For Logan (Chicago Syndicate Book 5) (10 page)

He pushes through the door with one shoulder just as a Ukrainian comes bounding into the alleyway, discovers me, and lifts his arm with his pistol in hand. Logan heaves me inside before the shooter can even attempt to aim, and I crash against the wall of his chest.

“Ow!” I grumble into his muscled upper body. When I look up into his face, he cradles my cheek for an oddly soothing moment.

Then we continue forward into a home decor store and toward the back room. Careening through the cluttered, plastic covered furniture inventory, we come upon a deserted, almost dark, showroom. As my eyes adjust slowly, I see flickers of light and make out a dark sofa with a side table, two lit candles, and a camera on a statue pointed at the living room display, as if a photoshoot had taken place and they forgot to blow out the candles. The back room seems to be separated from the store by a wall, and I can’t hear any voices on the other side.

A door creaking open behind us has both of us whipping our gazes back and then to each other. From there, everything happens too fast to register, yet Logan seems to methodically assess any situation with ease. While I’m glancing around to search for a place to hide, he opens a door that leads into a hallway – not into the store – and lets it slam closed as if we’ve just left through it.

Luckily, he’s already identified a closet behind the couch and yanks me toward it, opens it quietly, and shoves me inside. It’s such a scant place that it doesn’t look like we’ll both fit, so he stashes his gun in the side waistband of his pants. All the while, neither of us releases our entwined fingers a single time.

Logan pulls me forward to make room for him behind my back, and before I know it, he raises our arms with our tangled hands over my head so that we don’t break apart. His arm crosses my middle, and I press my back tightly against his front.

“Close the door,” he whispers.

With my free hand, I attempt to jam it closed, but it doesn’t work. I press myself more firmly against him to inch backward, and he groans. Thank goodness, it clicks closed, and I keep my hand secured to the knob while we stand as motionless as possible, our staccato breaths deafening in this dark, crowded place. I’m clutching his hand, and he shifts a tad to the left. Because he has to bend his head lower, his breath fans my jawline and neck, and I inhale sharply as his lips heat the apple of my cheek.

“Rosa, you’re crushing my hand,” he murmurs.

“Oh, sorry.” I relieve my grip a little.

“We’ll be okay,” he promises me, holding me tight. “I won’t let them harm you.”

Strangely overwhelmed by his gentle protectiveness, I turn my face sideways toward him, our noses brushing. Even the threat of immediate danger can’t block out the pull I feel toward this man. Logan manages to contain my trembling, and to make matters worse, his thumb starts to make slow circles over my palm.

Our chests rise and fall in unison. I don’t know which one of us nuzzles even closer, but somehow we do, as if there’s a thread pulling us together. When the tip of his nose strokes down the bridge of mine, my eyes flutter closed. Nonetheless, he doesn’t kiss me. It’s something headier than a kiss. It’s a preview of what his kiss can ignite. My emotions are chaotic, swinging back and forth between caution and thrill, until voices reach my ears, and my eyes fly open.

“To the front,” someone snarls in a thick Ukrainian accent. Another door slams shut and, just like that, it’s quiet again.

I attempt to shift forward, but Logan stops me and instructs against my temple, “No, wait a second.”

A second becomes several before he urges me to get out of the closet. Stepping out, I peek around while Logan strides to the door of the store, and I’m obligated to follow because of our intertwined hands. He opens it a bit and checks inside, but then he rears back, plowing one hand through his hair.

His increased anxiety kicks up mine. “What is it? Are they gone?”

“No, three, maybe more, are still here. You need to run while I distract them.”

“What! Run? Alone?”

Logan releases my hand for the first time since the trouble began, and he cradles my face in an astonishingly tender gesture. “Yes, go back the way we came and get out of here.”

“And then do what? I can’t just leave you here.”

There’s a half smile on his face. “Don’t worry about me. Hurry. Go!” He places his hands on my shoulders and turns me around, pushing me to escape.

“Okay, okay. I’ll get help as soon as I can, but who do I call?”

Voices are coming closer, and Logan forces me forward to hide behind the sofa.

“Call Luca,” he whisper-shouts and thrusts me into the other direction as he spins around and blocks the door just as someone is about to walk through it.

I trip and fall, diving behind the couch and hurting my knees. My adrenaline on high, I ignore the pain.

When one of the men flings the door open, Logan is propelled backward and grunts from the impact. As the two men wrestle on the floor, I crawl on my hands and knees, ready to bolt, and it kills me to leave him behind.

Logan

––––––––

I
practically toss Rosa into the direction of the back exit when she hesitates, but I can’t protect us both with only one weapon against three men.

The memory of her scent and how I almost kissed her is enough to set my blood on fire, though I’m not a man who merely wants a kiss when I covet a woman. However, I shake off my thoughts in order to eliminate the imminent threat.

As I hurl myself against the door, I crane my neck to find that she’s gone, thank God. Several men are pushing against the other side before it’s slung open and I’m bashed backward, sprawling on my back with the wind knocked out of me. Growling, I reach for my Smith & Wesson and attempt to lunge up, but one of the men kicks as I shift upward, so I catch his foot, twist it around, and boot him in the balls

“Go after the girl,” one Ukrainian yells to the second attacker as I try to focus in the obscure darkness of this back room.

In a flash, I spot a shadow running past me. I snatch my weapon and sprint to the second guy, gripping his hair from behind and slamming his face into a wooden shelf. He howls in pain, and I level my piece toward the back of his knees and shoot, causing him to sink to the floor like a stone.

One down, two to go.

My attention roams around just in time to see a fist coming at me, and I stagger backward. Then the other assailant hooks an arm around my neck from behind and I’m dragged toward the couch and the side table where there’s some light from the two candles.

“Drop the fucking gun,” is snarled into my ear while the third Ukrainian, who’s in front of me, punches my stomach.

“Fucking hell!” I’m able to move my arm and launch a bullet, but my aim is off and I only manage to hit the attacker’s foot while the one restraining me keeps me in a headlock.

With a low groan, I bend forward and hurl him over me with all my power. Lightning fast, the third attacker jumps on me and we topple to the ground. In the meantime, my gun is whacked from my grasp. I’m fighting off two men while scouring the floor for my pistol when I receive a blow to my side. In turn, I throw an uppercut to one man and slam a fist into the other’s face.

Then, all of a sudden, everything goes pitch black. The candles have gone out.

Again, I’m thrown backward, the pain searing through my body. Feeling for my gun at my left while peering through the darkness, I manage to find it, but the guy grips a fistful of my shirt to drag me up before I can grab it.

Abruptly, all of our gazes fly to one of the candles on the table beside the couch when it’s lit, stupefying all of us. Everyone’s motionless for half a second.

Rosa’s still here.

“What the fuck?!” a Ukrainian yells.

I take advantage of the diversion by inching to the side and snatching up my gun. Without delay, I lift my weapon and discharge a bullet into his heart. He drops immediately before my gun is hit from my grip – sliding underneath the sofa – by the last remaining attacker, who directs his revolver between my brows.

“Get up!” he spits, blood streaming down his chin.

Raising my palms and sitting up slowly, I catch my breath, not knowing what to do next, which is a rare position for me to be in.

“Drop it, or I
will
shoot,” I hear an unsteady voice say from behind the Ukrainian.

His head whips around before he looks back at me with a nasty smile and moves aside to expose Rosa pointing my piece at him.

When I start to leap up, he steadies his aim. “Don’t fucking move!” As he keeps looking left and right.

“I said, drop it!” Rosa repeats, keeping all ten fingers secured around the handle of my Smith & Wesson.

There’s a tremor in her hands, and he also notices it. She’s being fucking reckless yet courageous as well.

He glances at Rosa and remarks snidely, “I don’t think you’ll shoot, and I can kill him before your bullet even hits me.”

I need to defuse this situation before she’s forced to do something drastic that will irrevocably change her. Still standing with my palms up in a conciliatory effort, I rack my brain for options.

He continues to provoke me, “But this works out well for me. She’s much more valuable to Dimitri than you are.” Again, he glimpses at Rosa but clearly doesn’t perceive her as a threat as his gaze is promptly fixed back on me. Then he speaks to Rosa, “I’ll let him live, if you come with me.”

Of course, he’s lying. He’ll shoot me and kidnap her using any means necessary. Nevertheless, I don’t have another plan. We’re fucking cornered with no back-up.

Where the fuck are the Syndicate’s soldiers? And did Rosa contact Luca?

Indecision crosses her face, so I try to give her a look, warning her not to cave, but I’m not sure if my message is clear as her trembling intensifies.

She takes a deep breath. “Okay...”

No! I need her to be reckless Rosa now.

Gradually, she lowers her arms but keeps her eyes trained on his weapon until he also shifts it downward. Instantly, she finds her target again and pulls the trigger. The recoil jolts her backward, and I dodge to the side as the bullet punctures his chest and she releases another one. I hurl myself against his legs and jump onto him to snatch his Glock, shooting him in the heart to end him, and he goes slack. Letting go of the pistol, I move to Rosa. She’s still standing with her arms extended in a state of shock.

“Rosa...” I approach her and gently push her arms down, confiscating my gun and stashing it in the back waistband of my pants.

“Is he dead?” she asks, whisper-soft.

“Yes.”

The muscles in her throat betray her mental strain. It’s the impact of the receding adrenaline rush. A wave of anger washes over me. I’m livid at the Syndicate for putting her in this vulnerable situation. If they had informed her about what’s going on, this wouldn’t have happened. It’s a direct consequence of her innocence and inexperience. Though that isn’t her fault, and I’m not mad at her. Quite the contrary; she just saved us.

I cup the back of her head in both hands, my thumb stroking the high arc of her cheek. “I told you to leave.” Everyone I care about always ends up hurt or dead; and with every encounter, this attraction to Rosa is making her someone I count on that list – I couldn’t bear to see anything bad happen to her.

Her eyes water, her brain desperately trying to catch up with the events that just occurred. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t.” She leans forward and presses her forehead against my chest, like she usually does when she needs comfort, so I massage her neck in an effort to soothe her.

“It’s okay.” Without thinking, I press a kiss to the top of her head, and her arms wind around my middle.

I give her a few seconds to relax before I spring into action. We’re not safe yet.

Cradling her face, I force her to look me in the eye. “We need to go, okay? Forget everything for a moment and just trust me until we get to Club 7.”

She nods unsteadily, but there’s a silent communication of trust in our gaze. Somewhere along the way, the lines have blurred, and the way we interact with each other is changing.

I take her hand in mine as we stride out and back to my car without running into any more trouble. Guiding Rosa into my vehicle, I buckle her seatbelt before rounding it and firing up the engine to travel toward the club. Her quietness, which is such a contrast to her usual chattering, unsettles me. Something inside me doesn’t like seeing her in this state.

I move my hand toward hers, which are resting in her lap, and link our fingers together, doing my best to console her without words. I’m unusually pleased when she holds on to me like a lifeline, and as we sit in companionable silence, I can’t refrain from asking one question as I shift the car through the streets of the Loop.

“Rosa?” I glance at her and she turns to look at me.

“How did you pull off lighting the candle again? You did that, right?” I say in an impressed tone.

A tentative smile tugs at her lips. “Yeah. It only works if you have two heat sources. When I blew out one candle, the heat of the flame vaporized the candle wax and it remained in the air briefly. If you apply another heat source quickly enough, you can ignite the wax and use that reaction to relight the wick of the candle. So I blew out one candle first, then the second one quickly, and that ignited the first one again.”

I grin, fascinated by her knowledge. For a moment, we’re unable to break from our stare until I’m forced to focus on the road and shift our clasped hands onto my lap –
just to reassure her
.

Once we get to the club, I’ll need to figure out how to handle this situation. The Syndicate men must inform Rosa about everything that’s going on that involves her – I’ll insist upon it. She’s putting herself in danger, and I can’t do my job like this.

***

D
ragging Rosa along with me, I barge into Adriano’s office, where Luca is sitting behind the polished glass desk and James is seated across from him. For once, the black floor-to-ceiling curtains are drawn open, bathing the black and white furnished office in the midday sun.