Depends on Who's Asking - Lani Lynn Vale Page 0,57

Bennett said. “There’s a root cellar, yes?”

“Yes,” Carolina sounded excited. “But…”

She trailed off, not wanting to give away anything.

Things happened after that.

The teams moved out. Snipers got into place. The rest of them spread out, one group going to the root cellar via the neighbor’s back yard, and another going to the front to await further instructions.

I walked to the edge of Carolina’s grass, staring at the team that filtered through the area.

With the kitchen being in the back of the house, the second team that was hitting up the front was able to move freely.

At least, we thought so.

“Maybe.” Carolina’s voice broke the silence giving the code word indicating the intruder was on the move.

Then all hell broke loose and shots started firing.

I watched as chaos unfolded.

Men dove for the dirt. The windows exploded from the inside out.

And then I heard Carolina scream.

I’m not sure what made me do it.

Maybe it was the memory of watching that chimney sweeper doing his thing as I’d dropped her off that night.

Maybe it was the fact that I’d seen the men surrounding the house and knew that this wasn’t going to end like everyone wanted it to end.

The guy just had too much fucking firepower. That was obvious by the windows that shattered outward like they were pieces of confetti.

Whatever the reason for my obviously stupid, superhero stunt, I suddenly found myself climbing Carolina’s chimney.

Seconds after that, I was pulling the top off with a brutal yank that couldn’t be heard over the booming gunshots and positioning myself in the hole that would lead me down into her house.

Using my feet on either side to help, I slowly lowered myself a few inches at a time until I could see the bottom.

I was also immensely happy that the fire wasn’t lit since she said she liked to do that on cold nights like tonight.

When I finally got down, I crouched low so I could see, then realized with horror that I wouldn’t be able to see thanks to the hole for the fireplace being too small.

I pulled out my phone, put my feet on either side of the wood, and turned the viewfinder on with the camera app.

I lowered it down and looked around.

The man was standing at the window firing at everything that moved.

Carolina was in the corner nearest me with Smoke over the top of her, growling loudly.

I had a decision to make.

If I came out of the chimney, I’d draw his attention. The wood would go tumbling out, and it would definitely make him turn around.

On the other hand, if I didn’t, he could just as easily turn around and put a bullet into Carolina.

I only had one option then.

Placing the phone in my pocket, I braced for what I was about to do.

CHAPTER 17

Dear Santa, I’ve been very, very good for the last week or so.

-Caro’s secret thoughts

CAROLINA

I could say, without a single doubt, that this was by far my worst Christmas Eve ever, and it was all my fault.

Ish.

Granted, I had no part in inviting that man into my home.

I knew that what was going on wasn’t because of Saint at all, but me.

But I couldn’t really relay that information with the man watching me like a hawk.

Thank God for Smoke, because he’d protected me the moment that the man had pushed himself in the door.

He would’ve done more, like attack the man, but I’d seen the gun the man had strapped to his body when he’d forced his way inside.

There was no way that I was letting Saint’s dog get hurt.

None.

A whisper of sound that didn’t sound like the man at the window had me turning my head slightly to see if I could put eyes on the sound, but all I saw was the fireplace above my head.

And boots.

Boots?

What the…

The logs went flying and Saint came barreling out of the fireplace like the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels.

The man who was in my home and shouldn’t be, turned around, gun raised.

But he went down with two well-placed bullets to the chest.

The man’s rifle hit the floor, and then everything went silent.

“Shooter down,” Saint coughed as he lay on the ground in the middle of my living room, a piece of firewood wedged uncomfortably under his left shoulder.

I scrambled toward the shooter, but before I could get there, Saint latched on to my ankle and said, “No. Let them do it.”

And by them, he meant the men breaking down my door.

I squeaked and