Chapter Sixteen – I Got Time for That
Gibraltar, British Overseas Territory
Spencer was about to break cover, fully prepared to die trying to reach Alex, when he watched her save herself.
As they passed the stove, Alex lunged. She swiped a cast iron pan off the burner. It scorched her hand, but she gritted her teeth, gripped the handle, and swung.
The pan struck his skull with a brutal clang.
He toppled, slamming down on top of her.
Gasping, Alex wormed her way out from under him, clutching the heavy pan to her chest like a shield.
"Alex!" Spencer's voice cracked like a whip. Urgent. Commanding.
She didn't need to be told twice. She scrambled toward the prep table, alive, eyes wild, unharmed- for now.
Spencer dove out, grabbed her by the arm, and hauled her in beside him. He retrieved the bolt-action rifle, checked the clip. Five rounds.
Not much.
But enough.
"I've counted six men left. How many were there?" She asked, wondering how the Earl had so many men willing to kill for him.
"Ten."
Spencer didn't look at her as he adjusted a shiny aluminum tray with his foot. She realized he was using it as a mirror, so he could see on the other side of the table.
"You've killed four?" she double checked.
"Only had four bullets," he said, as if it was obvious he'd have killed them all if he'd had more.
"Forgive me," she rolled her eyes, "I forgot I was speaking with the God of Marksmen."
When another moment without gunfire passed, Alex wondered if they'd retreated, but Spencer knew they were just regrouping on the other side of the fence, figuring out the best way to breech their defense.
"What are they doing? Why'd they stop shooting?" Alex asked.
Spencer pressed his back to the table, reeled her in to crouch beside him behind the overturned prep table "They're planning their strategy." Probably how to kill him without killing her.
"And that is?" she wished she would stop shaking.
"They'll round the table. Come at us from both sides." His tone was grim.
The situation was grim.
"What are the odds of me convincing you to get back under there?" Spencer tilted his head in the cellar's direction.
Alex looked him in the eye. "Negative a thousand," she stated firm.
Spencer jammed the bolt on the rifle back, loaded another round, and lifted the butt to his shoulder. She clutched the cast iron pan like a lifeline, her hands shaking, face powdered white with flour and fear.
"Give me a pistol," her tone brooked no argument this time.
He wouldn't even look at her, just kept staring at the reflective tray. "Just stay behind me."
"No," She was having none of that. "I need one." Alex gripped his bicep, leaned forward to make him look her in the eye, "Please. We're not getting out of this alive unless we both fight." His voice was steady, calm. It had to be; she was a former countess turned soldier in the heat of battle.
Spencer slowly set the rifle down, reached around his back for the revolver, popped open the cylinder, and showed her the cartridges inside, "You've got three bullets."
She watched his every move.
He snapped the cylinder shut with a flick of his wrist, gave it a quick spin, and pressed the weapon into her palm, "I highly recommend not using one unless you absolutely have to."
Her blue eyes were wider than he'd ever seen, but she wrapped her fingers around the piece.
Spencer loaded what he could into the rifle. Four in the magazine. One already chambered. Just five shots. Then he tucked the remaining pistol with one bullet left into the back of his waistband, just in case.
Spencer pressed her back to the thick wood underside of the table. They shared a tense look.
"We're gonna go shoulder to shoulder," he instructed, while mentally adding that he was going to try to and push her behind him as much as he could. "You'll cover the right," he gestured to more narrow side- the side he knew would have fewer intruders. "I'll take the left."
She nodded once, shaking like a leaf.
She needed to distribute her weight, or she'd never hit her target. "Rest your arms on-"
He cut off when he heard Harrison's orders.
"Go! Flush them out!"
Son of a bitch. They were going to box them in. Bullets would come from both directions. They were sitting ducks.
Spencer turned his back to the table, "Do not move from this table or your arm from my shoulder. Got it?"
Alex pressed harder against him.
"I'm your shadow," she quietly vowed.
"Take a deep breath," they inhaled and exhaled as one. "They're coming."
Spencer kept his eyes locked on the reflective aluminum tray by his feet, watching the warped, ghostlike shapes of men drawing closer in its dull sheen. The creak of boots on tile grew louder. Metal scraped against metal — bolts being chambered, safeties clicked off.
He didn't wait.
With his rifle braced along the edge of the prep table, Spencer fired the moment a figure slipped into his sightline. The crack split the room. He cycled the bolt, another shot. One man dropped. Then another.
The kitchen exploded into chaos. Bullets tore through tile and stainless steel. Spencer's shoulder tensed against Alex. She felt every recoil, every inhale. She stayed flattened behind him, heart pounding against her ribs, arms shaking — but her pistol stayed up, just as he'd shown her.
She was holding a gun. She needed to shoot the man with the gun.
It still didn't prepare her for the moment it actually happened.
He saw her.
She gasped.
He raised his weapon.
She raised hers.
They both fired.
CRACK.
Her bullet went wide, punching a hole into the ceiling.
His struck the table, exploding splinters that sliced her cheek.
"Steady!" Spencer shouted without turning, his own sights fixed ahead.
The gunman stepped forward, leveling his weapon again.
Alex didn't flinch this time. Her pistol was already up.
CRACK.
This one hit.
The man stumbled backward, struck center mass. He slammed against the tiled wall and slid to the floor, leaving a smeared trail of blood as he fell.
Alex's jaw fell open. Her arms hung limp. Her ears rang like bells. She stared at the blood trickling from his mouth, the life fading from his glassy eyes.
It didn't feel real.
Her ears rang, drowning out the gunfire.
She had just-
A noise snapped her out of her freeze. The clack of a bolt and Spencer saying, "I'm empty."
She looked down. Just one bullet left in her revolver.
Without hesitation, she shoved it into his hand. "There's one left."
He tossed aside the spent rifle and took it grimly, grip tight. Alex, now unarmed, snatched the cast iron pan beside her. She didn't care. She just needed something in front of her.
Smoke coiled through the kitchen, stinging their eyes. They crouched low, breath ragged, backs to the prep table. Shards of tile rained down behind them. The walls trembled with every shot. They were out of time. Out of options.
She met his eyes.
He felt it too- the edge of defeat; but he wouldn't name it. He wasn't built that way.
"Ready to give her up yet, Yank?"
Spencer didn't blink. "You wanna come and get her?"
An oily laugh. Cold. Cruel.
"I'm starting to think you're too much trouble to take alive, Countess. Might be the Earl'll have to settle for your body."
Fingers snapped, "James. Go around," the man ordered.
In the warped sheen of the tray, Spencer saw movement — a man flanking left.
"On your right," he warned Alex, swinging the revolver a half a second before the figure loomed. Alex ducked.
CRACK.
James went down — but not before he got off a wild shot.
Spencer's heart stopped.
The bullet streaked toward Alex — and she threw up the cast iron pan without thinking.
It hit dead center.
The pan shrieked with the impact, sparking bright. It wrenched from her hands and spun across the floor. She stared at it, dazed. Ears ringing. Fingers stinging.
Spencer brought his face in close to hers. "You're okay? You're not hit?"
"Y-yes," she stammered. She thought she might throw up, but otherwise, no she wasn't bleeding. "I mean- no. I'm not hit."
She watched her husband's shoulders fall with relief before he double checked the chamber of his gun and curse.
"We're all out?" she knew the answer already.
He looked at the spent revolver in his hand. Jaw clenched.
This was it then. She could hear more men coming. Her throat tightened.
"I'm sorry-" Spencer started, then froze.
Alex heard it too:
Commotion from the alley.
Shouts rose outside, closer now. Boots pounded the alley. Metal scraped against metal.
Then the back door slammed open-
And the whole room erupted with more gunfire.
Automatic. Relentless. A barrage of bullets poured through the building like a hailstorm.
Spencer tackled Alex, shielding her with his body, forcing her down beneath the prep table. He wrapped himself around her, arm cradling her head, other hand pressed to her ribs. The thunder of gunfire filled the room. Shouts. Agonized screams.
Then… nothing.
It was over in seconds. Only the faint hiss of a stovetop remained.
Spencer raised his head.
"W-what…" Alex was just as stupefied.
Voices echoed throughout the kitchen.
"Lo vedi!? Do you see him? Trovalo!" Find him!
Italian.
"Nipote!?" Nephew!?
Capitano Franco.
Spencer blinked, stunned, as he looked over the table and saw nearly a dozen Italian boots, slick with blood and ash, filling the kitchen. Guns raised. Eyes scanning for survivors.
Holy hell.
The damn Mafia had come to their rescue.
Spencer never thought he'd be so relieved to see a dozen armed criminals barreling down on him.
Alex sat upright. She stared, slack-jawed at the sea of bodies now littering the floor- then gagged.
Spencer turned her face into his chest, holding her close as he scanned the fallen men, counting faces. Calculating.
No tall man in a black suit with a scar through his lip. No sign of the one who'd given the orders—the one who moved like he already owned the room.
He had no doubt slithered away in the chaos.
Unease crept up Spencer's spine. Would the man tuck tail and run? Or come after them again?
Franco stepped into view, barking something in Italian, smoke still curling from the barrel of his Tommy gun. His white shirt hung open, sleeves rolled to the elbow, stained with flecks of blood.
"Zio!?" Louie's muffled voice rang out.
Alex spun around, slipped on broken tile, but caught herself. "Louie!?" She tore across the room, threw open the larder hatch. "Louie?"
A soft cough.
Then his little voice, "Sto bene." I'm okay.
She nearly sobbed with relief.
Franco appeared at the hatch. "Ragazzo…" His voice softened. "Vieni." — Come.
He pulled Louie out and into his arms, hugging the boy tight, whispering something too soft to hear.
Louie puffed up his chest, "I protect Signorina Alex just like you said, Zio."
Alex turned back into Spencer.
They clung to each other. Tight. Breathless.
"You two bene?"Good? Franco asked, voice even, expression unreadable.
Spencer gave a slow nod.
Alex, too shaken to speak, just barely managed the same.
Spencer was the first to pull away. "We should go. The authorities-"
Franco waved a hand. "There will be no authorities."
The implication hung there, cold and final.
Spencer wondered if they'd bought them off… and what it would cost him to pay it back.
Franco looked at them both, his voice warmer now. "You kept my boy safe. I am grateful." He gestured for them to come along. "You will dine with us. Tonight, we celebrate you."
Spencer glanced down at their blood-stained clothes, the wrecked kitchen… the bodies.
"Thank you," he said slowly. "But we're in a hurry. I need to get home to my family."
Franco's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"When Signore Maceo asks you to do something… you accept."
Alex tensed in his arms, hearing the threat just as clearly as he had.
Spencer exhaled through his nose, tamping down his impatience.
"Then I guess I got time for that."
Alex wasn't exactly hungry after nearly being shot to pieces, but it was clear they couldn't say no to Franco's invitation. Her stomach could wait. Manners couldn't.
She glanced down at her ruined dress, now more gray and brown now than its original cream, and remembered: their bags. They were probably still in the front room of the shop, exactly where she and Spencer had been sitting, blissfully unaware ten minutes ago.
Spencer was still talking with their "rescuers." She could grab his bag. And his rifle.
Alex pushed through the swinging kitchen doors, stepping into devastation.
She let out a low whistle. The dining room was a war zone. Not a single inch had been spared. A dozen tables shattered. Glass crunched beneath her boots.
She felt a pang of guilt. When she got hold of her inheritance, she'd send this bakery a very generous money order.
She stopped cold.
Spencer's rifle was pointed directly at her chest.
But it wasn't Spencer holding it.
The scarred man—the one that had clearly been in charge—was seated in the only chair still upright.
"Guess it's you instead of your husband." He shrugged, smiling coldly.
"Good," A low burning cigarette dangled between his fingers, and her husband's rifle rested lazily in the crook of his arm. "Cleaner this way."
Ashes fell. Alex's eyes stayed locked on the barrel.
"I truly cannot conceive why the Earl wants you alive," he snubbed his cigarette on an overturned table. "Personally, I wouldn't last a day with you," he added flatly.
She suddenly recalled Spencer telling her to watch the trigger finger, not the gun, and moved her gaze lower.
"He'll just have to get over whatever plans he had in store." His finger was hovering over the trigger, but not pressing down. It would buy her a fraction of a second.
"You should thank me from heaven," he exhaled the last of his smoke through his nose, watched it drift and dissipate. "I'm sure whatever he had in mind was worse than a bullet."
"It wouldn't be very wise to disobey him," Alex said, carefully. Stalling. For what, she wasn't quite sure yet.
Harrison shrugged. "It's already done. The Earl wanted invisibility." He waved a hand at the ruined bakery. "I'd say this was a tad public."
Then he sighed long and deep, as if none of it really mattered anymore.
"Was supposed quick and clean. But your husband…" He shook his head. "Your husband's proved to be quite the problem."
Not wanting his mind on killing her husband, she did what she did best- taunted; "You talk a lot. Did you stay to boast? You should've just disappeared. He'll kill you now."
He raised the rifle, slowly, almost reverently, and pointed it at her heart.
"Oh I plan to disappear, Countess. Just, right after you do."
Alex told herself to move- left, right, dive, anything- but she froze.
Then a blur of dark movement rushed by her face, with such speed and force, her hair tossed in the breeze created.
Spencer.
He was diving between her and a bullet.
"No!" she screamed as the rifle cracked.
Spencer slammed into the man, knocking the weapon aside, but not before the bullet struck.
He staggered, knees hitting the ground, hands pressing to his side.
Alex gasped, burning pain spread through her chest. Her heart felt like it was being ripped out.
"Spencer!" she cried, dropping beside him.
He glanced down at the bottom right of his shirt growing crimson. "Just a graze," he said through gritted teeth.
She didn't believe him. She pawed at his clothes, needing to look for herself.
But he waved her off as he struggled to stand, eyes locked on the man escaping out the front door.
"He's getting away—"
"He won't get far," Franco said from behind, his voice calm as ever. He made a simple motion with two fingers, and two men followed.
Alex lifted Spencer's shirt. The fabric peeled back, soaked in red.
"Oh my God…"
"Flesh wound," he insisted, brushing her hand away with a wince.
"So there's no bullet in you?" she asked, voice cracking.
"No bullet." His hand covered hers, steadying her.
"Thank God," Alex whispered, breath shallow but steady.
Spencer held her hands in his, steadying them—steadying her. She'd been pawing at his shirt just seconds ago, desperate to find the wound. Now she was fading under adrenaline, but alive.
After everything they'd just been through, he could hardly believe the two of them were still breathing.
The war in the kitchen should've been the end of it. But of course, the universe wasn't done with them.
While he'd been talking to Franco, his bride had wandered off- straight into another gun.
If he hadn't noticed she was missing…
If Louie hadn't seen her go through the swinging door…
If he hadn't crept in quiet and crouched low, stalking the bastard like a lion snuck on his prey...
He didn't finish the thought.
He just pressed his forehead to hers for one second, grateful beyond words, never wanting to let her go.
But then he stilled.
His hand slid up, eyes narrowing as his fingertips brushed something wet… and warm.
Spencer's eyes snapped down. He pulled her coat aside.
Alex's cream-colored dress was soaked red at the waist. Dark. And spreading.
Not his blood.
Hers.
It took him a moment to understand… the bullet had passed through him-
And landed in Alex.
His stomach dropped.
"Alex…" he said, voice low and raw.
She blinked at him, dazed,. "I-" then she staggered, her legs giving out.
No. No no no.
"What's…" she whispered, breath hitching. Confused. Frightened.
"It's okay," Spencer caught her, gently dropping with her to the floor. "You're okay."
Her hand pressed to her side—then her eyes went wide when it came away red. "I've been shot!" she gasped.
"Seems it," Spencer muttered, grim, trying not to panic as her blood soaked through his hands. He whipped off his coat, wadded it behind her for support, and gently laid her back.
Without preamble, he ripped the tear in her dress wider to get a look at the wound.
Franco crouched beside them, hovering over her other side.
Alex flinched, instinctively trying to shield her chest- then gasped as pain shot through her.
Spencer saw the gash along her ribs, gently rolled her to her side… no exit wound. The bullet was still in her.
"Looks like her ribs caught the bullet after you did. Lucky girl."
Spencer didn't answer. He just pressed a cloth to her side.
It soaked instantly with blood.
Christ…
Alex groaned through her teeth, biting back a cry. "I don't feel so lucky," she mumbled.
A worried Louie crawled over and took her hand. "I'll help, Signorina Alex."
Alex weakly wrapped her fingers around the forearm that was pressing a towel down on her chest. He thought she was trying to push him away, stop the pain, but he realized she was trying to get his attention when his eyes locked on hers.
"Sorry," she mumbled, voice trembling, her breath thinner now. "Didn't mean to get myself shot. Bad timing." She knew how badly he needed to get home.
"Stop talkin'," he bit out, staring at his hands stained with his wife's blood. Alex's blood.
"I shall talk all I want while on the precipice of death," she was rather indignant that he was ordering about at such a time.
His head snapped up to look at her, eyes narrowed, and grit out "You ain't dyin'," tight and adamant.
Alex heard his thickening accent, saw the fear behind his bravado, and tried to chase it off with her gift of light banter, "I should hope not. I'd expect tears." Her hand trembled as she wiped his cheek. "Bone dry," she muttered with mock disappointment.
Her husband just rolled his eyes, ignoring her antics.
Spencer watched the blood slowly seeping into the cloth. He wanted to press harder. Instinct screamed at him to.
But he didn't.
Too much pressure and he could push the bullet further into her.
He'd seen it before in the trenches. A bullet shoved into a lung or clipped an artery because someone panicked and mashed down too hard.
So he stayed steady. Firm. Cautious. Enough to clot and not kill her.
He tried repeating lessons he'd learned in his emergency battlefield care training, to patch up anybody out in the field.
But this wasn't just anybody.
This was his goddamn wife, bleeding out right in front of him.
"Another towel," Spencer snapped out at whoever was near, grateful when a fresh one appeared in his hand without issue.
Alex ran her hand from his forearm to his shoulder, tried to squeeze before letting it fall. He caught it with his left, interlocked their fingers.
Pain and adrenaline sent her babbling. She turned to him, eyes glassy and indignant. "Well no wonder the bullet wasn't in you," she recalled. "It was in me!"
"Still is," Spencer muttered.
She grew even paler, her head falling back, eyes fluttering.
He immediately cradled her neck. "Hey. No- don't do that. Look at me," he snapped.
Her eyelids struggled, and then cracked open- just enough to see her blue irises.
Staring into them, he leaned close, "You're gonna be fine. I've pulled bullets outta worse places than this, and they were fine. Just fine."
Was he reassuring her… or himself?
Alex gave him a weak but haughty little look, "Well you're not pulling one out of me."
Spencer raised an eyebrow, "Not outta my wife, I'm not," just the thought curling his stomach. "I want you alive, not screaming and half-dead from infection."
"Good." She smiled faintly, dazed but never losing her sharp wit. "Now… go find me a real doctor."
Spencer almost smiled- almost- and pressed the cloth tighter again. Blood soaked through it, hot and steady. His stomach roiled.
She needed help. Now.
He looked up at Franco. "You got a doctor?"
The mobster didn't even blink.
Of course they did.
And it wasn't gonna be the damn Red Cross. These men wouldn't go anywhere without their own personal doc who knew how to patch a bullet wound.
He looked around at the wreckage. Shattered glass. Blood pooling in the grout. Shell casings on the floor like breadcrumbs.
The air reeked of gunpowder and burned sugar. The aftermath of a battle in a bakery.
Someone's going to walk in soon. The owner. The cops. The whole damn city.
They needed to move.
"How close is your guy to that dinner?" he asked, not looking up from his blood stained hands.
Franco didn't hesitate, "The doctor will meet us at the casa."
"And how far away is the casa?" he impatiently bit out.
There was a beat of silence, where Franco debated if he was being disrespected, before he ultimately decided the American soldier was clearly worried for his wife and thus, irrational.
He would respond reassuringly, "Just over the border. He's good. Knows how to keep quiet."
Spencer didn't care if he shouted their name from the roof- so long as he had a steady hand and kept his wife breathing.