He closed his eyes. His name sounded like it had been spoken by an eighty-year-old, the syllables weak and wobbly. But he didn’t care. She was still alive.

“Yes, it’s me. And I’ve got Richard.”

Shit, he wished he still had a tie on. He’d feel better if he could secure the other man’s hands with something.

“Why are . . . you here?” she said from inside the car.

Samuel T. cursed, having wondered that himself—all the way down River Road until he’d seen the two sets of brakes lights off in the marsh.

“Because I can’t not be,” he muttered. “With you, I can’t not be here, goddamn it.”

He gave Richard another shove for good measure and then slowly lifted himself up and off. Before he stood up fully, he said to Gin, “I’m going to approach the car, okay. At the window. If you’ve ever wanted to put a bullet in me, now is your chance.”

Samuel T. was keeping things light because he was afraid if he didn’t, he was going to break down. He still couldn’t believe what he’d come up on after he’d parked on the road and run into the trees: Richard rearing back and pointing a gun into the car, the promise of death in his eyes and his stance . . . and his weapon.

Without thinking, Samuel T. had rushed forward and jumped the guy, taking him out of range just as bullets went flying inside and out. The pair of them had landed hard, and he could still feel the wet flapping of their clothes in his face as they had fought for control over the gun.

Samuel T. had won that one.

And now he needed to control the other weapon.

Slowly, he straightened up. He had taken Richard to the ground on a forward trajectory, so he was in front and just off to the side—and that meant, through the spidered windshield, he could see Gin inside the car.

She remained in shooting position on the passenger side, the muzzle pointed in the direction of the driver’s window, but the gun was not stable because she was trembling so badly. He had a feeling her finger was still on the trigger and the fact that no bullets were coming out suggested the clip was empty. Except he wasn’t prepared to bet his life on that.

“Gin.” He spoke sharply now. “Put the weapon on the dash so I can see it. I can’t help you until I’m sure I’m safe.”

He had no fucking idea how he was talking so slowly and reasonably, but some outside force was governing him, controlling his movements, his voice.

Thank God.

“Gin. Put the gun on the—”

From out of nowhere, a car came crashing into the swamp, and as the headlights pierced the Mercedes’s rear window, they cast a hard illumination on Gin’s bloody face, startling her so that she turned the gun in that direction.

Samuel T. ducked, and as he recognized the car, he called out, “Stay in the car, Lane! Stay in the car!”

Gin was pulling the trigger again—her eyes wide with terror, her mouth opened in a silent scream—and still nothing was coming out of the muzzle. But was that luck or running on empty?

“Turn off the engine!” he yelled to her brother. “Kill the lights!”

Samuel T. prayed, prayed, that his old friend heard him, and Lane must have, because everything went dark and quiet again.

Of course, now Samuel T. was blinded, and with the storm clouds still so thick, it might as well have been pitch black out.

To settle his concern about what the fuck Richard was up to, he threw a foot out, stomped on the guy’s shoulders, and then put his weight on them.

As his vision gradually returned, and Lane didn’t get out of his vehicle, Samuel T. refocused on Gin.

“Sweetheart,” he said, “put the gun on the dash. That’s just Lane. I called him when I couldn’t get ahold of you.”

“What,” she said. Or at least, he thought that was what she said.

“I called Lane when I couldn’t get ahold of you. Please put the gun on the dash where I can see it.”

For shit’s sake, he had meant to stay out of this. And that resolve had lasted about . . . two minutes. After he had called Gin one more time and gotten voicemail, he’d dialed Lane, who had gone looking for her in the house while they were on the phone—only to find Easterly’s front door wide open in a storm and the photographs of Samuel T. and Gin scattered all over the wet marble.

Samuel T. hadn’t waited any longer than that.

“I’m coming closer, sweetheart.”

He really wanted her to put that gun away, but he had a feeling they were going to be at this standoff for quite a while—and there were now three cars off the road, lead slugs littering this marshy stretch of trees and undergrowth, and at least one, most likely two, injured people.

The last thing he wanted was the cops showing up.

Moving into position at the busted glass of the window, he put his face into the hole that Richard had either punched or blasted through. And in response, Gin swung that muzzle right around and pointed it at him. Her eyes were positively insane, blood dripping down her forehead and face, her body shaking so hard her teeth were clapping together.

Everything stopped. Time, thought . . . the universe itself.

At this range, if she hit him, she was going to blow the back of his skull off.

“Samuel T.?” she gritted out. “Is that really you?”

He was careful not to nod too fast, and he kept the gun he’d taken off Richard down at his thigh. “Yes, honey. It’s me.”

She blinked.

Then she started to breathe harder and harder. Until she began to sob.

“I’m so sorry about Amelia. I’m so sorry about Amelia. I’m so sorry—”

As that gun lowered, Samuel T. took a chance and dove through the broken glass, forcing his hands out until he grabbed the weapon and took it from her.

And then she was in his arms, albeit awkwardly as he hung half in and out of the car window.

“It’s okay,” he said as he went numb all over his body. “It’s all right . . .”

TWENTY-SIX

As soon as Lane saw Samuel T. lean in through the driver’s-side window, he leapt out of his own car and raced for the Mercedes. Dear Lord, Gin had hit a tree, and Richard was facedown on the ground and—

He couldn’t really hear what Samuel T. and Gin were saying to each other, but she had to be alive or her voice wouldn’t be coming out of there.

So he focused on Richard.

The man wasn’t moving much on the ground, but he was breathing.

There was a click, and then Samuel T. backed out of the window and opened Gin’s door. Wait . . . there was a gun in each of his hands?

Lane snapped into action. “What the hell happened—Gin! You’re seriously hurt!”

As Samuel T. helped her across the seat and out of the car, it was clear she was in trouble. There was blood all over his sister, and she couldn’t stand on her own.

“Where have you been shot?” Lane asked roughly. “What the hell happened?”

Gin stuttered a whole lot of words that Lane couldn’t understand. But then Samuel T. filled things in—

The man didn’t have the chance to get the full story out.

Lane cut him off by rolling Pford over in the muck and dragging him to his feet. Slamming him against the car, Lane put his face into the other man’s.

“Did you shoot at my sister? Did you fucking shoot at my sister!”

“Okay, okay.” Samuel T. grabbed Lane’s shoulder and jerked him back. “Enough. We’ve got a cleanup problem to deal with right now—because I know we want to handle this privately. Don’t you agree, Richard.”

Pford didn’t seem injured. There was no blood on him—except on one of his hands—and other than him weaving like he was in a stiff wind, he was clearly going to be fine.

But Lane could fix that.

“Can I borrow your gun,” he demanded of his attorney. “The one with a bullet left in it?”

“Back off, Lane,” Samuel T. barked, “and let me take care of this.”

Lane shook his head. Yet he had to follow his attorney’s very sage advice. After all, there were other, far more sane ways of ensuring his sister’s safety and freedom.

“Work your magic, counselor,” he said gruffly.