then exchanged another look.
“Rock, paper, scissors?” Kane suggested.
“Fuck. Fine.”
Trevor threw paper.
Kane threw rock.
Trevor was given the honor of planting his bloody feet on Kane’s shoulders and being hurled into the air. His hands caught the railing, fingers wrapping around the cold metal. He heaved himself up and over, soundlessly landing on the concrete floor before bouncing to his feet.
The balcony doors had been shattered. Curtains were half open, the burgundy fabric fluttering in the night air. Trevor prayed that Holden had shot the doors himself for some reason, and that the McCalls had made it to safety, but the ominous humming in his body told him they hadn’t been that lucky.
Swallowing his unease, he secured the rope to the railing in a two-turn bowline knot and flung it over the side. The rope stretched taut as Kane shimmied up it. Half a minute later, the ex-SEAL’s legs swung over the rail, his boots met concrete, and he joined Trevor at the doors.
Neither man said a word as they raised their pistols. They approached the threshold with cautious steps.
Trevor’s gaze immediately landed on the slumped shape beyond the doors. His breath caught, then steadied when he noticed certain details about the dead man on the floor. Buzz cut. Caramel-colored skin. Not Holden.
As relief shuddered through him, he slid into the master bedroom ahead of Kane. It was bathed in shadows. Not a single light, no sounds except for the occasional cracking noises as pieces of plaster dislodged from the ceiling. Whatever firepower that helicopter had been packing—RPGs, Trevor suspected—had left a gaping hole in one section of the ceiling, revealing the inky, moonlit sky. Broken clay tiles slid off the exposed roof and crashed to the floor, several pieces colliding with the motionless figure on the carpet.
Apprehension skated up Trevor’s spine, growing stronger when he got a better look at the lifeless body. The merc’s fatigues were soaked red. Looked like someone had unloaded an entire clip into the dude’s chest.
“Holden?” Trevor murmured.
Kane had also made a soundless entrance. From the corner of his eye, Trevor saw the other man assessing the scene with a frown.
Morgan’s room was a purely masculine space, with dark blue walls and a black and silver color scheme. Expensive furniture, but no framed photographs or knickknacks cluttering the dressers. No art or decoration on the walls except for a massive flat-screen TV.
The thick black carpet felt like sheer heaven beneath Trevor’s torn-up feet. Shit, he definitely needed to find some socks and boots before they hauled ass.
“Holden, where the fuck are you?” Kane muttered, frustration resonating in his voice.
A soft rustling came from the other side of the king-size bed.
Trevor raised his gun and moved closer.
This time when his breath hitched, it didn’t ease or get released. It lodged in his throat until his lungs burned and his chest ached.
Holden was on the floor with his back against the wall and his bare legs stretched out before him. His broad shoulders were hunched over, shaking uncontrollably as he clung to the woman in his arms. He rocked her as if she were a baby, murmuring silent words as he stroked her black hair and gazed into her vacant eyes.
Kane came to a halt beside Trevor, a ragged burst of air leaving his mouth. “Oh fuck.”
Chapter 4
Trevor’s heart stopped. He had no words. No idea how to console the man in front of them.
Beth McCall was dead. Her dark eyes were devoid of life, her loose white tank top covered with bloodstains. She’d been shot. Twice from the looks of it, and right in the heart.
“Holden,” Kane said gently.
The man looked up at them with blank gray eyes. “Oh. Hi.”
Shit.
Shit, shit,
shit
.
Trevor knew that expression. He knew that empty tone of voice. Holden was still breathing, but the man had died the second Beth had been taken away from him. Same way Trevor had died when
“Rock, paper, scissors?” Kane suggested.
“Fuck. Fine.”
Trevor threw paper.
Kane threw rock.
Trevor was given the honor of planting his bloody feet on Kane’s shoulders and being hurled into the air. His hands caught the railing, fingers wrapping around the cold metal. He heaved himself up and over, soundlessly landing on the concrete floor before bouncing to his feet.
The balcony doors had been shattered. Curtains were half open, the burgundy fabric fluttering in the night air. Trevor prayed that Holden had shot the doors himself for some reason, and that the McCalls had made it to safety, but the ominous humming in his body told him they hadn’t been that lucky.
Swallowing his unease, he secured the rope to the railing in a two-turn bowline knot and flung it over the side. The rope stretched taut as Kane shimmied up it. Half a minute later, the ex-SEAL’s legs swung over the rail, his boots met concrete, and he joined Trevor at the doors.
Neither man said a word as they raised their pistols. They approached the threshold with cautious steps.
Trevor’s gaze immediately landed on the slumped shape beyond the doors. His breath caught, then steadied when he noticed certain details about the dead man on the floor. Buzz cut. Caramel-colored skin. Not Holden.
As relief shuddered through him, he slid into the master bedroom ahead of Kane. It was bathed in shadows. Not a single light, no sounds except for the occasional cracking noises as pieces of plaster dislodged from the ceiling. Whatever firepower that helicopter had been packing—RPGs, Trevor suspected—had left a gaping hole in one section of the ceiling, revealing the inky, moonlit sky. Broken clay tiles slid off the exposed roof and crashed to the floor, several pieces colliding with the motionless figure on the carpet.
Apprehension skated up Trevor’s spine, growing stronger when he got a better look at the lifeless body. The merc’s fatigues were soaked red. Looked like someone had unloaded an entire clip into the dude’s chest.
“Holden?” Trevor murmured.
Kane had also made a soundless entrance. From the corner of his eye, Trevor saw the other man assessing the scene with a frown.
Morgan’s room was a purely masculine space, with dark blue walls and a black and silver color scheme. Expensive furniture, but no framed photographs or knickknacks cluttering the dressers. No art or decoration on the walls except for a massive flat-screen TV.
The thick black carpet felt like sheer heaven beneath Trevor’s torn-up feet. Shit, he definitely needed to find some socks and boots before they hauled ass.
“Holden, where the fuck are you?” Kane muttered, frustration resonating in his voice.
A soft rustling came from the other side of the king-size bed.
Trevor raised his gun and moved closer.
This time when his breath hitched, it didn’t ease or get released. It lodged in his throat until his lungs burned and his chest ached.
Holden was on the floor with his back against the wall and his bare legs stretched out before him. His broad shoulders were hunched over, shaking uncontrollably as he clung to the woman in his arms. He rocked her as if she were a baby, murmuring silent words as he stroked her black hair and gazed into her vacant eyes.
Kane came to a halt beside Trevor, a ragged burst of air leaving his mouth. “Oh fuck.”
Chapter 4
Trevor’s heart stopped. He had no words. No idea how to console the man in front of them.
Beth McCall was dead. Her dark eyes were devoid of life, her loose white tank top covered with bloodstains. She’d been shot. Twice from the looks of it, and right in the heart.
“Holden,” Kane said gently.
The man looked up at them with blank gray eyes. “Oh. Hi.”
Shit.
Shit, shit,
shit
.
Trevor knew that expression. He knew that empty tone of voice. Holden was still breathing, but the man had died the second Beth had been taken away from him. Same way Trevor had died when
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