CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“Give me the damned model,” Carlson growled from the mangled mess that used to be his face. “Where is it? I know you have it.”

Shea’s heart dropped at the wretched sight of the man riding shotgun. How had he gotten from Ireland to JFK ahead of them? “What are you doing here?”

Instead of that salacious sneer Carlson was known for, saliva dribbled over a raw bottom lip as he spat, “I’m not as dumb as you idiots think.”

Red seeped through the already bloodstained bandages on his hands and forearms. Charred hair and an oozing scalp turned him into a ghoulish sight. There was no hint of the arrogant brows. Worse, he seemed to have trouble gripping the weapon that bobbed with deadly intent, if not accuracy, in his right hand.

Eric leaned forward to protect her, but the second he went for his bag, Carlson bellowed, “Touch it and I’ll blow her head off!” A dollop of spit slid over what was left of his lower lip, but he seemed not to notice. “Where is it? Give it to me.”

“You should be in the hospital, Hugh,” Murphy countered.

No. He should be dead.

Carlson fired once, straight up, blasting a hole through the limo roof. “Give it to me. Now!”

Murphy lifted his hands, both palms forward. “Now take it easy. I’m just trying to help—”

The gun jerked on him. “You say one more word and I’ll blow you to hell. I swear I will.”

They were barely off airport property. Surely someone heard that discharge. Eric wouldn’t like it, but Shea knew what she had to do. All of these men would die for her if she didn’t act. She couldn’t bear it. Leaning away from the front seat, she murmured, “I’ll take him to where it’s hidden.”

The distraction worked. Carlson’s face turned towards her, and as quickly as it did, Eric’s boot connected with Carlson’s hand as Eric pulled her back under his arm with an angry, “Like hell you will!”

The pistol slipped, but just as quickly, another weapon appeared in Carlson’s right. Damned if it wasn’t a .44 Magnum, Israel’s powerful semi-automatic, a Desert Eagle. With its six-inch barrel, it was one hundred percent blow-your-head-off deadly, just like the one in Eric’s gun safe at home.

Carlson aimed at Eric, the barrel wavering like he couldn’t see straight. The silvery flash of a blade in transit from Eric’s right hand was all she saw until—THUNK. It landed.

Before Shea could catch her breath, Jordan scrambled past her and grabbed the weapon from Carlson’s limp grip. “Pull over!” he commanded, pointing the weapon at the limo driver.

Like the fierce protector he was, Eric palmed the side of her face, forcing her to look away from the grisly view. But Shea needed to see the knife in Carlson’s throat. She had to witness the desperate plea for help flickering in his lying eyes. She had to hear his gurgling death rattle, so much like poor, sweet Phoenix’s, just before he’d died. Shea had to know Carlson couldn’t hurt her or anyone she loved ever again.

Shoving away from Eric, she angled past Jordan’s beefy shoulder enough for one last look. “Die,” she commanded Hugh Carlson on behalf of her murdered friends.

Eric kept a tight hold on her forearm as she aimed her hatred at the brutal financial genius who’d stooped so low as to kill his unborn child. “Die! God damn you, die!”

As if in defiance, Carlson gasped, “But I… I just want... Finn.”

“Then take him!” Shea screamed, poor Eric holding her back with both hands now. “Take him to hell with you because I’m. Not. Finn! I’m Mrs. Eric Reynolds and you can’t have me!”

God, it felt good to say that.

As Carlson collapsed to the floor, the limo bumped the curb. Murphy and Jordan tumbled out and restrained the driver, while Eric pulled Shea to the nearest storefront, his heart pounding as loudly as hers, still blocking her view.

Spectators gathered. They called their friends. They snapped selfies. Murphy bellowed for someone to, “Call 911, for god’s sake!” Rain began to fall in a gentle drizzle then.

Shea lifted her face to the leaden skies. She’d finally reached the end of her rainbow and she’d found the pot of gold she’d been searching for in the heart of a man named Eric. Even now he wrapped her in a gentle hold with her back to his chest, his chin in the crook of her neck.

Together they faced their reflections in the plate glass window of—

Shea looked overhead to the sign. Kelsey’s Diner. Hmmm. After all this time running for her life in Ireland, she’d expected something more mystical, like one of Rosie O’Banner’s Irish blessing. At least something that signaled the end of her long odyssey home.

Eric nuzzled the ticklish spot behind her ear. “Are you ready to go home, wife?”

She pulled the manacle of his strong arms tighter around her, never more sure of anything. “I am home, Eric. Home is right here, with you,” but then she added, “and I do want a baby. Our baby.”

The sexy man’s smile reflected in the glass couldn’t have been wider, or his rakish eyes darker. “That I can do, Mama. That I can do.”