Page 81 of Stolen Faith

Indecision clawed at Rowan.

Barry was ten feet away and looking at his phone, scrolling through videos. The sound was turned up loud enough it would cover Rowan’s footsteps.

Barry’s gun was holstered to his left hip, for use with the arm not in a cast. It wasn’t his dominant hand. He’d thrown that punch in Izabel’s condo with his right, so Rowan prayed he would be awkward and slow enough with the left to give them the seconds they needed. Plus, the dumb fuck was holding his phone with his only good hand.

Rowan made his decision as he glanced toward the front of the building. The patrol was just passing. He started counting.

Rowan silently went down three stairs, leaned so he could see Brennon, and motioned him up. He didn’t wait but went back to the door. He eased it open enough to look at the front wall.

Brennon touched his shoulder. Rowan turned, his whisper little more than air. “Grab his gun.”

Brennon’s eyes widened and he peered through the crack. Barry’s back was to them as he waited for the elevator to arrive.

Right on schedule, the patrol was back. Rowan stood, braced.

The instant they passed, he quietly opened the door, and he and Brennon raced toward Barry. A dispassionate voice in Rowan’s head slowly counted down from forty.

At thirty-three Rowan had one arm around Barry’s neck, the other over his mouth before the guy knew what hit him.

Barry dropped his phone, intent on getting to his gun, but Brennon, thank God, was quicker. He grabbed Barry’s gun from his fumbling fingers.

Twenty-nine.

The elevator door opened. Rowan stared at them. Change of plan. Rather than pulling Barry back, he shoved him forward.

Twenty-seven.

Rowan started to tell Brennon to grab the phone, but Barry, who was thrashing wildly, accidentally kicked it. Rowan watched with frustrated horror as the damn thing slipped through the crack between door and car, falling down the elevator shaft.

Twenty-four.

Brennon jumped into the elevator.

Barry struggled harder, trying to kick back, but Rowan was intent on winning this skirmish. The clock was ticking…on the mercenaries out front and the guard in the bathroom. Rowan kept the pressure on the sides of his neck. He didn’t want Barry dead, not yet. The reduced blood flow to the brain was starting to impact the man’s strength.

Twenty.

Brennon reached out, grabbed the strap of Barry’s sling, and yanked. Barry overbalanced, and Rowan was able to shove him into the elevator car.

Seventeen.

Brennon jabbed the button to close the door, then the one for the floor below them. He held the gun with his finger on the trigger. Shit. Rowan was going to have to teach the man how to use the damn thing properly in situations like this.

Ten.

The doors slid closed, and the elevator started to move. Rowan tightened his hold, and finally, Barry lost consciousness.

“Holy shit, that worked,” Brennon whispered.

Rowan looked down, pissed about losing the phone. Plan B was going to be a lot harder without it. “This asshole is going to get us out of here.”

Chapter Seventeen

Rowan and Brennon dragged an unconscious Barry, each with a grip on his upper arms, through the door of the Sunday School room. Neither of them bothered to take much care with him, Brennon grinning and saying “oops” when Barry’s head hit the doorframe.

The struggle to choke Barry out had hurt like a mother, convincing Rowan that a couple of his ribs were most likely cracked as opposed to just bruised. With his luck, he’d wind up with a punctured lung before all was said and done.

Of course, he took one look at Devon’s gray pallor and Juliette’s pain-lined face and realized it could be a lot worse.