Diantha Atwood screamed in horror. “Deegan! Deegan, my God, no!”
Mollie dropped beside him, saw the blood oozing from his right side. She grabbed a throw pillow off the couch and pressed it against the wound while his grandmother became hysterical. “It’s okay, Deegan,” she whispered as he grimaced, barely breathing, barely conscious. “I’ll get you to a hospital. I’ll take care of you. Just hang on.”
In her peripheral vision, Mollie could see Marcotte moving fast, removing the gun from Diantha Atwood’s flagging grip and backhanding her to the floor.
“You stupid bitch,” he said, calm, cold, “you shot your own grandson.”
At which point, Jeremiah charged into the room, Kermit Tiernay hobbling behind him, white-faced, taking in his bleeding brother and horrified grandmother.
Mollie made her voice work. “He’s got a gun.”
“I see,” Jeremiah said.
But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Some dark force seemed to drive him forward, and Mollie shot to her feet, grabbing another throw pillow and whipping it at Marcotte. It was just enough to distract him for a fraction of a second. Jeremiah dove. The two men went down hard, Marcotte’s superior size and experience no match for Jeremiah’s fury. He gripped Marcotte’s gun hand, keeping him from firing, pounding his knuckles into the floor, yelling, “Mollie, goddamnit, get the gun!”
Croc jumped down beside his brother, ignoring his grandmother as she tried to push him away. Kermit wasn’t her favorite anymore.
Mollie scrambled to Jeremiah, pulled the gun from Marcotte’s hand even as he got position on Jeremiah and threw him off. Both men sprang to their feet, coiled, ready to rip each other apart.
Hating the feel of the gun in her hands, Mollie leveled it. “Stop. Stop! Marcotte, I’m not a good shot, but you’re one hell of a big target. Who knows what I’d hit. So cut your losses and…and just stop.”
He did, breathing hard. “You’re a bunch of crazy fucks. The money’s not worth this crap. Damn, I don’t know why—” He glared at Diantha Atwood. “You’re going down with me, bitch.”
Jeremiah turned to Mollie, and she gave him a quivering smile. “You’re late.”
“I’m never late,” he said. “I was just in the nick of time.”
The gun was shaking. She was shaking. “Deegan…”
Jeremiah moved toward her. “We need to call an ambulance and get the police here. I don’t know where the phones are. Maybe if you give me the gun…”
She had it in a death grip. She couldn’t seem to pry her fingers loose.
Marcotte watched it, the color going out of him. “Jesus Christ. Her finger’s on the damned trigger.”
“It’s stuck.”
“Tabak…”
“Mollie.” His voice was soothing, as if he were making love to her. He eased beside her and touched her shoulder, a whisper of warmth. “I’ll put my hand under the gun. You just relax and let go. Okay?”
She nodded.
One hand still on her shoulder, he placed the other one palm up under the butt of the gun. His skin felt so hot. No wonder she couldn’t let go. Her fingers were icicles.
“Mollie, the phone. You need to call 911. Just let go, and I’ll get rid of this thing. Come on, sweet pea. I’m here. We’re here together.”
Her fingers released.
Marcotte sagged. He sank against the wall.
Croc had his arms around his brother, his head in his lap, and if he was in any pain from his own injuries, he didn’t show it. He kept the pillow pressed up hard against the wound. Deegan was unconscious. Diantha Atwood sobbed soundlessly, her slender body shaking violently. “Call an ambulance,” she said hoarsely. “Please. Hurry. I was only trying to protect him. Things just got out of hand.”
With a fresh wave of adrenaline kicking in, Mollie left Marcotte and Diantha Atwood to Jeremiah and raced into the kitchen. She gave the 911 dispatcher everything she had, told her she might want to get Frank Sunderland here, and in the back of her mind—far back, where she was still sane and led a normal life—she knew she’d have to tell her family and Leonardo about this one.
When she hung up, she stood in the dark, quiet kitchen. Jeremiah. There’d been nothing neutral or objective in the way he’d tackled the thug who’d beaten up his friend, who had a gun on her. She smiled, fighting back tears. He was maddening. Utterly maddening. And yet, once again, she couldn’t imagine her life going on without him.
But it might have to.
The story had reached its conclusion, and as confident as she was that what they’d had in the past few days was real to him, she just couldn’t be sure it would last.
Then she thought of Deegan Tiernay, bleeding in the next room, and Croc, and Diantha Atwood, and she picked up the phone to call Michael and Bobbi Tiernay.
But as she reached for the phone, it rang. She picked up the receiver. “Mollie Lavender.”