Marital Privilege. Ann Peterson Voss

flashed in the corner of Alec’s eye. Laura. But he didn’t have time to turn his head before Sergei launched himself.

      Alec swung, catching Sergei in the face with the shovel’s sharp edge.

      Blood slashed across his cheek and nose. He staggered back and fell against the cabinets.

      Footsteps thundered from the front of the house.

      Alec landed the shovel against Sergei’s head again. He spun just in time to see the second man round the corner into the kitchen. The barrel of his gun stared Alec directly in the face.

      A shot exploded in Alec’s ears.

      Chapter Three

      Laura Martin lowered her bound hands and the Russian-made Makarov 9mm she’d managed to pick up from the floor. The weapon’s report still echoed through the kitchen. Its recoil vibrated through her arms. The sharp odor of spent gunpowder seared her senses.

      She’d shot a man. Maybe killed him. Yet she felt nothing.

      She should move. See if he was still alive. Administer first aid. Something. Yet even though she was staring at his prone form, watching the dark stain seep through his sweatshirt and wick through the fabric like tie-dye, she couldn’t quite believe what she’d done. None of it felt real.

      Ripping her gaze from the crumpled form, she focused on her husband’s pale face. “Alec?”

      His gray eyes met hers. The shovel fell from his hands and clattered to the floor. In two strides he crossed the distance between them and gathered her in his arms. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

      She pressed her body against his warmth—warmth she’d thought she’d never feel again. “I’m fine.” A bald-faced lie. She was trembling so hard she could hardly stand.

      He moved back from her, running his gaze over her face and down to her bound hands. “The baby?” He smoothed a palm over her nightgown and the curve of her bulging abdomen.

      “He’s fine.” She could feel him shifting inside her, his movements faster and more spastic than usual, as if fueled by the adrenaline in her bloodstream. “What is going on, Alec? Who are these men?”

      He stepped away and grabbed a knife from the butcher block. Slipping the blade between her wrists, he cut the plastic binder, freeing her hands. One hand on the small of her back, he tried to guide her toward the garage. “We have to get out of here.”

      She stood rooted to the spot, still staring at the bodies on the floor. One slumped against the white kitchen cabinets clutching his bloody face, barely conscious enough to moan. The other lay sprawled where his body hit the floor. A pool of blood spread over the hardwood. “We have to call the police.”

      “No police.”

      “What do you mean, no police? Of course we have to call the police. These men broke in. They were going to kill me. I shot one of them, for crying out loud. He might be dead.”

      “I know you trust the police, but all cops aren’t as honest as your dad was. We can’t risk it.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I’ll explain later. All of it. Right now we have to get out of here. The thug outside probably heard the gunshots.”

      “The thug outside? There’s another?”

      “He was waiting in a car down the street.”

      Mind still whirling, she let Alec guide her into the garage. She might not know what was going on, but she didn’t want another of those men to catch up to them. She and Alec had been lucky to escape from the two in the kitchen. Before Alec had shown up, she’d thought she was dead.

      Like Sally?

      “One of those men said Sally is dead.” Not wanting to believe it was true, she studied Alec’s face, waiting for an expression that would answer her unspoken question.

      He gave her a brief nod.

      Pain clutched her heart. Her knees almost gave way beneath her. This couldn’t be real. None of this could be happening.

      Alec grasped her arm, keeping her on her feet and moving through the garage, toward the van. “Try not to think of it now. We have to focus on getting out of here.”

      She stopped in her tracks a step from the van. “Wait.”

      “Laura? Get in the van.”

      She glanced down at the Mak 9mm still in her fist. If they were going to face more of these men, she wanted to do it armed. “Rounds. We need bullets. And guns. The men in there have a mini arsenal on them.”

      “I’ll get what I can. You get in the van.”

      “It’ll take less time if I help.”

      He nodded toward the kitchen door and released her arm. “Let’s make it quick.”

      They ducked back inside. The strong odor of blood filled Laura’s senses and turned her stomach. She breathed shallowly through her mouth, trying to concentrate on getting the guns, trying to stave off the nausea, the way she had through the first and most of the second trimesters of her pregnancy.

      The man Alec had laid out with the shovel hadn’t moved. Except for the low groan rumbling deep in his throat, she might have thought he was dead. She was just about to kneel down and check him for weapons and rounds when Alec grabbed her arm. “I’ll take care of him. You check the other one.”

      She nodded. She had to admit, she was relieved. There was something deathly brutal about this man. Every time he’d looked at her, she’d felt his hatred. His rage. Even though she’d never done anything to him. Even though she’d never even laid eyes on him before.

      While Alec rifled through the man’s clothes, she stepped across the floor to the man she’d shot. The pool of blood beneath him had grown, inching along the wood floor and seeping into the cracks between the boards. Blood soaked his sweatshirt around the exit hole in his back.

      He was dead. She’d killed a man. Nausea bucked in her stomach. The coppery sweet odor clogged her throat, choking her. She struggled for breath. For control. She had to push the guilt away. She couldn’t let herself feel. She had to function.

      She bent down and picked up the pistol that had fallen from his hand. Then she focused on the man’s waistband. Holding her breath, she ran her hand under his sweatshirt. She felt a pouch attached to his belt. She yanked up the sweatshirt’s hem and unsnapped the pouch filled with 9mm rounds.

      Alec handed her another pouch on his way to the front of the house. Moments later he raced back into the kitchen empty handed. “We’re going to have company. Get in the van. Hurry.”

      Scooping up the handgun and rounds, she scurried out the door and clambered into the van.

      Alec took the driver’s seat and started the engine. He snapped his seat belt and turned to her. “Keep your head down.”

      She hooked her own seat belt. Slipping out of the shoulder harness, she bent at the waist, her head nearly touching the dash, the baby pushing her stomach into her throat.

      Alec hit the button of the garage door opener, shifted into Reverse and stomped on the gas.

      The van lurched backward. They burst into the daylight. Laura lifted her head to peek through the window. A man strode through their front yard toward the driveway, an assault rifle in the ready position.

      She ducked.

      Gunfire popped, hitting steel, hitting glass. Cracks splintered the passenger window and spider-webbed the windshield. “Hold on,” Alec shouted.

      She hunkered lower. Grateful the lap belt was still in place, she gripped the bottom of the seat with one hand and braced against the dash with the other.

      Reaching the bottom of the driveway, Alec