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he came toward him, indicating to Connor that his objective had been to debilitate him, not to kill him—not yet, at least.
    Seizing him with a large hand, which Connor knew did not belong to Jameson, the shooter hauled him upright and slammed his back into the entryway wall where he knocked a picture off its nail. As the glass in the frame shattered, he heard Karen shout his name in fear.
    “Who are you?” Connor gasped, affecting surprise, while letting the HRT lead know that he was still alive.
    The suppressed pistol prodded his ribs as the assailant patted him down. Luckily, he missed the cell phone in the lining of Connor’s coat, but came away with the Glock at his ankle.
    Fuck , Connor thought, feeling doubly vulnerable without it and trying to gauge how badly he’d been shot. Blood gleamed darkly on his slacks; he felt it streaming down his leg. 
    “Oh, you’ll see,” the stranger promised, as he grappled for control of Connor’s wrist. “You’d best cooperate if you want to see your pretty wife alive.”
    “Where is she?” Connor demanded.
    “ Gimme your other hand and I’ll take you to her.” 
    Every instinct screamed for him to resist as his wrists were cuffed before him. The man had obviously never been in law enforcement. But he was tall and powerful, a fit match for Connor on a good day. With pain radiating through his femur to his hip and up his spine, he could hardly stand upright, let alone overcome the brute. Cinching the cuffs tight, the assailant shoved him toward the hall and prodded him toward the master bedroom with the tip of his gun.
    As they passed the door to the basement, Connor took comfort in Gallway’s proximity. Jameson and his goon were well outnumbered. They would soon be apprehended. In the meantime, Connor’s sole objective was to keep Karen safe.
    He braced himself for what he’d see as the bedroom door swung open. A vision of her tied to the bed, stripped of her clothes, neck and shoulders bathed in blood, sparked a reckless rage within him. He headed toward Jameson with a roar.
    Only to draw up short as Jameson leveled his pistol at Karen’s head.
    Connor froze, his chest heaving with the effort it took not to rip Jameson’s head off. “You son-of-a-bitch!” he growled through clenched teeth.
    “Tut-tut-tut.” Jameson clicked his tongue in warning. “One false move and I’ll splatter her brains across the pillow.” 
    “Connor!”
    He turned his attention to his wife. The garnet streaks of blood running from her neck to her shoulders looked to be dry, and she seemed to be breathing normally . His most immediate concern was shock, as her dilated eyes, usually a warm shade of chocolate brown, resembled black pools in her chalk-white face .
    “Hey,” he said, in an attempt to reassure her, “I brought the brandy. It’s right outside.”
    A flicker of relief shone in her eyes. 
    “Well, isn’t this touching?” Jameson simpered. “Have a seat,” he added on a harder note. He sent the other man a nod, and Connor was seized from behind and dragged back into a desk chair they had evidently brought in from the den. With a grunt of pain, he caught himself and the chair from toppling over together.
    “So, you finally got me where you want me,” he grated, to keep the mobster talking. “I’m impressed.”
    Jameson smiled smugly at his accomplishment. “Did you ever doubt it? You took everything from me, Donovan—my bride, my wealth, my freedom. It’s time I returned the favor. Cubbins .” He glanced at the other man. “Secure his ankles so he can watch without being tempted to join in.”
    With a smirk of anticipation, Cubbins hunkered cautiously at Connor’s feet. In order to use both his hands, he’d tucked his gun into his waistband. 
    Connor eyed Jameson’s pistol still at Karen’s head. His finger was crooked around the trigger, the safety was off, but Jameson didn’t plan on killing her yet. Raping the wives of their foes was one of the