White Heat by Cherry Adair Page B

language.
    Caught between a Scylla and a Charybdis she had nowhere to run. Stuck with no choice, Emily pushed away from the doorjamb and propelled herself into the bloody kitchen. Her foot, covered in nothing more than a wet wool sock, slid in one of the large, sticky red puddles on the linoleum floor. Her arms cartwheeled for balance, and she screamed as she went down on one knee, her hand shooting out to brace herself.
    She stared into Janna’s vacant eyes. Hyperventilating, terrified, Emily snatched her blood-soaked hand off Franco’s sister’s hip and scrambled to her feet, sliding on the gore on the slick floor.
    The man in black was at the doorway, his gun pointing right at her. He couldn’t miss, she was only ten feet away. “Don’t! Please d—”
    An arm wrapped around her throat, cutting off her words. She gagged, trying to drag in a breath. She hadn’t even seen the second man, he must’ve been hiding behind the door.
    He jerked up his other hand, and she caught a brief glimpse of a knife, a gleam of silver, a blur of dark red. She recognized the knife instantly. It was Nonna Maria’s favorite boning knife. Flexible, and wickedly sharp. She never allowed anyone to use it, Emily thought numbly.
    The hand, covered in tacky blood, started bringing the knife to her throat as in slow motion. The surgical steel blade glinted in the light.
    Brain blank with abject terror, she saw that yet another shadowy figure had materialized in the doorway. Emily squeezed her eyes shut just as a loud explosion sounded, so close it seemed to suck all the air out of the room. The man behind her fell away. Ears ringing, she dropped to her knees as her vision spun and darkened.
    Bull’s-eye, Max thought savagely and lowered his Glock as the now faceless assailant crumpled to the bloody floor behind Emily.
    “You fucking shoot before the son of a bitch brings a knife to the hostage’s throat, Ragusa,” he said bitingly, not looking at the younger man who hadn’t discharged his weapon. Ragusa was still standing with the pistol raised, staring blankly at the spot the assailant had been seconds before.
    Emily was crumpled on the floor. Jesus Mother of God. Had she been cut? There was so much blood on her Max couldn’t tell.
    “I—I was waiting for a clear s—shot.”
    Kicking the dead assailant out of the way, Max dropped to one knee, lifting Emily in his arms. She looked at him from wounded brown eyes, glassy with shock. He could tell she wasn’t seeing anything. Jesus. “Make a clear shot.”
    Her arms went around his neck, and she gripped the back of his shirt in both hands as she pressed her face against his chest. She didn’t make a sound as he stood and walked swiftly through the kitchen.
    “You and you.” he jerked his head at two more men standing nearby. “Search the place. Now.”
    Emily was practically insubstantial in his arms as he strode out into the living room.
“Get the garbage detail in here,” he instructed as two of the security people followed after him at a trot. “I want this location swept and sanitized, and swept again. Impound both Maseratis. I want to know how they found this place and why.”
    He was almost sorry he’d blown off the asshole’s face before asking him questions. Almost. He crossed to the car, which was double-parked and still running. Niigata sat behind the wheel. One of the men opened the back door and Max climbed in, still cradling Emily in his arms.
    She clung to him, her arms wound tightly around his neck, her face pressed against his throat. She took a deep shuddering breath and her fingers clenched and unclenched on the back of his T-shirt before she lifted her head.
    “I—Give me a m-minute, okay?”
    He wasn’t a touchy-feely kinda guy. But he found himself strangely disappointed when she slid off his lap and moved across the seat. Pretty much as far away from him as possible.
She was holding it together, but her bloodstained face was pale and taut, her eyes