Jeremy was steps from the front door of the inn when he heard it. A fall leaf crunched behind him, and a soft breath was released. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and every instinct he’d ever trusted told him danger approached. He dropped the chandelier to the ground with a crash and spun with his gun drawn.
The man creeping up behind him froze for a split second, which is the only reason Jeremy didn’t end up with a bullet in his brain. Unlike the other man, he didn’t hesitate—his finger squeezed the trigger and the guy went down with a hit to his chest. Jeremy stared at him. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the man was in the cartels.
“Shit,” he muttered. “Fueller? You out there?”
There was no answer from the agent on duty. Jeremy scanned the trees as he picked up the dead man’s gun and tucked it in the waistband of his jeans. Finally he saw Fueller. He was on his back in the shadows, blood congealing on the ground from a bullet wound to the head. Cursing, Jeremy made a phone call to request backup and then wasted no time approaching the inn on light feet. Knowing Chelsea might be inside made him want to run up the stairs screaming her name, but that wouldn’t do either of them any good.
His pulse pounded. He should have come earlier, damn it, but he’d been trying to give her some time to cool off. She had every right to be angry, but he knew he had to get past that anger and find a way to make her see he hadn’t been lying to her about everything. He did love her, and he had no intention of giving up on her…again.
After a few more steps, he was in the foyer. The door was ajar, and he scanned the interior for any signs of intrusion. The table drawer by the door was open, and Chelsea’s gun was gone. The second he stepped into the living room, he saw another cartel foot soldier. He stood guard over the kitchen, watching the back door.
Well, that was a good sign.
It meant he was counting on the dead guy out front to stop anyone from coming in, and he was watching the back. Hopefully, there would be no one else to contend with. Tucking his gun away, Jeremy crept up and locked his arm around the man’s throat, taking him down effectively and silently. The asshole struggled for a good five seconds, arms flailing, but it was a useless fight. Jeremy wasn’t letting go till he was unconscious or dead.
Either one worked for him.
The second he went limp, Jeremy lowered him to the floor. At the same time, Chelsea let out a scream. He bolted up the stairs, not bothering to be quiet anymore, not even debating whether or not to wait for his backup, skidding into her bedroom with his gun aimed for anything that wasn’t her. He’d seen a lot of messed-up shit during his time as a DEA agent, but the sight that met his eyes was horrifying.
Something he would never forget.
Chelsea was on the floor, and someone was on top of her, choking her. She struggled against her assailant, but her movements were slowing. Another knelt at her head, holding her shoulders down as the other man attacked her viciously. The amount of rage that slammed into Jeremy was unreal, and he saw red.
Literally. Blood red.
He recognized Javi as the man holding her down. Javi glanced up, spotting him, and cursed. Releasing Chelsea’s shoulders, he pulled out a gun and took aim. Jeremy did the same. He didn’t hesitate or think like an agent in that moment. He just pulled the goddamn trigger and took the asshole down.
Javi was hit between the eyes, but not before he could squeeze off a shot. Jeremy staggered back, pain ripping through his body, but he didn’t take a second to recover. He didn’t have time. He turned to Chelsea, who was struggling under her attacker with renewed fervor, and when he glanced at him…
Richard wasn’t dead.
This changed everything. If they managed to take him down without killing him, Chelsea would be a free woman. Richard would probably do anything to save his own skin and they could use his testimony to replace whatever evidence Chelsea had. This whole thing could be over.
Chelsea punched Richard in the face with an impressive upper-cut, and the asshole reared back, blood spurting out of his nose. She squirmed out of his arms, struggling to reach the gun lying on the floor. Richard grabbed his nose, cursing. “I’ll kill you, you little bitch.”
“DEA, asshole. Don’t move,” Jeremy said, aiming at Richard, who’d been was so focused on hurting Chelsea that he’d ignored the gunplay three feet away. “One move and you’re a dead man.”
Richard froze, watching him carefully, his gaze finally leaving Chelsea. He seethed with a cold, calculated rage. “You’re a federal agent. I’m unarmed. You can’t just shoot me.”
“Try me.” His finger flexed on the trigger. “Chels, are you okay?”
“Yes,” she croaked. She cocked the gun in her hand and Jeremy stiffened. “But he won’t be.”
Jeremy tore his eyes off the man and stared at Chelsea.
“Go ahead,” Richard taunted, holding his arms to his sides. “Shoot an unarmed man. That one’s actually loaded.”
She stood up on unsteady feet, swaying, and pointed the gun at Richard. Blood trickled out her nose and from the corner of her split lip, and bruises were already forming around her neck. Her eyes held a light that warned that she was close to the edge and not thinking clearly. He’d seen that look in plenty of people’s eyes before. She was going to take any chance at freedom she had, and nothing he said was going to stop her.
Downstairs, men came into the house, calling out to one another that it was clear. His backup was here, just in time to witness this. If Chelsea killed Richard now, no amount of maneuvering on Jeremy’s part would save her.