Marital Privilege

Alec raced into the restaurant’s entryway. The odor of gas had grown stronger. It now completely choked out the coppery scent of blood. Any second now it would hit the furnace flame, and the whole place would go up. He couldn’t do anything more here. He had to get out.

Instead of retracing his steps to the back kitchen entrance, he raced for the closed front door. He twisted the dead bolt and threw the door open.

Fresh air hit him in the face like a splash of cool water. He launched into a run, sprinting down the sidewalk toward the parking lot.

Movement caught his eye. A woman stepped out of the Cup-N-Sup, steaming coffee in hand.

Oh, hell.

He veered for the coffee shop. “Get out of here. There’s a gas leak next door.”

The woman’s eyes widened. Clutching her cup, she ran for her car.

He dove for the coffee shop’s door and yanked it open. “Everyone needs to evacuate.”

Two employees and half a dozen customers turned to stare at him. None made a move.

“There’s a gas leak next door. The building is going to blow. You need to get out.”

Several customers shot for the door. Others narrowed their eyes, as if trying to figure out what he was up to.

He glanced out the coffee shop’s window, willing flashing red and blue lights to appear on the street outside, a siren to pierce the air. Where the hell were the police?

He turned his attention back to the skeptical people in front of him, raking his mind for something to make them move before it was too late. “It’s a terrorist attack. Get out.”

They headed for the door in a wave.

He followed. “Get as far from the building as you can. Run.”

People scattered.

Alec moved to the clothing store. After shooing the owner and a customer out, he circled to the parking lot in the rear of the building where he’d left his SUV. He needed to get home to Laura. To get her out before his father and his men found their house.

Please God, don’t let me be too late.

He cleared the hedge surrounding the rear parking lot. Feet hitting pavement, he raced for the SUV.

A rumble caught his ear. A thundering boom hit him in the chest, followed by the whoosh of sucking air. The ground shook. Sound exploded. He dove back behind the hedge. Flattening his body to the ground, he covered his head with his arms. Heat seared him. Debris hit him, cutting his arms, striking his back. The taste of blood flooded his mouth.

He raised his head, peering over the hedge. A ball of flame enveloped the building. His SUV stood silhouetted against the inferno, it and the produce truck reduced to nothing but twisted and blackened heaps of steel.

Hell.

He forced himself to his feet, trying to draw breath. His lungs seized and burned. There wasn’t enough oxygen. Wasn’t enough air. He stumbled toward the street. He had to find someone to take him home. He had to reach Laura before it was too late.

The street looked as solid as a jammed parking lot, drivers gaping at the ball of fire where a strip mall used to be.

He forced his legs to carry him over the curb, across the asphalt to the cars. The first driver hit the gas when she saw him and raced past wide-eyed. A man driving a panel truck rolled down the window. “Hey, buddy. You need an ambulance?” He pulled out a cell phone and punched 911.

Alec leaned on the hood to steady himself. “I need you to take me to my house. Please.”

“From the look of ya, an ambulance is a better idea.”

Alec looked down at himself. His white dress shirt was tattered. Blood soaked through the right sleeve. His tie hung like a cut noose around his neck. No wonder the first driver had hit the gas when she’d seen him coming. No wonder this guy wanted to strap him to a stretcher. But it didn’t matter. Reaching Laura was the only thing that mattered. “You don’t understand. The men who did this, they’re after my wife. I have to get home.”

The guy held up a finger. “This will just take a minute, pal. Hold on. The police and ambulance will give you the help you need.”

Fat chance. The police should have been here already.

A chill swept over Alec. His father had wide-reaching power. Enough power to keep news of his pending prison release from reaching Alec. Enough power to kill a U.S. marshal. Did he have enough power to delay the police in Beaver Falls? Did his money and muscle reach all the way to small-town Wisconsin?

Alec turned away and ran back across the street toward the strip mall. On the edge of the sidewalk, several bicycles stood in a bike rack. He pulled out an unchained touring bike and swung a leg over the seat. Pain shot through his arm and back. He gritted his teeth. Settling on the seat, he pushed off, pedaling as fast as his legs would move.

The wind fanned the cuts and scrapes on his arms, drying the rivulets of blood. Pain burned along his nerves. His lungs screamed for air. He pushed on, piloting the bike along city streets and over hills until the brand-new housing development on the outskirts of town sprawled before him.

It was late April and the trees hadn’t yet sprouted leaves. He could pick out his house among the many similar houses lining the gently curving streets. He could also pick out the dark-colored sedan parked at the curb a half block away in front of a home under construction. Just the kind of nondescript car his father always favored. And in the front seat was the unmistakable shadow of a man.

Alec’s blood turned to ice.

He pumped the pedals harder, racing down the hill. Negotiating streets he knew well, he passed his street and turned up the cul-de-sac backing up to his house. He climbed off the bike and let it fall to the curb. Cutting through the neighbor’s yard, he climbed over the low split-rail fence separating the backyards.

Hunkering down in a copse of trees and bushes, he surveyed his house. Blinds were drawn over windows and patio door. There was no sign of movement. Nothing unusual. Nothing, that is, but the hum of Alec’s nerves.

They were inside. He could feel it.

He scooped in a deep breath. What could he do? How could he fight them? How could he get Laura out of there?

He’d never owned a gun. After escaping his father’s world, he couldn’t stand the thought of owning a weapon of violence. At the moment his protest seemed stupid, naive. What he wouldn’t give to have a gun in his hand right now.

He crept around the edge of the yard, running half-crouched. Reaching the garage, he sidled between the fence and the wall until he drew even with a window barely large enough for a man to slip through. With any luck, his father and his thugs hadn’t thought of anyone coming through the garage. They’d be focused on the street in front.

And on Laura.

He pushed horrible images from his mind. He couldn’t let himself imagine what Sergei Komorov might be doing to his wife—what the bastard might have already done while Alec had been discovering the bodies in the restaurant and evacuating people from the strip mall. Laura had to be all right. If Sergei had touched her, Alec would strangle him with his bare hands.

He punched his fingers through the screen, the nylon ripping with ease. Grasping the bottom edge of the screen’s frame, he pulled it up and pried it from the window. Now he just had the window itself. He couldn’t break it, couldn’t risk the men inside hearing the glass shatter. Instead, he fitted his fingers to the seam between the upper and lower sash of the double-hung window and wiggled until the latch popped. Sliding the lower sash open, he unseated it then the upper and set them on the ground.

Funny how he’d made sure the windows in the rest of the house had double locks but he hadn’t thought about the garage window. It had seemed too small to bother with, too separate from the rest of the house.

He could only hope the men inside hadn’t thought of it, either.

He placed his hands on the window frame. Arm throbbing, he hoisted his body through the little space and lowered himself inside until he stood on the lawnmower. So far, so good. Now for a weapon.

Stepping off the mower, he grabbed a shovel from a wall rack. He crept to the door leading to the kitchen and pressed his ear to the cool steel.

The rumble of male voices filtered through the door—voices colored with Russian flair and cut with a hard Brooklyn edge. Accents he’d hoped never to hear again.

Rage hardened in his gut. He gripped the shovel, knuckles white. He pressed his ear tighter to the door.