SEAL’s Redemption by Leslie North
19
The phone at the house rang about forty-five minutes after Logan had left. Hope answered while digging around in the cupboards for a snack. She’d been craving salty things lately something terrible, and the stress of Logan heading straight for what was sure to be a trap had only made those cravings worse.
“Hello?” she said, cradling the phone between her chin and shoulder as she pulled out, then quickly discarded a half-eaten box of stale crackers. “Logan, is that you? Everything okay?”
The frantic female voice that responded had the hairs on the back of Hope’s neck standing at attention and her heart threatening to pound right out of her rib cage. “This is Baltimore General Hospital. We have a Logan Miller here in our trauma center, and he’s asking for you. Please come quickly. He’s been shot.”
“Oh my God.” Hope gripped the edge of the counter to stay upright, visions of Logan bloody and battered and clinging to life swamping her mind. “Oh my God! Yes, yes. I’m on my way!”
“You should hurry, he’s…” the woman hesitated. “He’s not doing well.”
Shit!
Shaking and scared, Hope croaked out, “I’m leaving right now!”
She ended the call and raced into the living room to shove her feet into her sneakers, no socks, not caring if the shoes even matched or not. She had to get to Logan. Now. Except he had the car and there wasn’t an MTA bus stop close. She fumbled for her phone again and ordered an Uber, then blindly reached for her purse and headed for the front door to wait on the porch for her ride. Dammit. She’d known in her bones him going to that rest stop by himself was a bad idea, but he’d insisted on going alone, and she’d been too tired to fight about it anymore. And now…
Oh God. Now Logan was hurt badly and possibly at death’s door, and she’d never told him how much she loved him and wanted him back. She didn’t care that things might end badly—she just wanted to try, wanted to take that leap of faith. Now she might never get the chance.
Sniffling, she locked the door. Why did it take a disaster like this to make her realize what she really wanted, what was really important? Not a case, not anything except Logan and their baby and their future together and…
Something whistled past her face and splintered the wood trim by the door. At first she thought it was some kind of bug or something and waved her hand to chase it away. But then it happened again, this time accompanied by a popping sound from somewhere close by, and her brain froze for a second.
She’d heard that sound before, when she’d gone along with an undercover police unit to a stakeout one time for a story and…
Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!
Someone was using a silencer and shooting at her!
Time sped back up then as Hope ducked behind one of the rocking chairs on her porch, fumbling with her keys to get the damned door back open again then crawl-walking back inside as fast as she could, her saving grace was the fact that whoever was shooting at her had shitty aim.
Once she was safely inside, she locked the door behind her and slid across the hardwood floor to hide behind the sofa, taking care to avoid the windows at all costs. This was bad. Very, very bad. Thoughts whirling, she searched for her phone, realizing too late that she’d left it in the kitchen. Dammit. She had to try to reach Logan. It was pretty clear that first phone call had been a hoax, designed to lure her out into the open for the shooter. At least she didn’t have to worry about him bleeding out in the ER. That fear quickly transferred to herself though, because how the hell was she supposed to get her damned phone with the shooter spraying her house with gunfire?
Finally, there was a break in the shooting, and Hope seized her chance, scurrying fast to yank her phone from the counter then rushing back to her hiding spot behind the sofa. With trembling fingers, she called Logan and prayed he’d pick up.
Please God, let him pick up!
But all she got was an out of service message.
Eyes closed, Hope forced her panicked thoughts to calm. She needed to think rationally now—for her own sake and her baby’s. She’d taken plenty of courses on self-defense and crisis management in her line of work, and the number one thing that experts said killed people was panicking.
Okay. Right. She took a deep breath and focused on her next step.
Call 911. Get law enforcement involved. Even if the police weren’t able to catch the shooter, at least the sirens might be enough to chase them away for now. She called in the emergency, and the dispatcher kept her on the line until officers could arrive. Apparently, there was some stupid sporting event happening, and traffic was all snarled in her area. It would be fifteen minutes before the police could get there.
Perfect. Not.
As she talked to the dispatcher, she scanned the room. She could wait for the cops. She just needed to keep herself safe until then. With any luck at all, Logan would be on his way back here too, once he realized no one was coming to the rest stop.
She was weighing the benefits of heading to the kitchen, where she might be able to grab a weapon, versus going straight for the back bedroom, where she could lock herself in and maybe climb out the window to run for help, when the front door handle rattled.
Fuck!
Bedroom it was. She darted in that direction just as her phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced down as she passed the guest room door and saw that it was Logan calling. She scrambled into the back bedroom and locked the door behind her then, slumping down against the wall beside it, telling the dispatcher to hold on then switching over to Logan.
“They’re here!” she cried into the phone. “Clarissa or whoever it is who’s trying to kill me, Logan. They’re here, and their shooting at me, and oh my God!”
“Hope. Darling, sweetheart, listen to me,” Logan said, his calm, cool voice a balm to her harried mind. “Hope, I want you to breathe, okay? Breathe with me. There you go. Good. Just breathe for a minute. Good. Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, then realized he couldn’t see it. “No. I’m okay. The baby’s okay. For now. But we’ve got to get out of here.” The sound of shattering glass echoed down the hall, followed by the jangle of the door handle and a female voice calling out, “Hope Cabot, I know you’re in here. Show yourself.”
Clarissa Jones.
“It’s her,” she told Logan. “Clarissa. She’s behind all this. We were right.”
“I figured as much,” Logan said, cursing under his breath. “Okay. Hope, where are you now?”
“Back bedroom,” she whispered, painfully aware that there was a crazy woman roaming her house. “I locked myself in. Figured I could climb out the window and run for help.”
“Good thinking, darling.” Logan’s compliment made her feel unexpectedly giddy. Or maybe that was the fight-or-flight adrenaline. Whatever it was, she felt like she had a hive of buzzing bees inside her. “Okay. Do you have any kind of defense training at all?”
“I took classes at the local women’s center a few years ago. And I’ve sat through lectures by cops and stuff. Why?” A loud crash sounded from somewhere near the kitchen, and a pit of dread opened up inside her like a black hole. “I don’t think I can do this, Logan. I’m a goddamned writer, for Christ’s sake. Not a SEAL like you. Oh God!”
“Hope. Hope, honey, listen to me. You can handle this. I know you can. All you have to do is stay safe until I can get there, and I’m on my way now. We’re going to get you out of this, I promise, okay?”
She bit her lips, tears stinging her eyes. Of all the ways she imagined she might go, it wasn’t this. Never this. And the baby… Oh God, the baby!
No. Dammit. No! She would not let Clarissa Jones win. She’d already killed one innocent person. No way in hell she’d let that awful woman take out her and her baby too. Hell. No.
Jaw clenched, she took a deep breath and said, “Tell me what to do.”
“That’s my Hope,” Logan said, his proud tone rippling through the phone line. “Okay. You’re in the guest bedroom. What I want you to do is make sure the door is locked, then use whatever you can to barricade it shut. Push the dresser over there if you can, but if it’s too heavy, then use a chair or whatever else you can find. Don’t do anything to hurt the baby.”
“I won’t. I can move the dresser.” She stood and checked the lock then pushed the dresser over, thanking the Lord for the hardwood floors which made it easier. “Done. What next?”
“Hope? I’m coming for you,” Clarissa called from the other end of the hall. “You can’t escape.”
“Hope?” Logan said when she didn’t answer him.
“I’m here. Sorry. I didn’t hear what you said.”
“Go into the corner of the room that’s furthest from the door and get behind the chair there.” He said something offline, she guessed to another driver who was moving too slow, then got back on the line with her. “Stay there no matter what you hear through the door, okay? Promise me, Hope.”
“I promise,” she said, grabbing a blanket off the bed as she went, thinking it might come in handy. “What about the window?”
“If she starts shooting, then go for it,” he said. “But Hope, please be careful. I’m on my way.”
“You be careful too,” she said, her phone buzzing from the dispatcher on the other line. “I’m in the guest bedroom and I’ll be waiting. Hurry.”
Hope locked herself in, then wrapped the blanket around her and tucked herself between the chair and the wall, the window behind her. Slow footsteps echoed down the hallway as Clarissa inched closer. She was mumbling to herself now, obviously off her rocker, but it was little consolation to Hope, who was huddled in a corner, ready to do whatever she had to do to save herself and her baby.
“Ma’am?” the dispatcher said. “What’s happening?”
“They’re in the house. It’s Clarissa Jones,” Hope said, wanting that on the record in case something happened, and the police and Logan didn’t make it in time. “She’s got a gun and she’s trying to kill me.”
The dispatcher relayed that information to the police, then got back on the line with her. “They’re five minutes out, ma’am. You still with me?”
“I’m here,” she said, just as there was a loud bang on the bedroom door. Clarissa had arrived. Hope’s pulse tripped and her throat dried. “She’s trying to get in here. Please hurry. Please tell them to hurry.”
“We’re going as fast as we can, ma’am,” the dispatcher said. “Stay with me.”
“I—” Will, she started to say, but then there was another loud bang on the door. Then a cold, brittle laugh.
“Hope Cabot, you can’t get away from me,” Clarissa said, her tone dripping with crazy. “If you come out now, you’ll make this easier on everyone. Go quietly, like Diana. It’s better that way.”
Her stomach cramped and bile burned the back of Hope’s throat. She knew all the facts about Diana’s disappearance, but she’d never had confirmation of Diana’s death. Until now. Hope could now imagine how terrified young Diana must’ve been in her last moments, with Clarissa bearing down on her, relentlessly, knowing that was the end and…
The window. She could get out the window.
Hope was on her feet, tucking the phone securely in the front pocket of her hoodie before reaching up to open the lock. Except the stupid thing was stuck, probably because no one ever opened this window. Shit. Shit. Shit. She tried again. Banged it with her hand, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Hope?” Clarissa called from the hallway.
Then another loud crack sounded as a bullet smashed through the door. Yep. Time to get the hell out of here. Unable to get the lock open, Hope wrapped the blanket around her hand then winced as she smashed through the glass. Good. Now all she had to do was hoist herself up there and climb out.
Easier said than done in her condition and with sharp shards still sticking out around the frame.
Boom!
Another shot rang through the room, this time pinging off the wall near her head. Right.
She used the blanket to knock out what glass she could to protect her abdomen, then started to climb through just as there was the sound of tires out front and her heart leapt.
Logan!
