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weren't so white now; she'd eased her grip on the money and journal.
    Jesus, the woman was crazy cold, crazy unfazed. Or, maybe just flat-out crazy. Patrick tried to get into her head. He knew she wasn't seeing Coleman or his gun; she was seeing her twin brother, tortured and left for dead by the man in front of her, an image that left no room for rationality. Patrick's blood chilled in his veins. She was going to make a move. Brilliant or dumbass, he couldn't guess, but he shifted to the left, inches closer to Gina. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Big Bog do the same . Shit! No way could he take them both on—and get the gun.
    "Mess? Not to worry," Coleman said. "Idiot fat boy here will be happy enough to clean up." He made a come-hither gesture with his extended hand, the gun rock steady in the other. His voice cracked ice, he added, "The journal. Now. "
    Gina sighed, arched a brow. "If you insist."
    In the next second, Gina took a step toward Coleman, let the cash bundles fall to the floor, and in the split second that Coleman's eyes dropped, she threw the journal at his face.
    The woman was damn hard on books!
    Within that same second, Bogdan, with the grace and speed of a hundred-pound cheetah, moved toward Gina, and put his bulk between her and—
    Coleman fired. Twice.
    Gina went down.
    Bogdan spun away from Coleman and went down on top of her, covering her like an outsized tarp.
    Patrick hit the floor, rolled, grabbed the Glock, and tackled Coleman at the knees. Before Coleman hit the floor, his forehead slammed into the edge of the fridge. Instant blood river. Running down his face, it was a perfect match for his red PJs. Out cold.
    A moan came from behind him.
    Patrick ripped the Smith & Wesson from Coleman's limp hand and scrambled across the floor. "Gina. Gina! Are you okay?"
    Her voice was muffled, "...will be when you get Igor off me."
    Bogdan got to his feet. "Not Igor."
    "Jesus." The guy's shirt was blood-soaked. Gina!
    Kneeling beside her, Patrick looked her over. Blood everywhere. He scanned for the source, started unbuttoning her blouse. "Where are you hit?"
    She batted his hands away. "I'm not." She pushed him aside and jumped to her feet. "But he is." She bolted to a towel rack near the sink. In the next second, she was holding a towel to the Bog's side.
    "He needs a doctor," Patrick said. Easy enough diagnosis, considering the blood seeping through his sausage-sized fingers.
    "You're right. Hold the towel. Press hard."
    While Patrick followed orders, Gina pressed a number into her cell phone. "Tanner. It's done. I've got Coleman and the journal. I've also got a man down—" She listened. "Yes. Security's off. No problem. We'll wait—" She nodded. "Five minutes then. Bottom of the driveway." She clicked OFF and looked at Patrick. "Tanner wants us out of here in five. Says he'll take it from here."
    "He's got a plan?" A major cleanup operation, he hoped, of the blood and slugs now forming part of the decor in Coleman's kitchen. In a matter of seconds, they'd created a CSI playground.
    "Tanner always has a plan." She replaced his hand with hers on the towel he was still holding to the Bog's side. Then she slowly pulled it away from the wound. The guy winced but didn't make a sound.
    Gina looked at the wound, then back at him. "What do you think?"
    "I think he'll live—just needs some stitches. But it looks far enough away from any main organs."
    She nodded, got a fresh towel, and put it over the wound. "Keep the pressure on this," she said to Bogdan. "Can you do that?"
    "Yes." He covered the towel with one giant hand.
    When her hands were free, Gina put them on her hips, and looked up at Bogdan. Way up. "You saved my life. Why?"
    "Him," he gestured toward the heap on the floor that was Coleman. "Bad guy. I don't like. You, okay lady."
    "That's good to hear, Igor—"
    "Name not—"
    She smiled. "I know." With that, she got on her toes, grabbed his huge head, pulled it down, and planted a kiss on his