arms flailing, Jacob found a printer table for support. Having already unsnapped the Coonan, the gun fell out of the holster and slid under the table.
Aviator’s foot came down.
Catching the shoe, Jacob twisted before kicking his adversary’s leg, bringing the man to the floor. He yanked the leg and extended his heel into Aviator’s crotch.
The man howled before thrusting his free foot into the side of Jacob’s head, releasing his captor’s grip. In one motion, Aviator brought his knees up, threw out his legs and sprung into a fighter’s stance.
Jacob rolled away and assumed a similar pose. A fist came his way. He ducked and lifted his left shoulder, and the blow sailed harmlessly over his head. He came up with an open palm, catching Aviator’s chin and snapping the man’s head backward; the killer’s body followed.
Jacob threw a right cross.
Aviator blocked the blow with his left forearm, sunk a shoe into his opponent’s chest and pushed. He took a step and delivered a left and right roundhouse kick.
His arms crossing over his body, Jacob threw out a left and right forearm, defeating the martial arts’ moves.
His jacket flaring, Aviator leapt into the air, spun around and connected with a back kick.
Clutching his chest, Jacob staggered and gasped for air. The youthful fighter advanced toward him. The HomeSec agent flicked his eyes back and forth, searching for a makeshift weapon. The only thing within reach was an item on a high-back chair. He scowled. Seriously? A pillow? Gripping the fluffy square, Any port in a stor— he threw it at the man and mounted a charge.
Aviator redirected the pillow.
Jacob wrapped arms around the man’s midsection and drove him backward, onto the desk. As open-hand strikes slapped at his head, legs curled around his lower back. Big mistake. Grabbing a handful of dress shirt and jacket, Jacob reared to his six-two height—lifting the well-dressed man higher—before slamming him onto the desk, scattering pens, overturning a coffee cup and breaking a lamp.
After the third body slam, Aviator saw stars. His ankles came unhooked and his legs hung off the end of the desk.
Jacob’s fingers closed around a hard object. Lifting his arm, he swung the stapler; a gash opened up on the handsome man’s temple. Another swing—another red mark. The process played out three more times before Jacob tossed the stapler onto the still form. Breathing heavily, he stepped backward and glimpsed a second prone form to his left. Stockwell. Wiping sweat from his brow, he rushed toward her.
His world spinning, Aviator lolled his head to one side and made out a black item. His right hand reached for the darkness above him, while his left went to his beltline.
Jacob had cut the distance between him and Stockwell in half when he heard the unmistakable sound of metal sliding against metal. Whirling around, he bolted for the desk and clutched the hand holding the pistol, pinching the young man’s forefinger against the frame.
Flat on his back, Aviator put a second hand on the gun and pushed.
Jacob pushed back and the two were at a stalemate. Having the height and weight advantage, he slowly turned the weapon on its owner. The muzzle touched the soft spot under Aviator’s chin and recognition of what was to come flashed across the murderer’s face. Jacob rotated his thumb into the trigger guard and curled the digit.
Before the assassin’s heart had performed its last act, Jacob was kneeling at the side of the couch. “Stockwell, are you all right?”
The woman rolled her head back and forth on the seat cushion, her legs dangling over the armrest, a grimace on her face. She held two hands to her chest.
Jacob’s eyes moved up and down, left and right, while his hands skimmed over her clothing, feeling for blood, open wounds, broken bones. “Where does it hurt?”
Holding her chest, the woman arched her back and glimpsed Jacob out of narrow, tear-filled eyes. She opened her mouth and gasped for a full breath. “Ow! My—” she blew out the air, “my boobs are killing me.” She tried to hold the smarting body parts, but the bulletproof vest kept her hands at bay.
Jacob recoiled and glanced at her chest.
“That son-of-a—” Stockwell sucked in a short breath, “he shot me in the chest.”
Pushing her arms aside, Jacob ripped open her shirt, exposing two marks on black material. “It’s okay. You took them in the vest.” He let out the air his lungs had held for the last half minute. “You’re going to be fine.” He stood and helped her get to a sitting position.
“Tell that to my girls. Right now,” she winced, “they don’t believe you.”
He smiled at her before glimpsing Gambrisi’s body. Aviator had put several rounds into the man. Jacob looked down and saw where two bullets had passed through the one-time mobster and struck his own vest. Any higher and I’d be a goner. Thank You Lord. He faced Stockwell. And thanks for keeping her safe too.
Stockwell shifted on the couch. “Boy, this stings.”
“I’m sure your…girls…just need some rest and tender loving care.”
She lifted her head and spied him. “And I suppose you’re volunteering for the tender loving care part?”
His cheeks turning a couple shades darker, he faced her, holding out a hand. “We really should be going. We don’t want to be here when the cops show up.”
Stockwell took the hand and rose to her feet. “That’s the best you can do? No snappy comeback?”
After giving the agent her gun, Jacob walked across the room and retrieved his pistol before joining her at the door. “You’re one tough cookie, Stockwell. It’s been a pleasure working with you. I really do mean that.”
She half grinned. “Thank—” her body twitched and her face contorted, “you.”
“There’s a back elevator that’s not accessible from the outside. We’ll be able to bypass any police that are already on the premises.” He curved an arm around her lower back, his hip touching hers. “You need help, or are you okay to walk out on your own?”
The FBI agent took a quick mental survey of her condition. I’m okay. “I’m—” her head down, feeling his hard body pressed against hers, Stockwell lifted an eyebrow. On second thought, she draped her arm over his shoulder, held her stomach like a kid wanting to get out of school and smiled to herself. “I wouldn’t mind a little help.”
A grin of his own briefly transformed his facial features. He knew two projectiles lodged in a bulletproof vest did not hamper a person’s ability to walk; however, he was happy to oblige the actress. He took the hand near his right ear, drew her body tighter to his, and the two headed down the short hallway.
Coming to the first corner, he adjusted his hold to better support her weight. Clutching the protective attire a hair below her breast, Jacob curled up one side of his mouth. Dang vests…they get in the way of everything.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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