Inherited Threat. Jane M. Choate
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pocket and shackled the man’s hands.
He turned to see Laurel still grappling with her opponent.
“Homer always thought he was so smart. But look who’s still standing. I’ll take you back in pieces if I have to,” he said to Laurel, “but you’ll be alive. You’ll be real alive.”
Mace started to step in, but Laurel stopped him with a feral grin. “He’s mine.”
He saw that her man had tossed aside the shotgun and pulled a knife, clearly not wanting to kill Laurel, just subdue her. They squared off from each other.
Mace hadn’t pegged her as someone to back down from a fight. He was right.
* * *
The gleam of metal flashed menacingly through the air, but Laurel didn’t retreat. Instead, she moved like a blur of motion, stepping into the sweep of the knife’s arc and twisting the man’s wrist, breaking his hold on the hilt of the knife. It fell from his grasp, and she kicked it out of the way.
“Want to try again?” she asked.
Enraged now, he bared his teeth and charged at her, head first. She spun, then gave him a kick to the pants that sent him toppling to the asphalt parking lot. She put a knee to his back and pulled his arms behind him.
Mace handed her a spare pair of cuffs. “You’ve got some moves on you.”
After securing her man, she planted her hands on her hips. “What do we do with these yahoos?”
Mace pulled a length of rope from the bed of his pickup, tied the men back-to-back, and then bound their feet for good measure. “That should hold them until S&J gets the police on the horn and has them picked up.” A quick text to Shelley took care of the matter.
“Get your gear,” he said to Laurel. “I’ll have one of S&J’s operatives retrieve your car.”
She grabbed her backpack from her vehicle and headed to Mace’s truck.
He swung in the driver’s seat while Laurel slid in the passenger side and Sammy bounded over the seat to the back.
“Ever been on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride?” he asked.
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Well, hold on. ’Cause we’re gonna take it now.”
With a squeal of tires, Mace peeled out of the parking lot. The narrow road wound its way through the valley then climbed steadily. Though navigating it required concentration, his mind wasn’t on the road but on the woman sitting at his side.
The tight set of her shoulders told him she was tense but wasn’t going to voice her worry aloud. Her sharp gaze was fixed on the road ahead.
“You’ve got some moves on you. You handled yourself like a pro back there,” he said.
She sent an unsmiling look his way. “I am a pro. I did the same training as you, Ransom. No one cut me slack because I’m female.”
“It shows.” She was as well-trained as any soldier he’d fought alongside. “Sorry.”
“Because you thought I was a poster child for women in the military and didn’t have what it takes to back it up?”
“No. I never doubted you had the goods. What I didn’t know was whether you traded on them, expecting special treatment because you’re a woman. Now I know that you don’t.”
Her nod was curt. “Apology accepted.”
“Where’d you pick up your friends?”
“Somewhere over the last ridge. I’d hoped I’d lost them, but they kept on coming.” Her voice took on an edge.
He didn’t bother telling her not to worry. She’d be a fool if she wasn’t scared, and this woman was nobody’s fool. A woman who’d made Ranger was exceptional. He’d known plenty of men, good men, who hadn’t been able to make the grade.
The three-legged dog was another mystery. Obviously well trained, the dog was probably military. Military dogs were heroes in their own right. They had been instrumental in taking down bin Laden. If Mace were to guess, he’d say Sammy had been an explosives-sniffing dog, probably losing his leg doing just that.
“Sammy’s ex-military, right?”
She nodded. “He lost his leg searching a building for explosives. He found something and refused to leave until he’d let his handler know. He saved my life that day plus six of my teammates.” Her eyes darkened. “Three didn’t make it.”
Her terse explanation didn’t pretty up the facts, though it had obviously cost her to recount that day. The affection between her and the big shepherd was palpable.
Mace darted a glance her way, then quickly looked away when he saw her bowed head. Though she didn’t say anything, he knew she was praying. While he respected, even admired, believers, he couldn’t agree with their faith. His own faith in the Lord had died during his years in Afghanistan. What kind of God allowed the atrocities he’d witnessed to take place?
Laurel looked up. “I apologize if my praying made you uncomfortable.”
“No problem.”
She slid her gaze over him. “But you’re not a believer?”
“It’s not that I don’t believe. It’s that I can’t.”
To his relief, she didn’t pursue the subject. She folded her hands in her lap and went still. Despite her energy and skills, she had a restful quality to her that he appreciated.
Once again, he experienced a jolt of attraction. That kind of reaction wasn’t typical for him, and he didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all. Only one other time had he felt such a pull toward a woman and look at how that had turned out.
He resisted putting a hand to the scar that bisected his right cheek. No sense in drawing attention to it. Not that anyone could miss it. The scar, courtesy of a terrorist’s knife, was the least of his wounds. The left leg that would never be fully functional again came from time in a POW camp.
But even that paled compared to the scars that marked his soul. From long habit, he pushed away the spiraling downward turn of his thoughts and focused on the client at his side.
Beauty was in the eye of the beholder, but this lady would make any man sit up and take notice. Flawless skin was complemented by heavily fringed eyes and a mouth that looked like it might have curved in a smile easily enough had the circumstances been different. As it was, her lips were firmed in an uncompromising line.
He didn’t fault her for that. Having two of the Collective’s foot soldiers on your tail tended to take the fun right out of you.
She held herself tightly, the tense posture saying more than words could that she was preparing for a fight. Her eyes blazed with the rush of adrenaline, and he knew his did as well.
“Relax,” he said. “I haven’t lost a client yet.”
His lame attempt at humor didn’t raise so much as a small smile from her.
“Sorry.” She lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “It’s been a pretty intense twenty-four hours.”
“I get it.”
After that brief exchange, she lapsed into silence.
* * *
Laurel understood that she was being vetted by the bodyguard. She didn’t mind. Much. She was doing some vetting of her own and decided that Mace Ransom was a straight shooter who didn’t waste time. She appreciated that. A complicated man, she judged.
He was tall, with a rangy build that spelled both strength and speed. Along with jeans and Frye combat boots, he wore an Under Armour shirt and a tactical Blackhawk Warrior Wear jacket system. She guessed there was a holstered weapon beneath the jacket.
His