Fury surged through Piper at the knowledge of who it was bouncing against the wall. Gripping the glass tighter in her hand, she struck out and buried the arrowed point of the glass into the brute’s back. Or maybe it was his shoulder?
She wasn’t certain which.
The second she slammed it home she tried to move out of his way. The fist was faster than her self-preservation instincts, though. A hard fist in her direction slammed into her shoulder, throwing her off balance and sending her pitching to the floor, her hands scraping against the glass that covered the carpet.
“Dammit, Piper.” Affectionate frustration filled Jed’s voice and covered that underlying well of complete fury she sensed.
She couldn’t see a damned thing, but suddenly Jed was picking her up and throwing them both to the side as the report of the weapon blasted through the room once again.
An animalistic growl left Jed’s throat as he pushed her halfway beneath the bed, then jumped across it.
The gun went off again as raised voices outside the room could be heard. A high-pitched male scream sounded, and then for the space of a few short seconds, there was unbearable silence.
Piper stared across the bed, desperate to see Jed’s shadow moving, to see some kind of movement that she could attribute to him.
Without him, she was lost.
She felt lost.
Terror squeezed her heart like a furious vise and left her breathless as she glared over the bed, determined to see him alive. She had to see him alive.
Her lips parted to call out to him at the same moment the lights flipped on, shocking her senses.
Piper dropped down and beneath the bed, rolling to peep from beneath the bed skirt at the overly large feet suddenly rushing around the room.
“Dammit, Piper.” Hard hands shoved beneath the bed and gripped her wrists, and she glimpsed Jed’s bruised face as he pulled her from beneath the bed and dragged her against the hard width of his chest.
Piper pressed one hand against his heart as she pressed her face into his neck, concentrating on the beating of his heart against her palm.
He was alive.
That was all she could think, all she could allow herself to focus on.
He was alive.
“Hell!” Tim’s voice echoed above her with his characteristic mocking frustration. “Only a Mackay could cause this kind of commotion and still fucking live through it.”
“Hey.” Dawg’s protest was a rasping growl. “I think I resemble that remark.”
“Resent, Dawg,” Rowdy repeated the response he’d been repeating for years. “You’re supposed to resent that remark.”
“I’ll resent it when it stops happening.” Dawg sighed.
Lifting her head from Jed’s shoulder, Piper looked around, her eyes widening.
The large mirror over the dresser was shattered and lying in bits and sharp pieces in front of the oak dresser. The window across the room was missing a wide section and spiderwebbed with long cracks.
The flat-screen television was missing its screen and hung lopsided now, its pieces littering the floor. The chair was upended, along with the bedside table, lamp, and clock. Amid all of it, unconscious or dead—she didn’t care which—the broad form of the man who had attacked her in New York lay sprawled, still and silent.
“I know this one.” Tim kicked at a limp, thick leg, his expression reflective. “Marcel Genoa. He’s one of Rudy Genoa’s fists, and Marlena’s cousin.”
“I thought we had that organization taken care of, Timothy?” The question rumbled from Jed’s throat, the irritation in his voice heavy.
A stranger’s voice intruded into the conversation then. “It’s according to your definition of ‘taken care of,’ Agent Booker.”
Piper’s head jerked up as Jed rose to his feet immediately, lifting her along with him to his side. But no one was moving to defend themselves.
“Mr. Samson?” Swallowing tightly, she moved her gaze from Rhylan Samson, Guido Samson’s son, to the men filling the room around her.