Page 17 of Stolen Faith

But these weren’t good odds. If they were all like the dumbass in the middle, Rowan wouldn’t be worried, but two of the five were dressed like they knew what they were doing. He’d put money on them being former military or police, who were probably now either private security or professionals of some kind.

Whatever their training, they were mercenaries—dangerous men whose loyalty and skills could be bought for the right price.

“Get the slut,” the man in the middle said.

The second mercenary started forward, toward Izabel.

Rowan had harbored a brief hope that maybe these men were just here for Brennon. Not that he would let them take Brennon, but if he was their sole target, Rowan would have only one person to protect rather than two. That thin hope was gone. It was possible they were here for Izabel, but by shooting Brennon, they’d made it clear they were okay with collateral damage.

He’d known from the moment he saw them how this was going to go. What he’d have to do. Rowan had held out some faint hope for de-escalation, which might allow them time to alert backup…wait, not backup, they’d be calling the police.

And calling 9-1-1 might not actually help.

Somehow five men had made it into Izabel’s expensive, fancy building, then into her apartment, without alerting anyone. Even if his phone had been in his pocket, they probably had a jammer. Maybe the security panel would work, but these people were prepared, so they might have cut off that communication too.

Rowan needed to protect his fiancés and take out the threat. He gave himself one more second to assess and plan, then he moved.

He grabbed Brennon, pulling him onto the ground, then yanked Izabel down. She sucked in air and he put a hand between her shoulder blades as he forced her to the floor, practically on top of an unconscious Brennon.

Rowan grabbed the back of the couch and tipped it over on top of both of them, creating a makeshift shelter.

“Stay there!” he barked.

Rowan expected to be shot any second, but he was moving fast and managed to turn and jump onto the chair across from the couch while the man in the middle was still yelling orders at the other four. Rowan leaped over the back of the armchair as a gun went off.

He flew, tackling the mercenary who’d been headed for Izabel. The man hadn’t expected it. He had cuffs in his hands, not a gun, and didn’t draw the weapon in time. The mercenary’s head cracked against the floor as Rowan landed on him.

There were shouts, but Rowan had already rolled away, behind a heavy armchair. There was the distinctive sound of an air gun going off, and the piece of furniture thudded as the BBs or pellets from the air gun struck.

Rowan ducked low, face almost on the floor. He counted feet and noted position, then leapt up. He needed to keep their attention on him, draw them away from Izabel and Brennon. If he could work his way around to the door, he could pull the alarm in the hall. He’d noted a fire alarm panel near the elevator.

“Get the slut,” the leader was yelling.

Time to move.

Rowan surged up, then grabbed the chair he’d hidden behind and hurled it, knocking one of the idiots in urban camo off his feet.

Another pistol went off, but they must have missed. Rowan barreled forward, snapping a punch to one man’s head as he went past. His goal was the man in the center, the leader, the one who’d spoken, as he seemed to be in charge. The others were scattered—the second mercenary was helping the man Rowan had tackled, while a guy in urban camo tried to lift the heavy chair off his buddy.

The leader backpedaled; eyes wide as he pulled out two guns. Shit. Rowan brought his fists up in the classic boxing stance. The man’s eyes narrowed and, as Rowan hoped, he dropped a weapon and threw a punch. A right jab straight at Rowan’s face.

Rowan leaned to the side, catching the man’s wrist in the crook of his right arm. He leaned, keeping the man’s arm extended, then twisted and slammed his left forearm into the back of the man’s elbow.

The leader let out a high, thin scream as his biceps muscle detached and his forearm bones broke at the elbow. The man dropped, cradling his right arm.

Pain slammed Rowan’s left leg as he took a kick to the side of his knee. He jerked back in time to prevent a dislocation, turning the move into a spinning kick.

The mercenary who’d kicked him caught Rowan’s foot in his hands.

Rowan dropped, yanking his foot from the other man’s hold before he could start breaking and dislocating things.

The mercenary kicked Rowan. He was rolling away, but the kick still caught him in the ribs.

Get up off the ground.

Rowan shoved to his feet, backing away.

“Shoot him!” the leader screamed, voice high and thin with pain. “I should have brought a real fucking gun. Shoot him.”