If only

body obeyed, not under her control at all. Turned her away from the red, turned her toward the sound.

“That’s a girl. Eyes on me. Now.”

Her head lifted, her gaze met blue fire, and the anger—and love—in Vance’s eyes burned away the past. My Vance. Her skin felt clammy, and cold sweat ran down her face. What…happened?

As the stench of gasoline hit her, she was suddenly, completely in the present. Somerfeld. Burning. Vance had been shot.

He was bleeding. Shocked, she pressed her hands to the horrible wound. He groaned. How long had she been…elsewhere?

God, she was supposed to create the diversion.

“Ready to go. Indeedy yeah.” Somerfeld tossed the container aside.

Get it together, Sally. The receiver for the voice-activated program was very sensitive. She didn’t have to talk loudly. Sally tried to speak. A horrible sound emerged. Get the tone right, girl. A long breath. She turned to Ellis, holding up her hands in a pleading position. “Please, please, please, don’t hurt me. I’m sorry I brought her here.”

The dickwad stared at her. “You talking to me, slut?”

Vance stared at her. “Brought who?” he whispered. His face was pale, jaw tight from pain.

I love you, my Vance. Her hand closed over his. Please, please, please, let this work.

A high scream came from upstairs. “Master, help me. Master.” Another long wail.

“Fuck!” Somerfeld ran up three steps, turned to glare at her, and pointed the pistol at Vance. “You leave, slut, and I’ll shoot his balls off. You’ll hear him scream no matter how far you run.” He dashed up the stairs toward the sound of the woman sobbing.

“Run,” Vance gritted out. “Whoever that is up there, Sally, I want you to run.”

He didn’t recognize the voice? Of course, Gabi had been pretty drunk the night they’d made the recording. “Not leaving without you, dummy.”

“Goddamn it.” He lifted his uninjured leg and kicked the post, grunting at the impact. On his other leg, the jeans were drenched with blood.

She pushed her hands down on the wound, holding it as he slammed his boot into the post, over and over. Hurry, Galen.

Yelling came from upstairs as Somerfeld searched for the illusive woman. Screw you, bastard. She spotted a mallet in the pile of construction tools.

Yes! She grabbed it and hit the post holding Vance as hard as she could. But it made so much—too much— noise.

Hit again.

The post moved.

Before she could swing again, Vance kicked. With a crack, the screws tore loose.

* * *

Galen slid into the room with a quick check of Vance and Sally. Alive and alive. Although the amount of blood wasn’t good. A hog-tied woman lay in the corner. Gagged. Alive.

A woman’s crying and screaming sounded on the second floor—was that Gabi?— along with the thud of heavy boots.

Galen moved behind and under the stairs. Crappy hiding place, but the room held no conveniently concealing furniture.

Upstairs, Somerfeld yelled, “You fucking slut. Think you’d trick me? Huh?” From the worry on Sally’s face, the bastard had discovered he’d been searching for a recording.

Boots pounded down the stairs. Once Somerfeld reached the bottom, Galen could jump him from behind.

The man halted most of the way down. “You fucking cunt!”

A trigger clicked. “Hell!” Galen stepped out from the stairs and threw his hammer. The tool struck Somerfeld’s shoulder and knocked him a step sideways. The pistol fired.

Galen grabbed the railing and swung himself up and over, and hit Somerfeld in a half-assed tackle. The bastard lost his balance; Galen never found his.

Tangled together, they rolled down the stairs.

Galen’s back, leg, head banged against the steps with bursts of pain. He landed badly but rolled to hands and knees, Somerfeld beside him, groaning.

Galen tried to stand. His leg gave out. His hip and shoulder hit the floor, knocking the air out of him.

Growling, Somerfeld made a grab for the pistol he’d dropped.

Twisting, Galen kicked the weapon toward Vance and rammed his knee into Somerfeld’s chin. Pain knifed through his leg with the impact.

The bastard spat blood and managed to stand.

GALEN WAS DOWN. Somerfeld up. Vance had yanked the chain free from under the splintered wood post and tried again—and again—to get to his feet. Succeeded.

He tried to run and tripped on the two-foot chain between his shackled ankles. “Jesus, fuck!” Handicapped, he half hopped, half lunged across the room toward the fight.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Sally darting the other way, going for the pistol, which had skidded into a pile of bedding.

“Somerfeld,” Vance yelled.

The bastard didn’t hear him.

Galen was on hands and knees, trying to stand. Somerfeld kicked him in the gut so violently that Galen was flipped sideways, retching and gasping for air.

“You asshole!” Sally pointed the pistol at Somerfeld, the weapon shaking so hard she’d probably shoot Galen.

Somerfeld involuntarily retreated, and into that moment of silence came the wailing of sirens. Approaching the house.

The bastard’s eyes went wide, fearful, then furious. Insane. “Burn it. Burn it all.” He pulled a match from his pocket, flicked it with his thumbnail, and it lit.

Jesus fuck, Vance thought, if Sally shoots him… Gasoline everywhere.

Galen yelled, “Sally, hold!”

But Somerfeld was crazy enough to burn the place with himself in it. No way to win.

Fuck that. Vance dived at the bastard, rammed into him—chest to chest—knocking him back. Glass shattered as they slammed into the bay window—and out.

Somerfeld hit the ground with a grunt of pain.

Vance landed beside him, the impact yanking at his cuffed arms. The pain that ripped through his wounded leg took his breath away. Sent his brain spinning.

He groaned, opened his eyes, and saw fire. His shirt. On fire.

“Fuck!” Unable to use his hands, Vance rolled frantically, smothering the flame in the damp grass.

Panting, hurting everywhere, he rolled back over, trying to sit up. And froze.

Somerfeld’s gasoline-splattered clothing had also ignited. And burst into a conflagration. He shrieked, slapping at the fire before he ran, straight down the drive. Flaming.

“Drop and roll, roll!” Vance shouted, trying to get to his feet. The chain clanked, reminding him he was hobbled. Could never catch the poor bastard in time.

The sirens on the approaching emergency vehicles didn’t drown out the screaming. Somerfeld fell, finally fell, directly in front of the police car, the first vehicle down the lane.

From the following fire engine, firefighters jumped out. They surrounded Somerfeld, spraying him down.

More vehicles. Cops and FBI agents raced toward the house.

A knife of pain ripped through Vance’s leg. Shit! He jerked around. “What the