"Dylan, have you told Ruth?" I asked, reaching for his arm.
"No, I came straight for you. Ruth should be fine if they're after you or me."
They had to be. Dylan was a billionaire, so clearly worth a fuckton of money if kidnapped, and I had a deranged brother out there lying about me. It could be either of us.
Dylan turned away, listening closer, and no doubt cataloguing the noises coming from downstairs. They were almost silent now, and I was sure that didn't mean good things. "They're professionals," he murmured, confirming my worry. "Get under the bed, Brooke. Don't come out until I tell you to."
I wanted to protest. I really fucking didn't like the thought of cowering under my bed while Dylan fought them off, but there was a possibility I had another life to protect inside of me. A life that I had to fight for.
"Okay," I whispered as a creak of the stairs told me they were close.
Carefully, I eased myself down under the side of the bed and slid all the way back against the wall. From here, there was only a sliver of light visible under the door, but otherwise everything was dark. Outside, the wind blew hard, the dominant sound, making it easier for those bastards to sneak in.
Dylan's legs disappeared from where he'd been standing, and like a ghost, he blended into the night, preparing for the attack. Closing my eyes I prayed they didn't get to Ruth first and that the kindness this woman had shown a stranger wouldn't cost her her life.
Not like I was a big believer in prayer or God, my parents had never even taken us to a church service as kids, but for Ruth, I was going to give this prayer thing a shot. And not just for Ruth but also Dylan and our baby.
So many lives on the line, and once again, I was helpless.
I was so tense that I almost screamed when the door to my room cracked open, slowly moving inward. The illumination in here grew brighter than the single light Ruth had left on to help me find the bathroom. No one entered straight away, and if they were professionals, as Dylan suspected, they’d be assessing the risks. I inwardly cursed when I remembered my unmade bed. Would they think I was gone and leave?
I was surprised when a few sets of feet moved forward, three people walking in formation. I trembled on the freezing ground, preparing myself for what was about to happen. As they got closer, I heard the muffled sound of a radio, like they wore ear buds to receive their commands. Most definitely professionals.
Should I scream? Would that help Dylan or make things worse?
I mean, I knew he was good at what he did, but knowing what plants to eat wasn't exactly the same as fighting against trained goons.
Just as I had that thought, there was a thud, and then the closest feet to me disappeared. In about the same instant, a body dropped right on the edge of the bed, unseeing eyes staring straight at me.
Holy fucking fuck. He was absolutely dead, his neck at an odd angle, while the gun he'd been holding clattered across the ground. The gun disappeared as a familiar hand wrapped around it, and then there were two barely audible shots as Dylan fired.
"Come on, Brooke," he hissed, face appearing next to dead guy one. "Let's get out of here."
I had to hold my breath as I slid past all the bodies, worried I might throw up on them, and seriously, nobody had time for that. Come on weak stomach. Sort your shit out.
As I stood, Dylan wrapped an arm around me, half hauling me across the room and toward the door. Before we reached it, more of the black-clad men burst through. Or I was guessing male due to general size and build, but who knew for sure.
Dylan didn't hesitate, shooting them, one by one. They were armed as well, but none of them moved with the speed of the guy holding me. Even without the gun, he was a fucking weapon.
When his bullets were out, he dropped the pistol and, in two quick steps, used his hands to take out more of the men, dropping bodies like this was some kind of computer game.
If this weren't the sort of life or death situation that had terror tearing through me until I was about to piss myself,