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“To protect ourselves, people see who we appear to be. Only the most trusted are permitted to know who we really are.”
— André Chevalier
Max
It all happened so fast.
That’s the typical remark from people who’ve been involved in an accident or an attack. Any sudden, unexpected event will create fear, rage, or panic. Like it’s doing to me right now.
I feel the welcome pulse and throb as a fuck-ton of adrenaline spikes my veins. Clenching my fists, I revel in it. Accept it. And I’m going to use it.
The woman is at risk. I have to save her.
I’ve been accused of damsel in distress syndrome. The need to be a savior. So what? My nature is primal and protective. I’d risk my life—hell, I’d willingly die defending the opposite sex. It’s what I’m biologically programmed to do. Right there along with my instinct to hurt women. To hold them down, tie them up. Make them helpless, exposed, and defenseless.
Yeah, still a lunatic. Crazy as fuck, that’s me.
As I blast out of the bus, I immediately slam into the alert frame of mind I discovered when going into a firefight. Hyper-awareness. A weird slowing down, yet also speeding up of the world around me. I feel it taking hold. The response to danger. To the crack of a single twig after a long silence in a forest. That combination of mental alertness, tension, physical exertion, and rage.
Protective, berserker rage.
As I run, I scan the scene. The girl’s blouse is torn—she’s noisily crying her eyes out. There are three attackers and like an avenging demon, I’m going to punish all of them. Two in their late teens, one with what looks like the victim’s handbag thrown over his shoulder. The third assailant doesn’t seem much older. Untrained, but filled with anticipation, excitement, greed and... lust.
Determine will to kill. Determine the skill.
The skinny older boy grips a 9mm Glock 17 revolver, the others hold switchblades pointed her way. The woman is pretty and well dressed. The innocence of youth clings to her like a blanket. They haven’t seen me yet, so I have the advantage.
Then I hear a scream from behind me. The assailants hear it too, and spin toward me.
So much for the element of surprise.
As I reach them, the older man holds the gun out front. In what seems like slow motion, I shift to get out of the line of fire. At the same time my fingers glide up to grab the gun. Holding gun-guy’s hand, I push the lightweight polymer down. The gun goes off with a roar, shooting the ankle of one of the teens.
The boy who is hit screams like a banshee as the spent casing flies into the air. I hear it zing past my face, landing with a clink on the pavement.
I grab the heated exposed barrel, restricting the slide so the weapon doesn’t reload. That gun won’t fire now. The wounded kid drops his knife. Nearly fainting, he drops too, his hands moving to his bleeding and deformed ankle. Like the woman, he’s sobbing like it’s the end of the world.
One down.
While gun-guy is trying to figure out what happened to his non-firing weapon, the other teen jabs straight out with his knife, lunging toward me. Raising my left arm to block him, I grab his hand in a wrist lock, wrenching it to a forty-five-degree angle. He screams as his tendons stretch until he falls onto his back to escape the pain. I mercilessly kick him in the head, taking him off the board as a threat. One strike of my leather boot to the temple and it’s lights out for him.
Two down.
Spinning toward my last target, I put every ounce of my strength, energy, and rage into punching the asshole still holding a gun. My closed fist rockets upwards slamming into his chin—right onto the sweet spot. Yes! Fucking perfect knockout blow. The skinny young man lifts off his feet, his body pirouetting into a full circle.
I jump back when gun-guy’s head lands on shot ankle-guy’s bloody foot, making the wounded attacker scream even harder and causing blood to spray onto my trousers. No longer holding his gun, the shooter’s eyes are closed in unconsciousness. With the fury behind that punch, I’m not in the least surprised. He deserved an ass-kicking.
Three down.
That’s all she wrote for this pack of bastards. I automatically kick both knives and gun to the wall of the back alleyway, out of perpetrators reach. Less than ten seconds have passed since the bullet was fired.
Targets no longer a threat. Mission accomplished. Stop now. Stop. Stop!
My body trembles as I don’t want to stop. I want to hurt them, hurt them, hurt them! The compulsion is nearly irresistible. I long to end the vast swell of darkness and pain inside me. Like the countless men my mother brought home, I waited until they hurt her, genuinely hurt her. Then, using that as an excuse, I beat them half to death.
So many sins to atone for.
My fists clench. I need to pound them flesh to flesh. Kick them with booted feet until their ribs crack. Watch them suffer. Make them sorry. Make them bleed. That’s the real reason I left the army, not my weakness when faced with blood. Who knows what I may have become if I’d stayed?
The young woman who was being accosted throws herself into my arms. Nauseous and buzzing with adrenaline, I stand motionless. The sulfuric smell of gun powder fills my nostrils. That and the scent of blood. The woman clutches my shirt, burying her tear-stained face into my chest. A part of me wants to hold and comfort her, but I don’t. I don’t touch her back. I can’t.
Moments later I hear sirens. Good. Someone’s called the police.
“Max? Are you alright?” The soft sound of Ms. Buckley’s voice gets through my after-action funk. “Honey, come with me,” she croons to the victim. “Let’s get you out of here.”
The woman who was being attacked disengages, moves into Ms. Buckley’s arms. I send a grateful look to her, then I stumble deeper into the alley. The smell of blood assaults my senses, churning my stomach, throwing me into the past. I need to get away. Get out of the view of my clients on the tour bus.
Stopping suddenly, I bend over in the safety of hidden dark shadows, and begin to throw up my lunch, breakfast, probably last night’s dinner. Christ, I hate throwing up. My stomach empty, I dry wretch. If this keeps up, I’ll likely puke up my intestines.
Feeling ill but finally finished, one light finger tap on my shoulder startles me. I straighten and turn. In the faint light I see Ms. Buckley. She is alone. Holding out her hand, she offers me a wet wipe she must’ve had in her purse.
“Thank you,” I manage in an embarrassingly weak voice, accepting the towelette and wiping my mouth. I can tell she’s going to say something and find myself praying she doesn’t ask me questions. I don’t want to discuss what happened. I did what I had to do, but now I’m done. My body quakes with relief. My murderous rage has left me, yet the thought of that shattered ankle and all that blood still has the power to make me ill.
“Take your time,” she says calmly. “The police are on their way. Sky is monitoring the scene while holding the victim’s hand. She also provided first aid to the guy who was shot until the ambulance arrives. Quite a helpful young woman she’s turned out to be. It was smart to hire her.”
“Uh, thanks.” Her comment makes me smile. Typical Ms. Buckley. Saying whatever comes into her mind.
“Also,” she continues, “no clients have gotten off the bus, nor will they after my stern warnings.” With a smug grin she adds, “I suggested that if they did, here in the U.S. the cops would take them to the police station for hours of questioning. That so isn’t in their vacation plans.” She hands me another towelette. “It’s all good. Sky will direct the police our way, so collect yourself. There’s no rush.”
I sigh as relief washes over me. Even with my queasy stomach, I can’t help smiling. “You’re the best.”
“I know.” Her reply is deadpan, her face is utterly straight. It’s only those mischievous green eyes letting me know that, as usual, she’s poking fun at me.
What a woman! I could kiss her for her teasing humor, her competence, and practical good sense. I snort out a soft chuckle that soon grows louder. All sensation of nausea instantly disappears as I find myself laughing my ass off.
I quickly sober as she unexpectedly throws herself into my arms, clutching my much bigger body, squeezing me as if she’ll never let me go. My normal reaction to such an embrace would be to freeze, even recoil—but this electric buzz as we touch feels natural. Ms. Buckley’s scent muddles my thoughts as my arms instinctively encircle her. The potent intimacy of our contact moves me.
Ms. Buckley is different. I want to touch her, which is surprising.
For some reason or another, I’m flooded with visuals of my time with my sub, Stretch. Dazed, it takes a moment for me to process who I’m with, where I am, and what’s happening. How could I possibly be getting my sub and my PA confused?
Breathless, I reject the images in my mind, returning to the present and Ms. Buckley. My arms wrapped tightly around her, I become aware that her body is trembling. I realize then that she’s been holding it together. Keeping it together. For me.
“Hey,” I murmur, my heart lurching in my chest. “Are you OK?”
Pulling away, she stares at me with wide eyes, and takes a further step backwards. This does nothing toward breaking the compelling connection between us. Taken off guard by usually tightly controlled feelings, I blink, waiting for her reply. At least we’re not still touching. I can breathe again.
Her mouth quirks into a forced, yet relieved grin. “Yes, I’m fine. It’s just that I’m so glad...” she pauses, clears her throat. Her vivid green eyes smolder with suppressed emotion. “I’m so damned glad that I don’t need to find a new bus driver.”
