She straightened and glanced around, utterly confused as to how the panel broke—and something solidly human slammed into her side, knocking her into the pool.
She sucked in a lungful of water and hit the bottom of the deep end before an arm looped around her chest and dragged her to the surface. She coughed and gagged, her eyes stinging from the chorine and streaming so many tears that she couldn’t make out the man pulling her toward the shallow end.
He kept saying, “I’m sorry. Christ, I’m sorry,” over and over as he dragged her out of the pool. She was fairly certain she didn’t know him. At least, she didn’t recognize his voice. She didn’t know anyone with a British accent like his. Unless he’d changed his voice on the phone, he wasn’t Hayes. She knew that for sure.
She barely caught her breath before he hustled her away from the pool, down the steps to the lower patio, and then into the low brush covering the cliffside. She’d lost one of her shoes at the bottom of the pool and then the other as he propelled her along. The rocks cut into her feet, the shrubs ripped through her pants and scraped up her calves. She ran blindly behind him until her brain finally clicked back online, cutting through the fear and panicked adrenaline with a sharp, This is crazy!
She yanked the British man to a halt. He whirled around, his dark eyes a bit wild. She held up her hands and backed away as he advanced.
He grabbed her wrist. “Stop it. We don’t have time.”
Yes, this was crazy. She was crazy to let this man drag her away from the house, her car, her phone. In the confusion of the moment, she’d defaulted to flight, as always. Danny had been her fighter. She’d always been the coward, the weak, fragile woman in need of saving.
With Danny gone, she couldn’t be that anymore.
She yanked out of his grip. “Who are you?”
“I’m the man who stopped you from winding up six feet under like your husband.”
Every cell in her body froze. For a split second, despite the heatwave, she thought she saw her breath cloud with her exhale. “W-what?”
“We don’t have time for this shite.”
To her complete horror, he scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. She drew in a breath to scream, but his shoulder dug into her stomach and drove all the air from her lungs in a rush. She kicked at him, pounded on him with her fisted hands, but her fight didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. He moved across the clifftop in long, graceful strides, easily avoiding obstacles despite the extra one hundred thirty pounds he carried. Every movement was calculated, no step wasted.
She stopped flailing.
He moved like her husband’s best friend, Marcus. He moved like the men Marcus worked with. Like a well-trained, highly skilled, deadly soldier.
She glanced behind them and saw two men standing at the edge of the patio, scanning the cliffside with guns in their hands. And they did not look like the police.
One of the men spotted them and lifted his gun. She didn’t hear the shot, but saw the bullet tear through a bush about ten feet behind them. The shooter started down the hill, skidding and knocking pebbles loose under his heavy boots as he gave chase. The other disappeared back into the house.
Shooting. They were shooting. At her.
Oh shit.
She couldn’t escape those men in her bare feet. Her British kidnapper definitely looked like the lesser of two evils at the moment.
She tapped his side to get his attention. “There’s a house on a private, gated lot up ahead. It’s white with a steeply pitched roof and a conservatory hanging off the side of the cliff.”
“I see it.” He didn’t sound the least bit out of breath. How was that possible? She wasn’t even doing the running and was panting like she’d completed a marathon.
She gulped down air and firmly told herself now was not the time to hyperventilate. “The, uh, owners moved to Italy. It’s empty. There’s an eight-foot wall around the property, but—”
She didn’t have to finish the thought. He changed course, making a beeline for the white stucco wall. He set her back on her feet when they reached it. Her head swam with the rush of blood leaving it, and her stomach felt bruised from bouncing against his shoulder.
He steadied her with one hand on her arm. “Steady, now. Stay with me, Mrs. Giancarelli. I won’t let them hurt you, okay?”
She sucked in a trembling breath and managed a nod. “Do you work with Marcus?”
He shook his head and gazed up toward the top of the wall. “Know of him and HORNET. Never met any of them.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Wanted to talk to your husband. When I discovered he was dead, I came to find you. Thought I’d be able to keep you safe. I was wrong. They found me and now, you.”
“Who?”
“The Wolf.”
“The what?”
“It’s…complicated. I’d hoped you could put me in touch with HORNET.”
She crossed her arms over her chest to keep from shaking apart. “I’ve had no contact with any of them.” That wasn’t entirely true. Marcus had been her rock in those horrible months after they buried Danny—at least until he ghosted her. Now, as far as she was concerned, he was dead to her, too. “They killed my husband.”
“No, ma’am. They didn’t.” He threw a searching glance over his shoulder, then dug something out of his pocket and pushed it into her hand. “And you’ll need their help. Don’t trust the FBI. Don’t trust anyone in uniform.”
She stared down at the silver rectangular object. It looked like a fancy cigarette lighter—the kind you just had to flip open to get the flame—but she couldn’t see any hinges. If it opened, she didn’t know how. “What—?”
He turned his back to her and crouched, patted his shoulders. “You first.”
She hesitated only a moment, glancing in the direction of the house. She didn’t trust the British man but wanted to meet the men with the guns even less. She pocketed the silver thing and climbed up on his shoulders. He rose to his feet and she was just able to grab the top of the wall.
At the suggestion of her therapist, she’d started attending yoga after Danny’s death as a way to cope with her grief, and she was glad for it now. She was stronger than she’d ever been in her life and easily lifted herself up to sit on top of the wall. Luckily, the manicured yard was higher on the other side, a four-foot drop instead of eight. At least they wouldn’t break anything jumping down. She shifted to look down at the British man…and only then realized he couldn’t climb the wall by himself unless he was a real-life Spider-man.