why? Had he brought this down on Sister Kate? Or were these men just looking to abduct a wealthy American businessman?
“Kinkaid,” a man yelled, and searched the cowering people on the floor. No one looked the man in the eye as he raged and spat at his hostages. “We came for the American…where is he?”
Kinkaid stayed hunched behind a column, considering his limited options. By his estimation, he’d be the only guest with a weapon. If he guessed wrong on what to do next, people could die, and he’d be taken out of the equation, unable to help.
Yet he had to do something.
Slowly he wedged his gun at the small of his back and hid it under his jacket. If one of the men got close enough to search him for a weapon, they’d find an empty holster. And that small diversion might give him time to pull his handgun and get some answers. Risking his neck might be worth the gamble if he found out what the men wanted and stopped the gunplay. He stood and raised his hands, ready to come out and identify himself.
But before he could, more shots rang out. This time the bastards aimed into the frantic crowds who packed the exits—a cruel, sadistic show of power meant to terrorize already helpless victims.
“No, no.” His lips moved, but his voice sounded muffled in his head. His hearing was trashed from the gunfire. And all he could do was watch. Everything happened too fast.
Two bodies fell. A man in a suit got shot in the back. The round hit his body with a meaty thud and sent him sprawling to the floor. And a gray-haired woman in a blue dress snapped her head back and tumbled. A crimson mist hung in the air as her body fell. When she hit the floor, the back of her head slammed hard, and a pool of her blood seeped onto the carpet. Her vacant dead eyes stared accusingly at a young girl who stood over her. The kid couldn’t have been much more than eight years old.
“Oh, shit,” Kinkaid muttered.
For a split second, everything in the room stopped as he watched the girl. He tuned everything out. Complete tunnel vision. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, but the instant was gone in a flash.
A shrill scream rose above the panicked cries of men and women as they fled. The sound of the pitiable wail triggered a dark memory. He shut his eyes and tried to shake the past, but nothing would break him free until the blond girl screamed again.
His eyes fixed on her and grounded him in the moment. Even from a distance he saw the little girl tremble. And her face had turned a vivid red as tears streaked her cheeks. She stared at the woman’s body in shock, unable to move. One of the attackers turned toward the crying child and yelled something in a language Kinkaid didn’t understand. The masked man raised his weapon and aimed at the little girl.
The bastard was going to shoot.
CHAPTER 3
He had no time to think, only react.
Kinkaid came out from behind cover and yelled, “Over here, asshole.”
He took deadly aim and fired. One shot. Two.
The hooded man staggered back with his chest glistening in streaks of red. With a surprised look, he dropped to his knees and collapsed to the floor, face-first. But the fight was far from over.
In the confusion and gunfire, hostages leapt off the floor and raced for the exits. The gunmen were losing control. Kinkaid ran to grab the little girl, sidestepping the bodies and dodging the panicked crowd. Everything turned into a blur, and the air was thick with the sharp smell of gunfire. Something punched his side. And the skin of his stomach burned.
When he got to the terrified child, he lifted her off the floor and held her in his arms. Whispering in her ear, he wasn’t sure what he said or what she heard, but it didn’t matter. Bullets whizzed by his head as he shielded the kid. He made it to a set of stairs down a hallway and ducked behind them, listening for sounds that someone had followed.
He covered the girl’s mouth with his hand, being careful that she could still breathe. When he was sure that he was alone with her, he brushed back her curly blond hair and stared into big blue eyes brimming with tears.
Holding her, he didn’t want that to mean anything—but it did.
Her tiny body trembled in his arms. Seeing her so scared was like taking a hard punch to the belly. She was the child of one of the missionary teachers. Kate had introduced him to her parents earlier in the evening, but he couldn’t remember their names. His gut wrenched at the thought that she could already be an orphan. And all he wanted to do was hold her.
His brain demanded objectivity. Other people needed him, too. Yet when he looked at the kid again—a part of him he thought had died years ago—made his normally detached reasoning impossible.
“Shhh,” he whispered. “You’re safe now, honey.” He lied, but he didn’t have a choice. “Tell me your name. Can you do that?”
She didn’t answer. The kid grabbed for the sleeve of his jacket with tiny white knuckles in a death grip. Her face was pale and slick with perspiration.
“It’s okay.” He yanked off his tie and undid buttons on his shirt. “You don’t have to say anything. Not until you want to.”
When he reached for her, the pain in his side got worse. He winced and looked down under his suit jacket to see that his gray shirt was covered in blood. His blood. He’d been shot and couldn’t tell how bad it was. Was it a through-and-through or only a graze—or was the bullet still inside him? Not to alarm the kid, he shut his jacket and pulled her toward him. She clung to him and burrowed into his chest.
Kinkaid rocked her until her heaving sobs turned to whimpers. With the child in his arms, old memories of a different kind washed over him like a cleansing rain. And he would have welcomed them, but now wasn’t the time. He had to move.
“I’m getting you out of here, honey.”
Down the hall, he heard the muffled sound of men shouting orders and the cries of women. Hostages were being moved. As long as he had the girl, he couldn’t afford to draw fire. He had to get her to safety before he could help Sister Kate and the others. Moving hostages would slow the armed men down. Maybe he would have time to maneuver ahead and stop them. An open door to his left looked as if it might get him to the courtyard and the garden. Still gripping his weapon, he picked up the kid and carried her from Dumont Hall.
Kinkaid stuck to the shadows and sheltered the girl with his body. Outside, the air was muggy, and the breeze had died. A few hours ago, the courtyard had been beautiful in the moonlight. Now every shadow held danger, and his mind played tricks on his eyes.
And memories of Kate plagued him with guilt. One way or another, had he brought this down on her? He gritted his teeth, dealing with the pain of his wound and a deep regret he’d be cursed to endure.
Until a dark silhouette against a stone wall forced him to stop.
He shielded the girl and raised his weapon to take aim at the dark shape until he realized what it was. A policeman in uniform lay slumped against the wall. Kinkaid covered the kid’s head with his hand, his fingers entwined in curls.
He knelt by the man’s side to check for a pulse, but stopped when he saw his throat had been cut. A savage attack. His question about what had happened to the on-duty cops had been answered. And a wave of nausea hit him. The sensation mixed with chills and dizziness, adding blood loss to his list of adversaries tonight.
“Please…get us through this,” he whispered, and clutched the girl tighter. Whoever had assaulted a fund- raiser at Dumont Hall had killed the guards in a bold plan to take hostages. But one aspect of the brutal attack stood out from all the rest.
These men had known his name—and they’d come looking for him.
The uneven terrain and loose rocks made it hard to navigate in the dark. Kate kept her head down, focused on the four children who clung to her. Andre was an eight-year-old Haitian boy. She’d bought his first dress slacks and tie. He was wearing them now. And Daniel and Faye were brother and sister, the children of one of her teachers. A single mother. Kate didn’t think Daniel and Faye’s mother had been taken, but the woman would be worried sick. And Joselyne was the oldest child at age ten, the daughter of a local Haitian fisherman. None of these children should have been here. Their families didn’t have money.
