Free Deadly Pursuit by Ann Christopher Page A

control her raspy breathing.
    Stealthy and deadly, lit only by the moonlight filtering in from the shades, nothing but black upon black upon black, with no discernible eyes or even face, the intruder crept forward with the flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other.
    It was a big gun—longer than Jack’s.
    No, wait.
    That gun had a silencer on it. That was an assassin’s gun.
    Which meant that … that was an assassin.
    Not a garden-variety robber or would-be rapist, the kind of criminal who could possibly be talked out of committing a violent act.
    An assassin.
    Please, God, don’t let us die.
    The assassin lingered in the doorway and looked back and forth, surveying the room, and that light circled the walls, ceiling and floor in a relentless sweep.
    And then Amara saw it inches from her crouched knee: the hard stainless steel glint of the chef’s knifeshe’d tried to use on Jack. Oh, thank God. Not that a knife would be much good against a silenced gun, but it was sure better than nothing.
    Reaching out, she clutched the knife’s hilt and picked it up.
    The blade’s ring, like a tiny sword being drawn, echoed in the kitchen’s utter silence.
    Amara cringed; the assassin cocked his head; Jack struck.
    With moves Amara had only ever seen in a James Bond movie, Jack sprung forward and elbowed the assassin in the face. Crying out, the assassin dropped to the floor and his gun clattered away.
    Amara scrambled for it.
    The assassin drew his knees into his belly and kicked out, catching Jack squarely in the thighs. Jack yelped with pain, hit the floor on his butt and kept rolling until he got back to his feet as though the whole move had been choreographed by a stuntman.
    The assassin, meanwhile, was up and running and had apparently decided that, given the loss of his gun, it was time to call it a night. Darting down the hallway in a full retreat, he ripped open the front door—Amara heard the telltale squeak of the hinges she never remembered to oil—and ran off.
    Cursing, Jack took a few steps after him and paused long enough to aim his gun in a two-handed hold and fire. The sound exploded through the kitchen and ricocheted off the walls until it felt as though Amara’s ears were bleeding.
    Apparently it was a miss because Jack cursed again and yelled at Amara over his shoulder, a wild light in his eyes. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
    Amara nodded and watched him go. The second hewas out of sight, she crept out from under the table, reached for her cordless phone on the counter and punched three buttons that she really hoped were 9-1-1. Nothing happened. Bewildered, she tried again, but then it hit her: no power meant no cordless phone.
    Shit.
    Glancing wildly around for her cell phone, she remembered she’d left it in her briefcase and hurried into the living room to find it. The second she fished it out, running footsteps approached outside her front door and she froze, debating whether to run back to the kitchen for the gun and wondering why she’d been stupid enough to leave it there in the first place.
    Jack reappeared, shutting the door behind him, and glared at her. Even though he was panting—they both were—he managed enough breath to chastise her.
    “Believe me now?”
    “Absolutely.”
    His sharp gaze latched onto the phone in her hand. “What the hell are you doing? I told you we’re not calling the police.”
    Something inside Amara snapped. She hadn’t slept in days, she was running on fumes, she’d endured two break-ins tonight and feared for her life three times in the last eighteen hours.
    You didn’t mess with a woman on the edge.
    “Listen, jackass.” She used the phone to gesture in his face, beyond caring that she was yelling like a banshee. “I don’t know what planet you’re from, but here in the United States, when someone breaks into your house in the middle of the night and tries to kill you, you call the police.”
    Jack reached out and neatly snatched the phone