Page 111 of Get A Fix

“Love,” I crooned softly. “Please run to Mommy.”

She shrieked her no the second time, and the woman jolted, startled.

“I think we should just take her with⁠—”

“Oh,” I said quickly, my brain coming out of the fog of fear. “My friend, you saw him, Gemma, he has candy in his pocket. Run and get some for me.”

Her smile was huge, and I sent up a silent thanks to Cora, the firstborn, my queen bee of a sister who always said that toddlers wanted to help more than anything. They wanted to do things for the people they loved. You could always get them moving if you asked for a favor.

I set her down, watching as she scampered away.

As promised, instantly there was a gun muzzle shoved into my ribs. But that was fine. It was just her and me now, and I was betting I had more training. If Preeya Shah got the drop on me, or my colleague, Ella Guzman, my chances weren’t great. But honestly, this woman seemed like she played tennis and golf at a country club, and as I really looked at her, she was absolutely dripping in diamonds. And no, I shouldn’t have judged solely on her brown hair with gold and red highlights, her overly tanned skin, or her French manicure, but it was hard not to.

“Let’s go,” she ordered me, and together, arm in arm, we began walking briskly toward the side exit.

I had no plans to walk outside with her—in the doorway was where I would take the gun or she’d get off a lucky shot. But I was betting on me, and we were almost there when⁠—

“Hey! Where are you going?” I heard Ash call from behind me.

“Just keep walking,” she ordered me. “You don’t want me to hurt him.”

No, and I was terrified that she would. With Gemma, I had a primal reaction to the threat, instinctive—to protect a child, and even more so, one I adored. With Ash, the fear was of losing him, as well as the life I was preparing to have. We had made plans, and I was anxious to start. The idea that she could rip him from my life by pulling the trigger was filling my stomach with ice.

“Hurry,” she hissed.

“Coop?” he called again.

“I’ll be right back,” I assured him cheerfully.

“Will you?” he asked, and I heard the trepidation in his tone.

“Everything is gonna be⁠—”

“Hey!” he roared, and I realized he must have run up on us because one moment he was farther away, and the next he was right there, only a step behind.

Startled, she whirled around to face the threat. But before she could fire, before I could try and tackle her or warn him, she got hit in the face with a small red foam bat. It was a bit longer than a ruler, and wider, but not by much. I had a fairly good idea where it came from, and thought suddenly how lucky it was that my friends had brought their sherpa bags full of toys to Bitsy’s wedding.

For her part, the woman had been on her feet one moment, and the very next she was on the ground and I had the wrist of her gun hand pinned to the carpet under the toe of my sneaker.

“Oh yeah!” Ash whooped. “We make a great team.”

“Have you lost your mind?” I snarled at him, leaning down to wrench the gun from her hand and perform a clearance check. “This is fully loaded!”

“You’re hurting me,” the woman cried.

“Don’t say a word,” I warned her, feeling, as I started to shake, the emotion welling up in the back of my throat. “Except to answer who the hell you are!”

“Oh, I know who she is,” Ash told me, grabbing hold of my bicep and easing me toward him slowly, until I was close enough so he could wrap me in his arms.

“What?” I asked, shivering suddenly, soaking up the heat rolling off him as he clutched me tight.

“She’s moving!” Ainsley yelled from across the room. “Use the bat!”

“Hit her again!” Jeff called over.

I turned my head in time to see her stagger to her feet and begin toward the exit, only to see that door open and a woman in a black trench coat, followed by two men dressed in the same outerwear, leading another man in cuffs, coming our way. From the other side of the room, where Ainsley and Jeff were, four other men were crossing the space to us.

“Carrie Voss,” the woman yelled as all four FBI agents—that was all they could be with how they were dressed and the similar haircuts—drew their guns. “Get on your knees with your fingers laced over your head!”