Armed and Famous. Jennifer MoreyЧитать онлайн книгу.
who still lay on the sofa, content as could be. If Remy was in trouble, the trouble had come after Maddie had left.
Something wasn’t right. Going to the closet near the door, he opened the small safe he kept there and retrieved his pistol. Maddie jumped off the couch and was ready by the door.
“No. You stay here.” He left her inside and hurried to the broken gate.
Moving slowly toward the back door, which was left open as it had been last night, he heard a crash inside.
“Where is it?” a man’s voice growled.
More crashing.
Lincoln peered through the open door. Remy sat on her sofa, one man standing off to the side aiming a gun. The other swiped items off the shelf, searching for something. Both were in suits, as though they’d been on their way to dinner when they’d stopped by here. The one aiming the gun at Remy was slightly heavyset with a receding hairline in an otherwise thick head of hair, the other muscular with dark, curly hair.
They must have just arrived, or Maddie wouldn’t have come over to his house, and if she’d known they were there, she’d have been more agitated. Entering the house, he quickly moved out of sight into the kitchen, and then put his back to the wall separating the kitchen from the living room. At the edge of the wall, he emerged into sight and fired at the man pointing a gun at Remy, taking out his knee. The heavier man went down as his partner charged. Pivoting, Lincoln blocked the swing of the other man’s hand just in time. They sparred a few more times before Lincoln caught him open and rammed his fist into his larynx. As the man choked for air, Lincoln kicked him off his feet and kept him there with the sure aim of his gun.
Checking on Remy, he saw the heavier man held his bleeding knee, and she had picked up his gun. She was resourceful, and he was glad she could overcome fear.
Lincoln turned back to the curly-haired man. “Who are you?”
The man didn’t answer. Lincoln hadn’t expected him to, but he hoped to at least glean some idea of why they were here.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
Still the man didn’t respond, merely looked up at him, waiting for a bullet. He wasn’t going to get one. Lincoln didn’t kill that way. He’d let the law do its job.
“Lincoln!” Remy called, but her warning was too late.
A third man rushed into the room from behind Lincoln and grabbed Remy before he could react. The third man hooked an arm around her neck and pressed a gun to her head. Another suit. Dark, short-shaved hair, pale-gray eyes.
Two more men entered from the back door, both in suits, one taller than the other by just a couple inches, both lean in form, one blond and the other brunette.
“Drop your gun,” the man holding Remy said against her ear.
Remy’s eyes closed briefly, her renewed fear palpable. She knew these men, especially the one who had her. She dropped the gun she held, tossing it out of reach of the man still at Lincoln’s feet.
“You, too,” the man said to Lincoln.
Lincoln was outnumbered and outgunned, but he controlled his fear. Best to wait for his next opportunity. Whatever they were looking for, Remy had it. They had time, but probably not much.
“Give your gun to my friend,” the man holding Remy said calmly.
After flipping on the safety, Lincoln gave the curly-haired man his gun. The man took it and stood.
“Search the house,” the one holding Remy said. “And make it quick.” He was the lead thug. He exuded a false sense of power that stemmed from his gun and the team he had with him.
The man shot in the knee stumbled to his feet, and one of the tall, lean men helped him out the door. The other two began to tear apart Remy’s house—the curly-haired man and the other tall, lean man. A few minutes later, both came out from the hallway, one of them carrying a manila envelope.
Lincoln checked Remy. Her eyes met his before she blinked long and slow, full of dread.
One of the men handed the dark-haired one the envelope, and took over with a gun at Remy’s head.
“Take care of them,” the dark-haired man said. “Then meet me at the OneDefense store.”
“Yes, sir,” the man with the gun at Remy’s head said.
The other jabbed Lincoln with his gun. “Try anything and my friend here will shoot her.”
He believed him. Remy’s frightened eyes met his. These two were going to kill them. He winked at her. She had no idea what he was capable of, and humor could disarm fear. The best news was that dark-haired bastard had left only two of his men in charge of the task.
She eyed him quizzically as they were forced outside. He imagined her thoughts. How could he joke at a time like this? They were about to be killed, and he was winking at her.
He grinned, glancing from her to the man behind him. That man gave him a shove, a reaction to Lincoln’s smirk.
Remy mouthed, “Stop it.” He was well aware of the danger, but succumbing to hopelessness would do them no good.
Outside, he searched for signs that anyone would see them being taken. No cars drove by. No one stood in lit windows. The two armed men were careful. They checked first before guiding them to a parked SUV. It hadn’t been there when he’d gone over to Remy’s house.
Remy was shoved into the back, and he was led to the front passenger seat. He wouldn’t risk her being shot by trying anything just yet.
The man drove toward the foothills, turning off on a two-lane highway and then off onto a dirt road that led to open space near the foothills west of Denver. It was dark. Even darker near the trees, where the driver stopped.
He could hear Remy’s breathing.
“Get out,” the driver said, “or she dies.”
He highly doubted they’d off her in the car and leave all that evidence, but Lincoln indulged the man. Remy looked at him wide-eyed, as though she couldn’t believe how calm he was and how easily he did as he was told.
He got out and waited for the man in the backseat to do the same, forcing Remy to get out after him. The driver got out, too, and Lincoln saw that he’d left the keys in the ignition. That would come in handy in a few minutes.
When Remy left the car, he hit the backseat man’s gun hand at the same time he grabbed Remy by the arm and tugged her down. She fell onto her hip. Lincoln used his foot to knock the backseat man’s wrist. The gun fired and dropped from his grasp. Fisting a handful of the man’s hair, Lincoln rammed the man’s head down against the top edge of the car door, then drove his knee into the man’s sternum.
He grunted in pain while Lincoln retrieved the gun and used it to bash the back of the man’s head. The man went down as gunfire from the other side of the car sent bullets through the windshield.
Staying low, making sure Remy was still protected, Lincoln waited for the driver to reach the front fender of the SUV and then fired, hitting the shoulder of his gun arm. The gun dropped. Tactically moving in on the opportunity, Lincoln charged for the man. Around the front of the car, he knelt and picked up the gun, his gun. The driver sat on the ground grimacing, blood oozing from the gunshot wound.
“Get in!” he yelled to Remy.
She did, while he aimed both pistols at the fallen man and ran around him to the driver’s side, getting in and then reversed the vehicle enough so he could spin it around. The back passenger door flapped wildly before slamming shut. Bullets hit the side and back of the car as they raced away.
Remy’s breathing eased from frantic to just trying to keep up with her heart. She was scared.
“First time they’ve ever come after you?” he asked.
She nodded.