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Deb laughed. “No, silly! I’m in it to win, too. Don’t run yourself down. You’re a prize. I think we can both win if we’re together.”
“Together, forever.” He leaned in and kissed her again.
Neither of them had said “I love you” but she did. And she was positive he loved her, too. But words weren’t important with his lips on hers. Declarations could come later. They weren’t necessary when two hearts rose together, baking in the fire of adversity into a beautiful creation, iced with happiness.
Deb returned his kiss with her whole heart, knowing that whatever happened, they’d be together.
Chapter 25
A week after Koslov’s forces had seemingly left Marcus, Michael balled up the strip of painter’s tape and threw it to the garbage can. It landed on top of the others with a slight crackle. “Three points! That’s it, the last one. I think. Can you see anymore?” There’d been no sign of Koslov or his men, and all of the businesses in town reported the same. Most were cooperating with the authorities, trying to unwind the web the mobster had woven. Even the Marcus Sheriff was cooperating, although slowly. Marcus Bank and Sharlene Murphy refused to talk, forwarding all communications to their lawyers. The feds weren’t saying much, except that Koslov had left the country. They refused to answer any questions about Trevor Mills, and both he and Sam Kerr were still missing. Deb, Erin and the rest of them were extremely worried.
Deb walked the perimeter of the bakery, scanning for blue tape, and stopped in front of him. Running her hands up his chest, she winced when she ran into a glob of tacky paint. But they were both covered in yellow, so a little shouldn’t matter. She twined her arms around his neck and he happily bent to kiss her, ignoring the slight twinge.
A metallic crash jolted them apart and the back doors flew open. Michael spun, blocking Deb with his body, and pulled his pistol. The front end of an SUV blocked the back doors. He glanced over his shoulder, but the bakery’s front door was intact—so far. There might be someone waiting out there, though. “Back.” They should have kept wearing the bullet-resistant vests, but they thought the threat was over.
Deb grabbed the back of his pants and tugged. He walked backwards with her, his pistol raised, waiting for movement. There wasn’t anywhere to go, though. The dividing wall was gone, and most of the equipment was in storage at the lumber yard. She towed him to the side; the glass front refrigerated display case stood there. With glass on three sides, and coolant coils on the fourth, it wouldn’t offer much protection, but it was better than nothing. They slid behind the tall case, and Michael spun it so they stood behind the black fins of the radiator. He peered around the three-foot wide rectangle, watching the door.
The vehicle’s windshield was deeply tinted, but he was fairly certain an airbag had deployed. If they were lucky, that airbag was on the recall list, and it took care of the problem for them by shredding the occupant with metal shards.
“Someone just slammed a car into the back doors of my bakery,” Deb’s voice was quiet but intense. “No, I’m not kidding. Send help. We don’t know what’s outside, so we can’t go out the front, and there’s nothing inside to hide behind.” She stopped for a moment. “What? I’m not stupid enough to hide in a walk-in freezer! We could freeze to death before the sheriff bothers to send help.”
Michael had considered it for a split second, but he was on the same page as Deb. But they could open the door and that would provide better cover. He grabbed the refrigerator case and pushed it to his left. “Come on. Freezer door.” As they walked, he shifted from side to side, checking for the enemy.
Deb muttered something under her breath, and took her hand away. Before he could protest, she leaned against him—her shoulder, maybe—and kept moving.
They were almost there. He took a chance, and ran the last few steps, towing the fridge with him, Deb at his shoulder, helping. He threw the freezer open and moved the refrigerator case to block the door. With Deb crouched behind him, he took a knee, and raised the pistol, resting it on the edge of the frigid metal. Leaning forward to check, he jolted back when rapid gunfire assaulted his ears, the freezer door shuddering with the bullet impacts.
When the shooting stopped, he leaned forward, finger on the pistol’s trigger, and peered out. A man loaded a magazine into a pistol. Michael fired, aiming for the heart. The man stumbled back, but didn’t go down. He must be wearing a bullet-resistant vest. Michael shifted his sights to the man’s head, but the man raised his pistol and fired before Michael could.
Michael retreated, counting the rapid-fire rounds. Knowing he’d have very little time to react, he kept his pistol up, the crosshatched grip tight in his hands and his forefinger on the trigger. He lifted the weapon higher, adjusting for the attacker’s height if he was running toward them.
After fourteen rounds, Michael popped out from behind the door. But he didn’t shoot. Their attacker sprawled across the floor, a pool of red already spreading beneath his head.
“Sheriff’s deputy, drop your weapons,” a man’s voice bellowed.
Michael could barely hear the words over the ringing in his ears. He lowered his pistol, but didn’t put it down. The corruption had run deep, and none of them fully trusted the local police. “This is Michael Acer. I’ll lower my pistol and stay here, but I’m keeping it.”
“Understood. Is Deb okay?”
She wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed against his back, shivering. “Yes, I’m fine.”
With the immediate emergency over, the icy air penetrated. He’d be shivering soon, too. He peered around the door. A deputy near the front of the vehicle holstered his pistol, and depressed the button on his shoulder microphone. Sirens wailed, getting louder. Pounding sounded on the front door. Michael waited for more law enforcement. With two or three different branches, the chances of all of them being corrupt was less.
“FBI! Weapons down.”
He peered around the edge of the freezer door. Sure enough, one of the feds slid over the hood of the vehicle half inside the bakery. Michael put his pistol on the floor and stood, pushing the refrigerator case away. He stepped out from behind the freezer door, but he wasn’t moving far from his weapon. Deb stayed behind him, and let the freezer door slam shut.
The fed landed, stumbling a little. He straightened and scanned the room, then holstered his pistol. “Who shot?”
Michael relaxed slightly, but remained wary. They still didn’t know who they could trust.
The deputy, holding his pistol between his finger and thumb, turned to the fed and placed the weapon on the hood of the vehicle. “I made the fatal shot.”
Michael nodded. “Agreed. I fired, but only hit his vest.”
The FBI agent strode to the dead body. “Koslov.” He kicked the pistol from Koslov’s lax hand and it skittered across the concrete floor with a metallic scrape, stopping near the back door. Kicking the weapon in that direction took effort, and seemed odd.
“Really?” Deb’s higher-pitched voice echoed his astonishment. She leaned around Michael. “He’s really dead?”
