Harris fell backward into the hall with a thump. Beth screamed.
Reflexively, Hank grabbed the door to slam it shut but a size twelve shiny, brown dress shoe blocked the move. Looking upward, he took in the black suit pants with sharp creases, two empty hands, the crisp white shirt decorated with a discreet navy-blue tie and, finally, to the ice-cold blue eyes of the thug from the casino.
The man smiled, revealing a large gap between his two front teeth. “I was hoping to run into you again.”
Just like it had when he'd taken the field before a big game, the rest of the world disappeared. Hank focused all of his mind and energy on the snide little fucker who wanted to hurt Beth. Where was the gun? The man's hands were free at his sides.
At least a head shorter than him, the man had only one advantage, his foot in the door. Hank wasn't worried.
“You and me both, asshole.” He slammed the door against the man's foot, holding it tight so he couldn't pull his trapped foot free. “Beth, get in the bathroom and lock the door.”
She made a squawk of protest. He snuck a glance over his shoulder. She stood in a kickboxing stance. God save him from stubborn women. “This isn't your kick bag.”
The thug had put all of his body weight into pushing the door open enough to almost squeeze out his foot. Locking his legs, Hank leaned into the door, looking through the peep hole right in time to see the asshole pull the gun from his shoulder holster. Another soft pop sounded and a mirror behind Hank shattered. That explained the location of the gun.
“Now, Beth!”
She hustled into the bathroom.
In the same breath, Hank released the room door and stepped backward toward the bed, his body as far away from the bathroom as possible in the tight space. He wanted the asshole focused solely on him.
Thrown off balance by the sudden release of pressure, the gunman stumbled into the room. He recovered his balance in two large steps and rushed forward with his gun hand leading. Just what Hank wanted.
Sweeping his right hand up and across, he connected with the attacker's gun arm. The momentum twisted the gunman's body and forced the Glock to point toward the floor.
Swinging his body around, he followed the attacker’s awkward spin. With his left hand, he shoved the man's head down while at the same time wrenching the gun away and tossing it onto the bed.
Helping gravity along, Hank shoved the asshole to the floor. Digging his knee into the man's upper back, he yanked the perp’s arm behind him in a grip guaranteed to hurt like hell.
The whole thing took about thirty seconds. Obviously, this guy was not a professional.
Amping up the pressure on the man's arm, Hank wanted to keep going. Another twist or two and the arm would snap like a twig. After what the bastard had put Beth through, nothing would be more satisfying. The idea tempted him beyond reason.
Bloodlust ran high as he turned the thought over in his head. His fingers tightened on the man's arm, ready and eager to do it. But he couldn't. No matter how good it would feel, he couldn't betray his ethics that way. He'd taken an
oath he wouldn't break.
But this asshole didn't know that.
“What do you want?”
“Fuck off, you—” A quick twist turned the man's curse into a squeal.
He relaxed his grip. A little. “I'll only ask this one last time. What do you want?” In a dark place deep within, he hoped the gunman wouldn't answer.
“We were just going to grab her, scare her, but…” He dropped his head and mumbled into the carpet.
Grabbing a fist full of greasy black hair, Hank tugged. “But what?”
“The old lady changed her mind.”
Sarah Jane. “What did she want?”
“She wanted her dead.”
Hank's insides knotted. He glanced back at the closed bathroom door. A world without Beth? He couldn't imagine it. After today, he didn't even want to think about a day without her. Old lady or not, Sarah Jane was about to go down.
“What's her name?”