Inherited Threat. Jane M. Choate
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his NVGs. His night vision goggles had come in handy on more than one occasion.
The Glock 17, his preferred weapon, he placed in a custom-made shoulder holster. All that was left was his K-bar knife, which he slid inside his boot. He traveled light and liked it that way. Too many possessions, too many emotions, slowed you down.
There’d been no one to contact, no one to let know that he was going out of town. He supposed he ought to be grateful for the freedom. Instead, it only emphasized the fact that he was alone.
The spurt of self-pity annoyed him, and he shoved aside the unaccustomed feelings to focus on the job.
A battered sedan pulled in and a tall woman climbed out, accompanied by a dog. She raked Mace with a long look, then nodded, apparently satisfied, and strode toward him.
“You’re S&J, right?”
“Mace Ransom.” He drew in a sharp breath, not expecting the kick-to-the-gut attraction to the lady. Beautiful didn’t begin to describe her.
She was a job. He’d do well to remember that.
“Laurel Landry.” She stuck out a callused hand. “I’ve got two tangos on my tail. They’re locked and loaded. I lost them a few miles back, but they’ll catch up. Sooner rather than later, I’m guessing.”
“Who’s that?” he asked, gesturing toward the dog.
“Sammy. My partner.”
She had no more gotten the words out of her mouth when a high-riding pickup pulled into the parking lot. Two men climbed out. They were loaded for bear with pistol-grip Mossberg twelve-gauge shotguns at the ready. The twelve-gauge shotguns would take down a grizzly. He didn’t want to see what they could do to a man.
The bigger of the two men, who held his weapon with casual ease, pushed his way forward and addressed Mace. “No sense beatin’ round the bush. Let us have the woman and we’ll kill you fast, rather than take our time with it.” Nicotine-stained teeth flashed in what Mace supposed was the man’s version of a grin.
Mace knew the lady was waiting for his reaction. Did she expect he’d just hand her over? He widened his stance. “Not gonna happen.”
“What’s she to you?” the man challenged, shifting his grip on the twelve-gauge ever so slightly.
“None of your business. And I take it real personal when someone says they’re gonna kill me. Fast or slow.”
The one doing the talking was clearly the leader. The hard look in his eyes spoke of a lifetime of bad choices and bad company. He stank of sour sweat and cigar smoke.
Mace switched his attention to the second man.
He was twitchy and shorter by several inches than his partner, with the compact, dense muscles of a wrestler or football running back. That spelled strength, but it also might mean he didn’t move as quickly as his leaner companion.
His head swiveled back and forth, and he shuffled from one foot to the other. Clearly, he ranked far down in the Collective hierarchy. Probably brought along for backup only. Dark hair sprouted around the armholes and neck of the camouflage-colored T-shirt he wore.
The first man aimed his weapon at Mace, an obvious show of power. Mace studied the man’s hands. He’d always found that hands telegraphed a man’s intention more than did the eyes. The man’s hands were sweaty. He wasn’t as calm as he pretended. Mace saw through the cocky facade to the fissures beneath.
He could use that.
“Whoever’s paying you to do this isn’t paying you enough,” Laurel said, speaking for the first time since the men arrived.
“Yeah? What’s it to you?”
“Only that if you’re going to kill me, I’d like to know my murderer was getting a big payoff.”
He grinned, a stretch of thin lips that held no trace of humor. “We’re not gonna kill you. Just take you to some folks that’ll pay us ten grand.”
“I figure I should be worth at least fifty grand.”
Confusion crossed his partner’s face. “Fifty grand?” Outrage rimmed his words.
“It’s like I said in the first place, you’re not being paid enough. I’d take it up with your boss.”
Mace edged closer to his goal, knowing that Laurel was trying to draw the men’s attention to give him time to get in position.
The second man shot the leader an accusing glare. “You said ten grand was it.”
“Too bad,” Laurel said, a pronounced drawl creeping into her voice. “I’m sure you could get more. Maybe you ought to call this boss of yours and demand a better deal.”
“And maybe you oughta shut up,” the first man said as he cut a hard look at his partner. “She’s playing you.”
Mace angled closer to the leader.
“But fifty grand...” A whine crept into the second man’s voice. “Homer, that’s a sight of money.”
“What’d I tell you about using names? Now shut your trap and let’s get on with it. We ain’t getting nothin’ if we don’t deliver the woman.”
Mace watched as the first man shifted his grip on the shotgun once more. He was getting ready to make his move. Mace telegraphed his intention to Laurel with a small nod. Not by so much as a flicker of her eyes did she indicate that she was following his progress as he closed the distance between himself and the man.
“Now!” he shouted.
Laurel and Mace had top-notch training on their side, while their opponents were sloppy and undisciplined but brought over 450 pounds of animal fat and pure mean to the fight.
Mace set his sights on the man he’d pegged as the leader and kicked the shotgun from his grip. It was now hand-to-hand. Mace had excelled at hand-to-hand in close-quarters combat training, but his opponent was no slouch and had Mace beat in the weight department.
“You think you’re gonna take me down?” the man taunted, all the while keeping his head out of reach of Mace’s fists. Could he have a glass jaw? The man had a tell. Before he advanced, he wet his lips. It was a small gesture, but it was there.
Mace saw his opening and made his move, neatly evading a blow to the kidneys. He used his opponent’s tell to his advantage, waiting for it, then moving in with a swift uppercut to the man’s jaw.
His guess was verified when his opponent’s eyes went glassy, his mouth slack. Mace followed up with a blow under the nose, causing the man to drop to his knees.
His opponent wasn’t finished, though. He got to his feet, muttered something under his breath, and advanced on Mace with unmistakable intent in his eyes. Mace aimed a short-armed punch to the goon’s face.
Striking the idiot in the face felt good, especially after he’d suggested that Mace abandon Laurel. He spared a glance in her direction and saw Sammy anxiously waiting for the command to attack. The command didn’t come. She flashed Mace an I’ve-got-this look and fought with the ferocity and skill he’d expect of an Army Ranger.
His man got to his feet once more, swiped blood from his mouth and sent Mace a look promising retribution. He grabbed hold of Mace’s arm and did his best to yank it out of the socket.
Mace wanted to give Laurel a thumbs-up, but he was too busy taking down the thug who was fixated on tearing him apart limb by limb.
“Nobody bests me and lives to tell about it. Not that we were gonna let you live in the first place.”
“Enough.” Growing tired of the man’s taunts, Mace did a roundhouse