Uh...okay.

Because the lower floor might've looked like your typical custom chopper shop, but this second floor? Well, this second floor looked like what she imagined NORAD must look like. Stacked two-high against the far wall was a bank of ma.s.sive computer screens, all blinking and buzzing, showing satellite images and real-time feeds from places that had to be on the other side of the globe. And sitting in front of that bank of computers, iPod earbuds shoved in his ears, head bobbing to whatever music he was listening to while tossing a pencil in the air, was Ace. The guy she'd been led to believe was the Black Knights' resident wiring expert. She immediately adjusted her thinking on that score. Especially when he turned and his jaw slung open like there was a two hundred-pound weight attached to his bottom teeth. He yanked the earbuds from his ears. "Delilah? Wh-what the h.e.l.l are you doing here?"

She swallowed, shaking her head because she just couldn't take it all in. "M-me?" she finally sputtered. "The better question is what the h.e.l.l are you guys doing here? What is this place?" She was starting to get the feeling she'd been a lot closer than she ever could've imagined with her earlier comparison to Area 51.

"No time for explanations," Mac cut in, stomping over to Ace. "We need to find the number for our contact in the Coast Guard."

"Why?" Ace asked him, though his astonished expression was still glued to Delilah's face.

As Bill filled him in, Delilah made sure she kept her eyes focused straight ahead. Not that the urge to look around wasn't intense, mind you. It was really, really intense. But if she wasn't mistaken, this place looked suspiciously like a secret government installation. And those unlucky civilians who stumbled upon secret government installations usually found themselves six feet under, didn't they? Well, they did in the movies-which was her only point of reference since she'd never seen the likes of anything like this in real life-so, yup, she'd just go with what she knew and focus on seeing as little as possible.

Holy s.h.i.t. Holy, holy, holy s.h.i.t!

A chill that had nothing to do with her wet clothes or the cool air of the warehouse slipped up her spine. With half an ear, she listened while Ace contacted the Coast Guard. With the other half, she concentrated on the pulsing sound of all her blood rushing to her head. She couldn't believe it. The Black Knights are some kind of- "He says he can't raise the ship." Ace turned away from the computers, lowering his cell phone from his ear.

Delilah watched as the two men exchanged a look. "Call Washington," Mac instructed. "Let him know the situation. Tell him to alert the Ludington police." Then, Mac said four words she never thought she'd hear outside an AMC movie theater. "And get the chopper..."

Chapter Twenty-five.

Harbor View Marina, Ludington, Michigan 9:27 a.m.

What the h.e.l.l is the matter with me? Bill thought as he secured the last rope around a cleat on the weathered dock. Eve Edens had professed her love, her no strings attached love, almost two hours ago, and he'd yet to do or say anything in response.

And, yeah, yeah. So, they'd been a little busy fighting a raging storm that'd battered them unmercifully until it finally decided to blow itself out a mere five minutes before they pulled into port. But that was only a small part of the reason why it'd been Mum City inside the cramped wheelhouse. The truth was, he'd kept his mouth shut was because he didn't know what to say to something like that. A part of him gloried in her confession. She loved him! Everybody wanted to be loved, right? According to Lennon and McCartney, that's all you needed. On the other hand-there's always another hand, isn't there?-a part of him was- "Your turn," Eve said, cutting his thought short. She'd emerged from the cabin after donning a dry T-shirt and a clean pair of jeans. Standing at the sailboat's rail, she was in the process of pulling her damp hair back into a ponytail. The way her arms were raised, he could see the faint outline of her erect nipples. Those sweet nipples. Those sensitive nipples. Those nipples he's sucked and laved and licked and...

s.h.i.t. Now was not the time to be thinking about her nipples. If he started thinking about her nipples, next thing you know he'd be thinking about getting her back into bed. And a man shouldn't think about getting a woman who'd just confessed her love for him back into bed unless he had something more than slack-jawed silence to offer her.

"I, uh..." He had a tough time meeting her gaze. Her eyes were too sad. Too hurt. Too...something he didn't want to acknowledge. "I think I'll go make sure Chris left his extra truck for us." Chris was an old high school friend who'd moved from the city to Ludington to become a fishing guide. Before they'd pulled away from the dock back at Belmont Harbor, Bill had called and asked the man to leave his spare truck in the parking lot. "Also, I need to stop at the yacht club, if it's open, to call back to BKI. Let the guys know we made it," he told her, shuffling his flip-flops against the slats of the dock. "Why don't you get everything secured on the boat, and after I've, uh, checked on everything, I'll come back and help you with the bags."

Silence met his suggestion. And he was forced to raise his eyes. She was just standing there at the rail staring at him, chewing on a hangnail. "Billy," she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't tell you that to make you-"

"I know," he cut her off, feeling like a complete a.s.s-hat for f.u.c.king this thing up. And he was f.u.c.king it up. But, G.o.dd.a.m.nit! He didn't know what to say to her! His feelings for her were...confusing.

Yeah, he mentally snorted. Which is like saying advanced nuclear physics is confusing...

"O-okay." She nodded, still chewing on that nail.

Blowing out a breath-he was quickly becoming disgusted with himself-he regarded her for a second more before turning to traipse up the dock. His flip-flops made a slapping sound that echoed out over the quiet harbor. For all the fury of the storm, its pa.s.sing had brought on an eerie calm, made even more so by the fact that the marina was deserted.

Yeah, because no sane person would be caught dead out on the lake on a day like this...

Jesus Christ, what a morning! If he lived to be one hundred and eighty, he hoped he never had to experience another like it. When he closed his eyes, the image of Eve's orange life vest and black hair adrift out in the middle of all that frothing water blazed on the backs of his eyelids. It caused his heart to stutter, his ulcer to start complaining, and his brain to stumble over a series of questions-most of them along the vein of: If you don't love her back, then why does that memory haunt you?

s.h.i.t on a stick! What a morning, indeed...

He shook his head as he stepped off the end of the dock, traipsing up a small slope toward the large, empty parking lot. The air smelled crisp and clean, like wet evergreens and cool, clear water. It looked like his buddy Chris had come through for them. An old, beat-up, blue-well it used be blue, but now it was mostly rust-Chevy sat parked at the far end of the lot. He decided to pull it closer, so they wouldn't have as far to walk with the bags.

I regret not telling you right from the very start that I still love you. And I will always love you...Eve's words whispered through his mixed-up, mashed-up skull for about the thousandth time. And even though they caused warmth to pool in his chest and spread out through his limbs, he still didn't know how to respond to them.

Was he a coward? Had he been accusing Eve of being lily-livered when all this time he was the one who needed to man-up and grow some b.a.l.l.s? Was he so afraid of being hurt again that he wasn't willing to risk- The sound of squealing tires invaded his thoughts. He glanced up to see a dark SUV careening around the corner into the parking lot, and all his warrior's instincts sprang to life. But, it was too late...

f.u.c.k! He was late!

Jeremy torqued the wheel of the big SUV, the second one he'd been forced to borrow from Devon Price since the first one had c.r.a.pped out on him about two-thirds of the way to Ludington. And then because, you know, he couldn't exactly call AAA to come give him a tow since that would mean a paper trail, he'd been forced to sit on the side of the road for three f.u.c.king hours waiting for one of Devon's flunkies to deliver him a new vehicle.

Hence, he was late.

But not too late, he a.s.sured himself. Because if he wasn't mistaken, that was Bill Reichert standing in the middle of the parking lot, which meant Eve couldn't be too far behind. And if he could just get them both back out on the sailboat, maybe he could tie them up, which would give him time to hotwire a motorboat, and then everything could still go as planned.

Yeah, this thing can still work out...

Stepping on the brakes, his stomach sat where his heart should be and his heart throbbed in his throat, he flipped off the safety on the stupid, nickel-plated 1911 Devon had given him.

Why the h.e.l.l g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers thought bright, shiny, nearly glow-in-the-dark guns were something to be coveted he'd never know. Then again, now was not the time to contemplate the idiocy of the thugs who made up the Black Apostles, because Reichert was lunging toward the ratty old truck parked fifteen feet away, and Jeremy couldn't let the man secure transportation. s.h.i.t would go downhill fast if he allowed that to happen.

Throwing open the driver's side door, he pointed the pistol straight at Reichert's bare chest and yelled, "Halt! Stop right there!"

But Reichert didn't listen to him. The idiotic sonofab.i.t.c.h just kept on racing for the truck, and Jeremy's plan went up in a puff of smoke. He was left with only two options. He could kill Bill and Eve right here in the parking lot, leaving behind a pile of evidence with the hope there wasn't enough to lead back to him, with the hope that with Devon's alibis and cars and weapons he could still slip the noose. Or he could give up and go home. In the first option, he stood a chance, a small chance, but still a chance of coming out of this thing on top. In the second option? Well, in the second option he'd be dead. Devon Price didn't make idle threats.

He went with door number one and squeezed off two rounds in quick succession...

Boom! Boom!

Eve froze, the hair on the back of her neck tw.a.n.ging upright.

She knew that sound. Ever since she'd begun taking shooting lessons, she knew that sound, sometimes even heard it in her sleep.

"Billy..." she whispered his name like a prayer before reality kicked in and she raced for the door to the cabin. Wrenching it open, she managed to pull it from its top hinge, and it slammed back against the side of the cabin with a loud bang. She didn't bother using the stairs as her heart grew wings and attempted to fly out of her mouth, she simply jumped down into the hold, stumbling when her foot caught on the last tread. Immediately righting herself, she reached for Billy's duffel in the small booth.

"Please, please, please..." It was a chant she breathed over and over as she dug through his gear and then..."Yes!"...Her hand landed on the hard outline of a handgun. She wrenched it from the bag, relieved to find it was a Glock 17, a pistol she'd trained with. Pulling out the clip, she wasn't surprised to find it full. Slamming it back into place with the edge of her palm, she turned to race up the stairs when something tucked into the mesh side compartment of Billy's bag caught her attention. It was the little snub-nosed Smith & Wesson she'd used at Dale's house. Quickly grabbing it, she shoved it into the waistband at the small of her back, before climbing the stairs, running across the deck, and taking a flying leap onto the dock.

Crack! The wood on the pier splintered beneath the force of her fall, and her right ankle and left wrist screamed out their objections. She ignored them both as she pushed up and ran. Ran like she'd never run before toward the end of the pier and up the small embankment that led to the parking lot. She topped the rise in time to see Billy dragging himself behind an old beat-up truck while someone with dark hair-it was too far away; she couldn't quite make him out-stalked toward Billy's position with his arms raised in such a way that there was no mistaking he held a gun.

With her heart and lungs pounding in time to the rapid slap of her sneakers against the parking lot, she lifted the Glock and squeezed the trigger. Again and again. And all the while she was screaming Billy's name...

He was in a world of hurt...

Not metaphorically. Literally. He was pretty sure the slug that'd plowed into his thigh hit bone. But that was nothing compared to the one that'd torn through the center of his chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. And the pain...it was like nothing he'd ever known. And he'd known pain before. Plenty of times before.

f.u.c.k. He was a dead man. He knew it like he knew his name was William Wesley Reichert.

"Billy!" Between the loud buzzing in his ears and sucking sound his chest made anytime he attempted to take a breath, he heard his name echo across the parking lot. A series of loud pops followed, and he rolled himself over on the pavement, one hand pressed to the hole in his chest as blood poured hot and heavy between his fingers. The movement resulted in agony. A searing torture that, for a moment, precluded his ability to think. Then he saw Eve running toward him, slim legs eating up the distance, black ponytail flying out behind her, right hand raised and firing his Glock in steady bursts, and suddenly his brain kicked it.

And it was weird...

Because his first thought wasn't about the man who'd shot him, and why. Or even about the danger Eve was in, or the fact that his life was waning, leaking out of him and onto the craggy surface of the lot. No. His first thought, the first scintilla of cognition that darted though his head was that Eve Edens was beautiful when she ran. Absolutely, positively perfection in motion. All long legs and lean flanks, born and bred and built for speed. And then sanity and reality suddenly waylaid him, and he realized exactly what her speed was doing.

It was bringing her closer. To him. To the gunman who'd taken him out.

His heart, already laboring in his ruined chest, threatened to explode. No, Eve. No! He couldn't allow her to risk her life for him. He couldn't allow her to- "Turn around! Run!" He meant to yell the words, but they came out as nothing more than a hoa.r.s.e whisper. Coughing, he felt flecks of blood splatter his lips, and he raked in a shallow, sucking breath that burned like the fires of h.e.l.l. "Turn around! Run!"

This time his words had some volume. Unfortunately, the volume cost him a series of deep, wracking coughs that filled his mouth with blood. Even so, he couldn't take his eyes off Eve. He couldn't take his eyes off the crazy, courageous-she was the G.o.dd.a.m.ned bravest thing he'd ever seen-woman. He couldn't take his eyes off her because he was dying, and he knew the last thing he wanted to see was her. Eve. The woman he loved.

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. He loved her. He'd never stopped loving her. And he'd been an idiot to hold something against her that she'd done over a dozen years ago, when she'd basically been nothing more than a scared, confused adolescent. And why the h.e.l.l it took him shaking hands with the Reaper to finally admit as much he didn't know. Perhaps when faced with the great beyond, all other fears and reservations just disappeared. He loved her. And either she hadn't heard his warning shout, or she'd just chosen to ignore it, because her steps didn't falter. Not even once. And the insane, foolish, lionhearted woman was going to get herself killed trying to save a man who, for all intents and purposes, was already dead.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

As if to prove his point, the gunman returned a volley of rounds, and a bullet grazed Eve's shoulder, spinning her like a top and dropping her to the ground.

No!

He choked on his own blood, releasing the wound on his chest so he could use both hands to drag himself toward her. But it was futile. Because a split second later, she was up and running toward him again, returning fire like a battle-hardened soldier.

No! Turn around! Run! Save yourself!

Unfortunately, the words were only in his head. He could barely draw enough strength to mutter them, much less raise his voice to a level she could possibly hear. See, the mathematics for blood loss was real simple. The more you lost, the weaker you became. And that kind of arithmetic meant he had to act fast. While he still could. He had to draw the gunman's fire.

Pushing to his good knee, he reached up with a slick, blood-soaked hand to grab the truck's rusting side view mirror. His body was a giant, burning ball of agony. His heart skittered and missed beats. His punctured, bleeding lung struggled valiantly to rake in oxygen, all while his brain, deprived of said oxygen, grew dull and fuzzy.

But he couldn't give in yet. He couldn't give in until- With a choking cry, he hauled himself to his feet. The world around him dimmed and flickered, then condensed down to nothing but that dark SUV and the gunman hiding behind the open door, peeking around to once again return fire.

"Over h-" cough, cough, cough. Hot blood poured down his chin and tasted like rusting iron on his tongue. He could smell it. Its metallic aroma tunneled into his nose, and he briefly flashed back to that time in Afghanistan when he arrived on the scene of a brutal roadside bombing to see b.l.o.o.d.y, shredded bodies littering the street. Death had been imminent then. Death was imminent now. But first..."Over here!" he finally managed to garble.

The gunman peeked his head out from behind the door, and blue eyes, familiar blue eyes, narrowed on Bill.

Jesus Christ! Buchanan? What the h.e.l.l? Why?

He saw the shiny, silver gun in Buchanan's hand twitch, saw the evil black eye of the barrel focus on him. He squeezed his lids shut, waiting...waiting for the round that would take him out. But it wasn't a bullet that slammed into him, flattening him to the ground. It was Eve.

He was flat on his back on the hard pavement, pain wracking him from head to toe. Still, he had no trouble seeing Eve's beautiful, beloved face when she frantically pushed away, looming above him.

"Billy!" she cried when she saw the mess that was his chest. "Oh, G.o.d, Billy! Oh, G.o.d!"

She desperately pressed a hand over the gushing wound, but he knew it was useless. And if the terror on her face was anything to go by, she knew it was useless, too.

"Sh-shh," he soothed her, coughing wetly, struggling to breathe, struggling to tell her this last thing before death came to claim him. "L-listen to m-me." His voice was a garbled wreck, but she must've understood him because she quieted, her watery, red eyes intent on his face as her breath sawed from her lungs. "I love you, t-too."

"Don't you say that!" she wailed, bringing up her gun hand to wipe her runny nose on the back of her wrist. Then she whipped her T-shirt over her head, wadding it up and pressing it to the center of his chest. "You're only saying that because you think this is good-bye! It's not good-bye! Billy, it's not-"

"It's J-Jeremy," he gurgled, watching her face pale. Her eyes flew wide. She shook her head in denial. He nodded and saw her throat work over a hard sob as realization dawned. "It's Jeremy. He-"

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

Bullets riddled the truck, and Eve jumped up to return fire. Bam! Bam! Then she squatted back down behind the wheel well, and he lamented the fact that he couldn't help her. He couldn't move. He'd used the last of his strength to stand and draw Buchanan's fire. But maybe-no, there was no maybe about it-he would hold on long enough to get her through this. To give her an edge...

"Get him to talk," he instructed through the blood that just kept filling his mouth over and over again no matter how much he swallowed or spit. She glanced down at him, her face so frightened, so very frightened, and oh, how he wished he could offer her some sort of comfort. But all he could offer her in these minutes, his last minutes, was his expertise, the hard lessons he'd learned from years on the battlefield.

"Get him t-to come out and-" He was nearly ripped apart by the next round of wet, ragged coughing, his mutilated lung struggling against all odds to continue to draw breath. The human body was amazing that way. It clung to life with sharp, jagged nails, fought for survival even in the midst of searing, mind-bending pain. "Get him to make a mistake," he was finally able to finish.

He saw her swallow and nod. Then she lifted her chin and cried, "J-Jeremy?" Her voice was a rough parody of itself.

Silence met her call. Then, Jeremy finally bellowed, his tone that of a madman, "Why couldn't you just f.u.c.king die?"

Bill watched Eve's face cave in on itself, and for a brief moment he was afraid that the depth and breadth of her sorrow and betrayal might kill her quicker than any of Buchanan's bullets. Then she squeezed her lids closed and dragged in a couple of shuddering breaths before opening her eyes and calling, "Why? Why are you doing this? Did Dad and Blake put you up to it?"

"Ha!" Jeremy yelled back. "Your father and ex-husband wouldn't dare kill you. They f.u.c.king love you to pieces! Everyone f.u.c.king loves you to pieces! Even my own mother loved you best!"

"G-good," Bill sputtered, struggling to keep his buzzing brain on the conversation, waiting for the one piece of the puzzle that would give Eve the upper hand. "Keep g-going."

Eve nodded, rolling in her lips as tears streamed down her face. "Wh-what are you talking about, J-Jeremy?" she cried, her chest shuddering. "Your mother adored you!"

Even Bill could hear Buchanan's snort. "Yeah. She adored me so much she drank and gambled and flitted her entire G.o.dd.a.m.n inheritance away! She left me next to nothing, Eve! Nothing!"

"J-Jeremy, I-"

"Shut up!"

She snapped her mouth closed, sobbing uncontrollably as she tried to apply more pressure to the wound on Bill's chest. He wanted to tell her it was useless, not to worry about it. But he needed to save his breath and his words for more important things.

"T-tell him," he coughed. The pain was less. And while that felt good, in reality it was bad. Very, very bad. Pain equaled life in this little equation. "Tell him you'll give him your m-money," cough, "if he throws his weapon a-away." Each word was a struggle. Each syllable a G.o.dd.a.m.n uphill battle.

Eve nodded, tears streaming unchecked down her face. She lifted her chin to do as he instructed.

Buchanan's response was to riddle the truck with more bullets. Not that Bill should be surprised. Buchanan couldn't back down now. He'd killed Bill-was that a movie? His sluggish neurons appeared to be misfiring. Then, the tire beside Eve exploded with a loud bloof followed by a thin, high-pitched whistle. Eve lifted the Glock over her head, angled it over the hood of the truck, and blindly returned fire. Bam! Bam! Click! Click!

And those last two sounds, the sounds of an empty clip, stopped Bill's heart. Oh, G.o.d, Eve! No! No!

"Run!" he managed to garble. It was the only chance she had. Not a good chance. But still a chance.

"I won't leave you." She smiled sadly through her tears, scooting down until her back was supported by the blown tire and her long legs were stretched out in front of her. With gentle hands, she lifted his head into her lap.

"No." He swallowed more blood. Black spots invaded his vision. "Run."

"Shhh." She ran her fingers through his hair. He could barely feel it. Oh, how he wished he could feel it.