Demon Fire (The Angel Fire Book 3) by Marie Johnston (top 10 novels of all time TXT) 📕

floor, he ran into another large bouncer. The man bared his teeth and flashed a gun. But the man was poorly trained.

Boone batted his hand away, spun, and elbowed him in the gut, using the breath whooshing out of the man to disarm him. He rammed his elbow down on the back of the bouncer’s neck. The bouncer fell, limp. He’d come around eventually, but Boone was done with him.

Boone checked over the gun as he spun. A fully loaded Glock. Damn. He wanted to trash it. There were too many people around to risk a stray bullet, but he also couldn’t risk it being aimed at Sierra.

Someone burst through the door and he raised the gun, both hands to steady himself, his elbows tight to his body, sights centered on her—Harlowe. As instincts he’d hoped to never use again relaxed, he lowered the weapon.

Sounds of a fight pounded through the door behind her. There was a melee in the stairwell.

“Urban and Bronx will hold them off,” she said.

He spun and ran in the direction Sierra was getting dragged. A door hung open. This wasn’t where she’d described the conference room to be. It must be the penthouse. He pulled alongside the frame and peered inside, the gun a familiar and unwanted weight in his hand. All he saw was a suite as fancy as a luxury hotel.

He swallowed hard and concentrated on his training. What if the gun was taken from him and used on not only him, but on Sierra? What if the baby got hurt because of this damn gun?

Sierra’s voice came from another direction. “You said you’d wait.”

Low laughter rumbled from the same area. The conference room she’d said was down a short hallway.

He was about to tell Harlowe the penthouse looked empty, but a female dressed in a black suit rushed the angel. Another bouncer. The woman pulled a sidearm out from inside her jacket and aimed it at the warrior.

Boone ducked back into the penthouse. Harlowe dropped to a crouch as shots rang out, echoing off all the walls. The angel swung her leg around and tripped the human. The gun clattered out of her hand. Boone dove for it while Harlowe dealt with the bouncer.

It was a twin of the gun he had. Had Andy gotten a package deal? He ejected the magazine, tossed the gun aside, and shoved the extra ammo in his pocket. By the time he was done, Harlowe had knocked the woman out.

Two guards down. Sierra had said there were at least seven on every night. He and Harlowe had dealt with the two who’d guarded Andy. That left five for Urban and Bronx.

Where was Jagger?

Boone stayed close to the wall as he crept toward an open door. Harlowe had his back. She might heal from a gunshot, but he didn’t like that she’d use her body to block one.

“Boone,” Harlowe whispered. “There’s something rigged on the third level. The door was welded shut. We had to use angel fire to burn through it and get down here.”

Rigged? Was that related to the epic death Andy wanted to give an already dead Jameson?

“The warrior is correct,” a man’s voice called from the conference room. “Do come in.” Boone exchanged a look with Harlowe. “Come now. But please realize Sierra will be the one to pay for your obstinance.”

That propelled him forward. Andy didn’t want to hurt Sierra. According to the messages, the little man salivated over the idea of the baby. But Boone had heard enough about Andy’s involvement to know that ultimately, Andy’s goal was himself. He’d sacrifice anyone to keep himself safe, including the fallen he’d finally gotten his hands on.

Boone spun the gun in his hand so it was aimed at the roof and his finger was off the trigger. “I’m coming in.”

“Do enter. Jack, is it?” As Boone cleared the doorway, a slim man with beady eyes grinned. A laptop was closed on the table in front of him. Another fucking Glock was in his hands and aimed at Sierra. “My guards have been keeping an eye on you.”

A man with a rounded beer gut who looked like he was dressed for a conference retreat reached for Boone’s weapon. As soon as the man’s hand closed around the weapon, he punched Boone in the stomach.

Boone doubled over as the breath evacuated his lungs. He hated gut punches. His scars tightened, screaming against the pressure.

“Fucker,” he wheezed.

“Most people prefer bitch.”

A female demon was in the host, then. And now his gun had been turned on him. Terror clawed its way up his throat. Tonight could not end the same way it had before.

A second man, resembling the first and dressed the same in a polo and khaki pants, sat next to Sierra, balancing a silver, curved knife in his hand. Several yellow- and purple-topped tubes lined the table in front of them. Relief chased away the ache in his gut. The tubes were empty.

“And you must be Harlowe. I’ve heard about you.” Andy placidly regarded Harlowe, who didn’t bother to put her hands up.

Sierra sat rigidly, her hands clenched on her lap, her gaze haunted.

“Warrior,” the man next to Sierra grunted.

The first host shoved him farther into the conference room. Boone didn’t bother to sit. He needed to be ready to move. The conference room was like any other he’d seen. Wood accents. Minimal décor. Big-ass table lined with chairs. A shelving unit squatted in the far corner with a few bland business manuals.

“Shall we finish introductions?” Andy’s speech was unhurried. Did he realize there were other warriors in the building? “I have a feeling that may defuse the situation slightly.” He glanced at Harlowe. “You and your team may decide to abort your rescue mission.”

That answered one question.

“I’m Andrew Petrovksy, and this is my father, Gerzon.”

“Impossible,” Harlowe spat out. But the Gerzon-possessed host only nodded.

“Gerzon had quite an active decade attempting to procreate outside of his realm. I was a win.”

“Explain,” Harlowe demanded.

“Gerzon was in