stupidly made her choice, she’ll have to be dispatched as well. I brought Cavanaugh here because no one will think to look for him—and now her, too—up here. And no one will hear the shots, either—we’re too far away from the rest of the house, and the walls are feet thick.” He drew a tense breath and went on, in the same rigidly even tone, as if what he was suggesting was entirely unremarkable, “All you need to do is put a bullet in his brain—or his heart, if you prefer. And then in hers, too.”
Godfrey released Ellie’s hand and stepped to his right—away from her.
She shot him a glance. Without taking his eyes from Masterton and Jeffers, Godfrey gestured at her to go the other way, creating an ever-widening gap between them.
Regardless of Jeffers’s resistance, Godfrey assumed that, if the gun was pointed at anyone, it would be pointed first at him.
Knowing Godfrey as she now did, Ellie had no difficulty understanding his plan; she just didn’t agree with it.
She could see the sense in separating, yet her instincts were clamoring at her to stay as close to him as possible.
For several moments, she dithered and remained where she was.
Before them, Jeffers, holding the gun at his side, scowled at Masterton and belligerently stated, “What I don’t understand is why you imagine I’m going to help you kill them.” Jeffers raked his free hand through his thick hair. “For God’s sake—kill them? What on earth made you think I would?”
Ellie stopped thinking and, following her instincts, edged toward Godfrey, who was stealthily moving around the wall so that a stack of boxes would lie between him and the other men.
Masterton’s choler returned in full force. He stepped closer to Jeffers and sneered in Jeffers’s face. “Isn’t that what men like you do? You’re cold-blooded killers, all of you! And now you’re here, so if your master wants his money, you do the deed.” Masterton glared at Jeffers, apparently waiting, then Masterton flung up his hands. “Just get on with it, man!”
Masterton swung toward Ellie and Godfrey—to where they had been. “What…?” He looked wildly around and spotted them, just as Godfrey bent and picked up an old walking stick.
Masterton yelped and spun toward Jeffers. “Quick! Shoot them!”
When Jeffers, turning to look at Godfrey and Ellie, didn’t raise the gun, Masterton lunged and grappled for the weapon.
Jeffers fought to fend him off, but Masterton was larger and heavier and utterly desperate. With no time to break Jeffers’s grip, Masterton clamped his hand around the other man’s, wrenched the gun up, and pointed it at Godfrey.
“No!” Ellie screamed. She flung herself at Godfrey, intending to push him aside. Instead, she tripped over a box and lurched across in front of him.
Just as Masterton squeezed Jeffers’s fingers, and the gun discharged.
Searing pain lanced across Ellie’s upper arm, and she staggered backward, then her legs gave way, and she crumpled.
Godfrey caught her.
She would have smiled, but couldn’t. As he eased her to the floor, she hauled in a breath, gritted her teeth against the pain, and bit off, “It’s just a graze.”
Godfrey barely heard. All he could see was that she was hurt and bleeding. The bastard had shot her—his Ellie.
Inside, something dark and violent rose and gripped him.
Then the fading roar of the shot was overridden by yells and running footsteps.
Godfrey raised his head and, over the pile of boxes, saw Harry and Maggie racing down the room.
He snapped his gaze to Masterton as, in a flat panic, Masterton beat off Jeffers and swung the gun toward Ellie’s siblings.
He still had one bullet left.
Godfrey gripped the old walking stick, surged up, and launched himself through the boxes, scattering them. Wielding the heavy stick like a club, he whacked Masterton’s hand and the gun skyward.
A sharp crack sounded, and the gun discharged—harmlessly into the rafters.
Maggie shrieked and ducked to the side, but as Godfrey’s momentum carried him into Masterton, Harry, grim-faced, lowered his head and came barreling on.
He, Godfrey, and Jeffers piled on Masterton, but the man had near-manic strength. He fought like one demented—like one having an unrestrained temper tantrum at being denied what he wanted—kicking, punching, flinging his limbs and body about.
Glimpsing an opening, Godfrey clenched his jaw, drew back his arm, and with every ounce of strength he could muster, plowed his fist into Masterton’s face.
Bone crunched, not Godfrey’s.
The blow rocked Masterton back on his heels. He blinked once, then his eyes rolled up, and in a series of thuds,