your brother?”
“He’s buried at the veteran’s cemetery in Westwood.”
“All right,” the man said. “Have it your way.” He turned to the man closest to Boone. “Alex, if you would.”
Alex took a bead on Boone’s other leg, but before he could shoot, Milo ripped his way free and jumped over the coffee table, slamming into the gunman. The weapon dropped as Milo sunk his teeth into the man’s wrist.
Christie didn’t stop to think—she leapt after Milo, landing painfully on her side. She saw the gun and grabbed it, pointing at Alex, who was hitting Milo with both hands.
“Christie!” Boone shouted and she turned in time to see Gordon aim his gun at her dog. She lifted the weapon and squeezed the trigger twice. With surprisingly little noise, Gordon slid down the wall, leaving a wide smear of blood.
Behind her she heard a shout, and when she turned, Boone was on top of the talking man, his blood staining the expensive suit, and they were struggling, turning, so that even when she pointed the gun again, she didn’t dare shoot because she would hit Boone.
Milo’s ferocious growls made her turn. The ugly man’s face was wet with blood, and he was screaming. Behind her, the man by the kitchen was on the ground, and there was blood there, too.
She had to focus, even though she was dizzy and shaking, and she pointed the gun at the man fighting Boone. In the few seconds she’d looked away, Boone had gotten behind him. He had the man in a hammerlock, and Boone bellowed as he twisted the man’s head sharply to the right, the snap so loud she heard it over Milo.
Boone collapsed, writhing as he tried to get the dead weight off him, and then she heard another gunshot, too loud. It was the ugly man. He’d gotten Boone’s gun out and was trying to kill Milo. She aimed, but her tears filled her vision and she couldn’t see, and when she went to wipe them she heard another shot, and oh, God.
But it wasn’t Milo laying still on the floor. It was the ugly man, and the top of his head was blown away. She turned to the front door, to a stranger standing in the shadow, his gun raised. She pointed her weapon, but it was waving so much and she still couldn’t see, but she squeezed the trigger—
“Christie. Stop.”
She held her finger still at Boone’s command.
“Christie,” he said again. “Don’t shoot. It’s Nate.”
SHE DROPPED THE GUN AS HER brother walked slowly closer. He’d changed. His hair, which had always been dark like hers was now almost blond, and there were lines by his eyes and mouth that made him look years older. But it was Nate. He was alive.
“Hey, Chris,” he said, and then he was hugging her, and she was crying on his shoulder, still not believing that it was really him. “Man, I missed you.”
She couldn’t talk so she hit his back with both her fists, the mixture of relief and confusion so strong she felt as if the whole world had gone crazy. “Why? Why did you let me think you were dead?”
“I had to, Chris. I was trying to protect you.” He pulled back, and she saw tears on his cheeks. “I didn’t do a very good job of it, did I?”
“You bastard. Don’t ever do that to me again.”
“I’ll try real hard not to.”
She hugged him again, squeezing hard, but then she thought of Boone, and she broke away.
Boone was still on the floor, pressing his hands into his wound. He was terribly pale. This wasn’t good. “Towels,” she said over her shoulder. “And an ambulance.”
She crouched by Boone. “Baby? Let me help, okay? Can you lay back?”
He shook his head. “Call Harper,” he said, his voice just above a croak.
“Okay, we’ll call whoever you want, but you need to lay back so I can help. We’ve got to stop the bleeding, and the bullet might have gone all the way through.”
He looked at her with reddened eyes, then with a visible effort, he sat up straighter, wincing in pain she couldn’t even imagine.
Nate came back with towels. She gave him a glance when she heard him say, “Hurry,” into a cell phone. He dropped the phone next to him and got to his knees. “Let me.”
Christie crawled around to Boone’s other side, and put her arm around his shoulders. He was heavy as she helped him to his back. She found his hand and squeezed it in hers, praying harder than she ever had before.
Nate cut Boone’s jeans off his bad leg. The bleeding didn’t look too bad, but the wound was terrible. They rolled him over to look at the underside, and when Christie saw the back of his leg, she knew the bullet had passed through.
Nate, moving so quickly it was almost brutal, wrapped Boone’s thigh tightly in two towels, and twisted them together, forming a tourniquet.
“You have any liquor?” Nate asked, not even looking at her.
“Yeah.”
“Get it.”
She hated to let go of Boone’s hand, but she did. She ran to the kitchen, almost tripping over Milo. She got the bottle of bourbon and a glass, and ran back.
Nate threw the glass to the carpet, unscrewed the bottle, and after she got Boone in her arms again, he poured the liquor on the wound. Boone screamed and writhed in her arms.
“Hold him,” Nate said. Then he picked up his cell with his bloody hand and punched in some numbers.
“Seth? Get to Christie’s. Now.” He hung up just as abruptly.
Christie cradled Boone until he stopped moaning, wishing she could do something more. “Should I get some aspirin?” she asked.
“No,” Nate said. “It’s a blood thinner.”
“Where’s the ambulance?”
“No ambulance.” Nate looked at her. “There’s someone coming. Someone we can trust.”
“Nate, he could die.”
“He won’t.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, biting back her argument. It wouldn’t do any good. All she had to do was look around her to see that there was no point. Their lives were in danger every minute, and there was no place that was safe.
“How did you know?” she asked.
For a second, she thought Nate wasn’t going to answer. “I have someone at Omicron.”
“What’s Omicron?”
“These men, they’re Omicron. They’re the one’s who are trying to stop us.”
“Some day you’ll have to explain it all to me,” she said. “But right now, I think Boone’s ready to pass out.”
“That
