The twisted lust in his gaze turned her stomach until she thought she’d heave. She’d seen his expression while Obadiah was kicking and punching her. In his hands, she wouldn’t live; she’d die screaming.

Never. She’d never let him get his hands on her again. Death would be better.

He read her unspoken answer, and his face darkened with fury.

In a huddled cluster, the women hadn’t moved, and she heard the same resolve in their whispers. I’d rather die.

“Fucking bitches, get down here.” Frustrated, the PZs started shooting.

Bullets peppered the steep sides of the V. As the sharp fragments of shingles and wood tore into their skin, the women flattened down even further into the security of the lowest part between the two roofs. Children whimpered and sobbed.

Kit’s face and arms stung and bled where shards had hit.

In a pause during the gunfire, there came the sound of a car in the street. The vehicle stopped.

A PZ yelled, “Incoming, Captain.”

“Finish planting the explosives. We’ll hold them off,” Nabera shouted.

A car door slammed. Another.

“What the fuck.” Bull’s booming bass came clearly.

Her friends. Yes!

The relief flooding Kit drained away even faster. Aric was in the car. No, no, no. Her hands clenched. Get Aric away. Please.

Bull snapped, “Get the fuck out of here, Frankie.”

“Leave, Yorkie.” Hawk’s dark bitter order brought fresh fears. He wouldn’t leave—he could get hurt. Killed.

The car engine roared, and then tires squealed. As the sound of the vehicle receded, Kit sagged in relief.

She might die here; they all might die here. But her baby would live. And Frankie would be alive to care for him.

Chapter Eleven

Anything worth shooting is worth shooting twice. Ammunition is cheap; life is expensive. ~ Rules of a Gunfight

Hawk took the paddle holster with a Glock 19 and an extra magazine his brother handed over. Bull had grabbed weapons from his SUV “armory” before Frankie sped away.

At least the yorkie was safe. Now to extract Kit from the clusterfuck of undoubtedly PZs. Hawk shoved the holster onto his belt and tucked the magazine away. Bull had already donned his in-town firearm—an M1911.

Sporadic shooting came from somewhere near the rear of the house. A man shouted something about explosives.

Explosives. Talk about complicating the hell out of a clean assault. Dammit, Kit, stay safe.

Needing info, Hawk swung up onto the privacy fence, using his arms to hold him high enough to see, hoping he didn’t get his head shot off.

Fuck. Thick hedges divided the outside area into small, contained spaces. There was no way through the damn bushes.

He could barely see the heads of men in the back left corner. Why were their weapons pointed upward?

Oh, fuck. Hawk dropped down to the ground. “The women are on the roof.”