How in hell had Nate found him? That was the first thought that crossed Miguel’s mind. Angel made an unintelligible noise, and Miguel realized he’d just heard the front door open. Before he could do more than scream “No!” at the top of his lungs, Justin appeared on the other side of the window and attacked Nate with a shovel. The fight was short. Justin had caught Nate off balance, plus Justin probably had fifty pounds on him. Nate’s body went slack, and Miguel lost his shit.

Rocking back and forth in the heavy wooden dining chair, he forced himself to tip over, banging his head sharply against the bamboo flooring. Wiggling desperately, he pulled his arms up and over the high-backed chair, all the time watching Justin through the windows. Justin kicked Nate viciously several times before leaning down and grabbing him by the ankle to drag him around toward the front door.

Miguel had no idea how much time they had, but he absolutely had to get his and Angel’s hands free before Justin came back into the house. The fact that they were naked was secondary. He had to help Nate. Justin would kill him. Miguel was going to kill him if they got out of this alive. What had he been thinking? Wasn’t he a trained officer? Didn’t he know better? Miguel hoped against hope that some sort of backup was on the way.

This fucking hope thing flared in Miguel’s chest again. Well, hope mixed with terror, because he didn’t know how injured Nate was and still had no plan to get them out of this mess. But hope nonetheless, and it propelled him forward with a strength he didn’t know he had.

Half jumping, half falling upward, Miguel got to his feet and ran over to Angel, who seemed to be frozen in place. How hard was it, really, to get his hands in front of him? He’d never tried it before… well, and he’d only been in handcuffs before, not tied up by a maniac. The bindings were loose already, because his arms had been behind the chair. They could do this.

“Angel, you need to breathe. Help me get out of these. Use anything—use your teeth, for fuck’s sake.”

There was a thumping sound. Angel copied Miguel, falling to the floor and then wiggling from the chair.

“Shit. We need to hide. We need a weapon.” He looked around frantically, seeing only empty countertops. “Upstairs.”

They flew, stumbled, tumbled up the stairs. The door on the second floor was locked.

“Shit, keep going.”

They burst into the master bedroom. Miguel leaned his forehead against the door, closing it, panting. Angel came up behind him, and he felt slim fingers tugging at the knot holding his hands behind him.

“How’d you get free?”

Underneath the fright in Angel’s voice there was a hint of humor. “I’m very flexible.”

Miguel’s hands were finally free. He rubbed his wrists where the rope had cut into his skin. He reached over and engaged the thumb lock in the door handle. They were mostly useless, but Miguel hoped this one time the lock would prove helpful.

“We don’t have any time.” Miguel and Angel spoke at the same time. “What are we going to do?”

Footsteps thundered up the stairs.

“Quick, block the door.”

Together, they dragged the heavy bed in front of the door. Just as it was in place, Justin slammed against it. The door shuddered in the frame but held. Miguel had never been one for praying, but he prayed now to the gods of strong doors and whatever saint it was who protected the wounded. He couldn’t think about how still Nate’s body had been.

“Put some clothes on,” he told Angel. Justin was screaming for them to open the door.

“Open this door, you shits, I’m going to fucking kill you!” Justin was slamming against the door again. Miguel hoped he’d break his shoulder.

There was no time for Miguel to find something to wear. Angel had managed to pull on a pair of flannel lounge pants; they must have been Justin’s, because they hung ridiculously on him. The bedroom had nothing that could be used as a weapon. They had to find a way to escape.

“The balcony.” A three-story drop maybe wouldn’t kill them, but Justin would. Abandoning the bed and door, they both ran to the balcony. Angel opened the sliding glass door.

“There’s more stairs here.” Angel pointed to the end of the balcony.

They bolted outside just as they heard the splintering sound of the door giving way. Miguel slammed the slider shut, hoping it would give them a few more seconds. Pounding up the metal staircase, Miguel and Angel found themselves on the roof of the home. There was a hot tub, gas fireplace, and another set of patio furniture. The view was stunning. Why was he thinking about the view when he was most likely about to die? Miguel shook off his thoughts, looking around for something to use as a weapon.

His gaze landed on the fancy gas grill. Hanging from its side were several barbeque tools.

“Get away from the edge.” Miguel snatched up one of the tools. it was a long-handled grill cleaner with a wire-bristled brush on the end of it. It would have to do.

The top of Justin’s blond head appeared. Angel grabbed something from the grill too. Miguel didn’t see what it was. They backed up, keeping a small storage shed behind them. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

“My, my, my, aren’t we fierce?” Justin’s face was a weird mottled shade of red, and there was a trickle of blood running down one cheek. Nate had managed a few blows after all. Justin drew closer, and Miguel brandished the grill brush.

“Get away from me,” Miguel growled, anger pounding through his veins and overwhelming his fear.

“Get away from me,” Justin repeated in a high, mocking voice.

Miguel would never be able to sort out the sequence of events that happened next. Justin made a grab for Miguel and the grill brush, seeming not to care that the sharp metal dug into his palm. He was strong and jerked Miguel almost off his feet. Then he screamed. Angel had stabbed him in the forearm with a two-pronged fork, the tines about four inches long and embedded deeply in Justin’s arm. It stopped him long enough that Miguel could use the brush as a weapon; he hit Justin in the face as hard as he could with the wire brush. Justin screamed again, grabbing at Miguel’s arm. Miguel stumbled, the rooftop decking rough under his bare feet.

Then, inexplicably, Nate was there. He had a horrific swollen eye, his face was covered in blood, and he held his right arm funny, but he had a gun in his left hand. His suit jacket was torn, his slacks ruined, but there he was, like an angry red-haired avenging god.

“FBI. Stand down.”

“Fuck you, FBI.”

“Never in a million years. Stand down; I will shoot.”