Atlanta Heat by Lora Leigh Page A

his grip on Landry’s wrist.
    They were cursing, snarling. Macey delivered another blow to Landry’s jaw. When Landry’s fist connected with his side again, Macey’s hand broke contact with his wrist.
    “Answer the phone. Answer the phone,” Emerson cried out. “Oh God, where are—”
    “Macey!” Her godfather’s voice yelled into the line. “Secure premises. Our mole is Landry, I repeat—”
    “No shit!” Emerson screamed into the line. “Get down here. Where are you? Landry’s here.”
    A shot exploded in the room. Horrified, Emerson tried to pierce the disorienting flare of light and shadows to the two men fighting. Macey had Landry’s wrist in a two-handed grip, holding the weapon, trying to turn it back on the other man as Landry’s fingers tightened on the trigger again.
    Macey’s expression twisted savagely. Landry’swrist turned until the gun was almost trained on Macey.
    She was aware of her godfather screaming in her ear, an explosion from the front of the house, and the increased blare of sirens.
    It happened in slow motion, and yet so fast she couldn’t make sense of it. Macey twisted Landry’s hand back just as the gun fired again. The warrant officer’s body jerked, spasmed, then Macey jumped back as Drack attacked.
    It shot forward, slicing between Macey’s body and Landry’s, her mouth opening wide, teeth gleaming to clamp over the dying man’s face and twine its massive girth around his neck. Two more shots fired; the snake jerked, shuddered, but held its grip.
    Voices were raised. Not her voice. Not Macey’s. He was jerking the sheet off the bed and wrapping it around her as black-suited SEALs swarmed into the room, weapons held ready, lights slicing into the room.
    “Get those fucking weapons out of here!” Macey screamed.
    Amazingly, the six men rushed back into the living area and returned seconds later, weaponless, their gazes locked on the still form of Warrant Officer Pierce Landry and the anaconda attached to his head.
    “Shit,” Macey breathed out as he finished securing the sheet around Emerson. “Reno, hit the code on the alarms,” he yelled at the suited men. “Shut this damned noise off.”
    Drack was dead and so was Pierce. Emerson could see the blood spreading out from beneath the creature and the aide’s still form.
    “Fucking bastard killed my snake.” Macey’s voice was weary, resigned.
    The sirens cut off abruptly, the music and lights stilled, and bright normal white light lit up the room.
    Macey was behind Emerson, his arms wrapped around her, his heart racing in his chest.
    “You were shot.” She tore her gaze from the death across the room as the six men stared over at her and Macey in varying degrees of shock.
    The members of Durango Team were there, along with her godfather, and her godfather wasn’t looking happy.
    “Lieutenant,” the admiral snapped as Emerson moved to check the crease in his side. “Are you going to live?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Then find your pants, sailor. You’re not dressed.” The admiral’s tone was clearly disapproving.
    “No sir, I’m not,” Macey growled, his voice, irritated, still rough from rage, cut through the room.
    “Enough.” Firm, brooking no refusal, Emerson sliced her gaze back to Macey. “You need to have this seen to.”
    “It’s nothing,” he snapped. But his lips were tight and discomfort darkened his eyes as he glared at the admiral.
    Emerson turned back to her godfather. “If he loses rank again, you’re going to have to deal withme. Now take care of the mess in here and I’ll take care of Macey.”
    She bent and jerked the jeans he had worn earlier from the floor where he had tossed them before lifting her gaze to his. He still looked ready to fight.
    “In the living room.” She swallowed back the bile in her throat at the smell of death that had begun to permeate the room. “You can take care of Drack after I take care of you.”
    She led Macey back to the room, aware of the