Page 43 of Blake

Definitely not some drunk neighbor at the wrong apartment or some kid screwing around.

He glanced toward the hallway, thankful Devon had disappeared into the safety of the shadows. A tiny click sounded. The deadbolt released.

Blake tightened his grip on the weapon in his hand.

The doorknob turned. The door opened slowly. Quietly. It stopped with the resistance of the chain.

Silence fell when the door was pulled closed once more. Blake waited. Two seconds later, the door opened again, but this time a thin tool slid through the narrow opening.

The chain lifted.

Here we go.

The door eased inward, and a man stepped inside. Dark clothing. Gloves. Baseball cap pulled low.

He moved carefully. Quietly. Paid no attention to the expensive flatscreen or Devon’s purse hanging from one of the dining chairs. The man looked at none of the things in the apartment he could easily sell for cash.

This isn’t a burglary.

The man’s gaze swept the area with purpose, still having no idea someone was standing behind him with a gun. When the guy started toward the hallway—toward Devon—Blake knew it was time.

“Don’t move.”

The intruder froze. He turned Blake’s way.

Blake kept his weapon centered on the man’s head. “Hands where I can see them.”

For half a second, neither man moved.

Then the intruder smiled.

Blake barely registered the change in expression before the man lunged. Blake shifted, but the intruder knocked his gun arm sideways as he closed the distance. The weapon discharged. The suppressed shot ripped through her apartment, the bullet burying itself somewhere in the living room’s exterior wall.

The unknown assailant drove a fist into Blake’s ribs. Pain burst through his side. He countered with an elbow to the man’s square jaw.

The guy staggered and Blake brought his gun back around. But the intruder caught his wrist at the last second.

Son of a⁠—

His opponent was clearly trained. Not formally, maybe. But he was experienced, fast, and played dirty.

Blake drove his knee upward. The man twisted, the strike glancing off his thigh instead of landing where Blake had intended.

The intruder slammed Blake’s wrist against the wall. Once. Twice. Pain shot through his hand, and the gun fell to the floor.

No!

Both men went for it. Blake shoulder-checked the other man like a football player going for a fumbled ball. The move drove the prick into the nearby table and chairs.

His attacker grunted. Blake grabbed the guy’s jacket for better control. A fist caught him beneath the chin.

His head snapped back as the man shoved him away and dove toward the gun. Blake swung a leg out and kicked it away.

The weapon skidded across the wooden floor, disappearing in the dark space beneath the couch. Both he and his attacker shared a momentary glance before the man in black ran for the open doorway.

He had to hand it to the guy, he could move. Fast. Blake took off after him, but he stopped halfway down the hall.

Devon.