Laura Kaye - Hard As It Gets

She recognized the driver right away. In her mind’s eye, she saw him crossing the staff break room. It was definitely the same man. And, thank God, he’d come alone.

Eyes drilling into her, he got out of the idling truck and crossed the grass looking like the gangster he apparently was—baggy jeans, hoody, chains at his neck. But, geez, he’d been beaten to hell judging by the bruises and cuts on his face. Every moment of this situation was more surreal than the next.

“That’s close enough,” she said when he reached the edge of the sidewalk that ringed the pavilion. Becca retreated behind a picnic table, placing a barrier between them.

He glared but stopped on the sidewalk. “So we meet again.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say we’ve met, since you know who I am, but I don’t know you.” Her gaze dropped to his hand, but she couldn’t get a good look at the tattoos there from this angle.

His brown eyes narrowed. “All you need to know is I’m the one who can help get your brother back.”

It sounded too good to be true. The breeze blew strands of hair loose from her ponytail, and she swept them away from her eyes. “What is it you want?”

“To know how your bro put two and two together.”

Becca nearly groaned and her hands fisted. She had no more patience for bullshit mystery. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Don’t play games with me.”

“Charlie found something that was supposed to be hidden, and we need to know what led him to it.”

“How am I supposed to find that out?” she asked, a chill running down her spine despite the nice morning.

The hint of a smile played around the corners of his wide mouth. “I was thinking about that . . .”

A scuff. Rubber on concrete. Goose bumps erupted across her neck as she turned.

Time slowed to a crawl, and everything happened at once.

Two guys stepped out of the trees and entered the far side of the pavilion. Both had guns.

Panic had barely welled up inside her as one screamed and fell to the ground for no apparent reason. The other bolted but, just as suddenly, crashed to the ground with a shout and a cry. Could Beckett’s silencer be the cause? The punks writhed on the grass, but one of them returned fire, the gun’s report echoing loudly under the pavilion’s roof. Becca instinctively crouched down, hands cradling her head. Her gaze whipped to her attacker.

Expression absolutely livid, he stalked around the table with a gun pointed at her head. “Not getting away this time, bitch.”

She backtracked the opposite direction, her hand reaching for her gun.

His roiling gaze tracked the movement and he lunged.

Becca took off across the concrete, catching her shin on the blunt edge of a bench in a flash of pain. The stumble slowed her, and he grabbed her ponytail. Her head wrenched back, nearly taking her off her feet. Suddenly, her air was gone, his arm trapping her in a tight chokehold that had her clawing and gasping. Nearby, footsteps pounded on the earth. The team.

They’ll get to me, they’ll get to me, they’ll get to me in time.

Above her, the bright blue sky filled with little pinpoints of light as the guy’s arm compressed her windpipe. And her medical training meant she knew she had mere seconds before blacking out.

Voices. A scuffle. A shove from behind. Then she was free and on the grass. Gulping down air, she rolled onto her hands and knees, blinking and shaking consciousness into her head.

Two bodies slammed to the ground ten feet away from her. Nick had come out of nowhere and taken the guy facedown. Now he was jamming the business end of his gun into the man’s meaty cheek, drilling his knee into his back.

Through the mask he wore, icy-hot green eyes cut toward her.

“I’m okay,” she gasped, remembering not to use Nick’s name, one of the instructions they’d given her by way of preparation. When he didn’t look away, she nodded. “I’m okay.” Last thing she wanted was for him to be distracted by worry.

Beckett knelt behind the gangbanger and shoved a black hood over his head. The guys removed their masks, meant to protect their identity from the Churchmen. She was the only one who didn’t need one, given they’d already seen her.

“Come on,” Marz said, appearing beside her. He helped her to her feet and steadied her when she wobbled. “We have to move. Fast.”

“Look,” she said, pointing. The tattoo on the back of the baddie’s hand was definitely the cross and tower symbol.

“Other two are secure where they dropped,” Easy said, jogging up behind them with a handful of weaponry. He pulled off his mask and stuffed it in his pocket. “I called nine-one-one, although I should just let ’em bleed out.” He reached into the driver’s side door of the SUV, killed the engine, and came back out with the keys jingling in his hands.

Nick produced a thick plastic zip tie. He secured the attacker’s hands behind his back, grabbed his bicep, and forced him to his feet. “Please give me a reason to pull the trigger,” Nick growled, digging the barrel of his gun into the man’s back. Hand on his arm, Nick pushed him forward.

Guns drawn, they moved as a unit, gazes constantly scanning. Even with Becca and their prisoner in the center of the group, Nick’s men very clearly moved in a synchronized formation as they walked down the drive to the boat they’d all arrived on, though now moored further down the waterfront. Even as he kept a handle on her attacker, Nick planted his body next to hers. Relief, admiration, regret for their morning fight. Love. The urge to tell him all of it flooded through her, but it would have to wait.

Luckily, the park remained empty and the trees provided cover from the neighboring parking lot. Ahead, the white fishing boat rumbled to life. They walked across the wood planking, the boards moving slightly under the weight of the group. Marz helped her step down into the boat, and Shane guided her to the empty seat next to Miguel in the central cockpit. In just a few seconds’ time, the team was all aboard. Easy took a position on the wide rear wall, watching their tail, while the rest of the guys bustled their captive toward the open space at the front and forced him to the floor.

“Ropes are clear,” Shane said.

Miguel pushed a lever forward, easing them away from the dock. Their speed felt excruciatingly slow, but then they passed a buoy with a No Wake sign and she understood why. “Harbor police ahead, gentlemen, just play it cool,” Miguel said.

Sitting on the V-shaped benches built into the boat’s bow, Shane, Marz, and Beckett reclined against the walls like they hadn’t a care in the world.

Miguel pasted on a smile. “Smile and wave, boys and girls.”

The police boat wasn’t particularly close, but its captain waved. They waved back. Becca blew out a breath, adrenaline from the scuffle at the pavilion making her shaky now.

“You okay, kid?” Miguel asked.

She nodded and pulled loose strands of her hair from her face. Thought about how good an icy bottle of water would feel on her raw throat. Nick’s team was being so quiet that she felt she should be, too. In fact, tension radiated off the men. Easy had his gaze peeled off the stern of the boat. The guys seated up front appeared braced for a fight, muscles rigid, eyes on a constant scan. Nick was on top of the guy on the floor, gun still jammed in the man’s back.

Thankfully, Canton was close to the mouth of the harbor. They passed Fort McHenry on the right, the historic site that inspired Francis Scott Key to write the Star-Spangled Banner, and then they were out into more open water. Miguel picked up speed. It was a beautiful day, no waves or wind, and the fishing boat glided gently through the dark green-blue water as they passed Baltimore’s industrial areas and boatyards, then went under the last bridges that officially marked their entry into the Chesapeake Bay.

“Open water, gentlemen,” Miguel called over the twin engines. “Coming right up.” He pushed the lever forward again, and the boat shot out over the calm bay.

Becca wrapped her arms around herself and hugged tight. It wasn’t cold, but her bones rattled in her skin, her throat ached, and her head throbbed. Now that they had the guy, how were they going to get him to tell them what they needed to know?

Rage and a healthy dose of deadly intent flowed through Rixey’s veins. What he’d most feared had very nearly come to pass—Becca being hurt, kidnapped, or worse. This motherfucker had manhandled her. Twice. At this point, he’d happily bathe in the guy’s blood and dance on his bones.

“Check him for ID,” Nick said, still using his weight to make sure the asshole didn’t try to get cute.

Shane and Marz went through his pockets. “Bingo,” Marz said, lifting the guy’s cell phone and a black leather wallet. He flipped the billfold open. “Hello, Mr. Tyrell Woodson. I’ll just hang onto these.” Marz slipped both into his pocket.

From his position on the deck, Nick didn’t have a good visual of their location. He glanced up to Shane, who gave a tight nod, confirming they were out in open water.

“Start. Talking,” Nick growled, giving an extra shove of his gun into Tyrell’s kidney.

“Fuck you,” the punk said.

Rixey heaved the guy’s upper body off the floor and slammed it back against the fiberglass. “Wrong answer,” he said as groans spilled out from under the hood. “We know you work for Church. Tell us why Church is after the Merritts and where Charlie Merritt is being held.”

“I’m not telling you shit.” He struggled under Nick’s grip.