It had all come to this—to this moment, to his actions right here, in this place. His woman’s house, with those fuckers who had their hands all over her. Silently, he moved in close, eyes flicking between the ground and those cheerily glowing windows. For once, he was glad she didn’t have curtains back here.
He squinted as he approached. Two guys: just Ape and Jam. Good, although there might be a third up front. Fine. He could handle three. They might be mean as fuck, but he had justice on his side. He’d kill them if he had to. If it was the only choice, he’d blow them all sky high before he’d let them touch George.
Here he was, no plan, just apeshit insanity. He got close enough to see her stirring something at the stove. Her face was pale and worn, but she looked whole. He didn’t realize how tightly he’d been wound until he saw her there: safe, whole, even now lighting up the room from inside, and fuck, he loved her so much it hurt.
There was someone close to the porch, he realized as he drew closer.
Shoving the gun into his pants, he picked up the first thing he found—a piece of clapboard siding—and stalked the man slowly, calmly. He’d take this one down and keep the element of surprise.
From inside, the sound of voices got louder.
Ape spoke, and she responded, the words not yet clear. He was right up next to the guy, a Club prospect he dimly recognized, when the sounds separated themselves into words.
The sharp sound of flesh hitting flesh, followed by Ape saying, “You think I’m lettin’ you go? I’ll fucking tear you apart. And then, when that asshole gets here and sees you, bleeding from every hole, I’ll make him watch while I do it again.”
Something blew in his mind, and he lost it in an entirely new way—like bits of his brain had exploded all the fuck over the place and there was nothing human left inside but anger and the need to kill. But even so, he held back.
Until he heard George’s screamed “No!” and then it was on.
He swung the board and hit the prospect on the side of his head, watching him go down. Not dead. Good, not dead, but incapacitated, because he wasn’t like them. He wasn’t a murderer, damn it.
The hinges squeaked as he yanked the screen door open. Should have oiled them came the surreal thought as he charged across the porch, secrecy gone now that they’d hurt her.
He got to the inner door next, swung it open, and he was inside.
“Stop right the fuck there.” The words halted his progress, each one an ice pick in his heart. Frozen, he took in Ape with George by the stove, noting the way the man held her by the hair, keeping her head tilted back at a painful-looking angle. Water bubbled madly not a foot from where they stood.
Ape’s other hand reached behind him and came out with that little fucking ax. Slowly, viciously, Ape ran the blade down her body, from neck to breast and back up to the hollow beneath her throat. It was sharp, Clay knew. Sharp enough to slice, and George let out a noise, a mewling sound more devastating than anything Clay’d ever heard, when the asshole pressed the blade into her perfect, unmarred skin.
“Drop the gun.” Ape smiled. “And the…board.” This last was said with a half chuckle.
Rage and something else mingled in Clay’s head in a way he couldn’t take the time to decipher. Slowly, carefully, he dropped both weapons, tamping it all down, using that moment to get his thoughts straight. Forcing calm. He was smarter than these fuckers. Smarter, better trained. And he had a whole lot more at stake.
“You always were a stupid fucking superhero of a know-it-all cocksucker, weren’t you?” Ape went on before hawking a thick, slimy one right onto George’s wood floor. “Always knew we shouldn’t trust you.”
Tightening his fist, the fucker pulled George up harder against him, drawing a thick, dark drop of blood from her neck and sending Clay’s pulse into overdrive. “You here for this?” the asshole went on, voice setting fire to Clay’s nerves as he shook George’s head by the hair. His thick knuckles were tight enough to whiten the skin along her scalp. “You know you got a rat in your organization, Special Agent?”
Clay didn’t answer. None of this mattered; the conversation was just distraction. All he wanted was George.
Outside, the sky belched a mighty roll of thunder—it shook the house, made it feel as unstable as the pit of Clay’s stomach. The air was electric with expectation. He wanted to go to George, to comfort her, but that was the worst thing he could do right now. He’d already shown his hand—shown them how important she was to him. That had been a mistake. He knew them. He knew them so well.
They wanted him, needed to kill him, because without him, the case against their bosses was a whole hell of a lot weaker. But they wouldn’t let George go no matter what—not when they knew how much hurting her drove him crazy. They’d do horrible things to her, unspeakable things. And Ape, Clay knew, would take pleasure in it.
“So, Indian. Nice cover, man. You had us fuckin’ snowed right till the end. Had no goddamned idea you were ATF, right, Jam?” he asked. Over his shoulder, the other Sultan slid out of the hallway.
“Yeah, man.”
“You got nine lives, motherfucker? How the fuck’d you get outta there with the bullet holes in your back? I mean, I saw it with my own goddamned eyes.” The hate spewing from Ape was toxic. Clay could almost smell it on his breath, mixed with the cigarettes and bourbon and body odor.
George stirred, but Clay let his eyes catch hold of Ape’s and latch on. No more looking at George. He needed to forget she was there, or he’d do something stupid.
“How much’d you pay Olson to tell you where to find me, Ape?”
“Fuck, man. Took you long enough. You’re as dumb as you look. Special Agent Clayton fuckin’ Navarro. Jesus Christ, a goddamned spic.” Behind the stove, Ape laughed, and Clay’s hatred concentrated on that sound. That stupid, evil sound. He held himself back from pouncing, since the man still held George. “All this time, us laughin’ about how dark you were. Callin’ you Indian and shit, and you were a filthy wetback. You and your wetback sister.”
Clay tightened up, his breathing uneven, which was bad, dangerous as hell. He couldn’t get out of control. He couldn’t. It took everything he had to keep his face blank. Everything.
Behind him, on the screen porch, Clay caught movement. The prospect coming to, or the sheriff arriving on the scene? His eyes flicked to Jam, who didn’t look quite as sure as Ape was. He was the wild card in the room.
Ape said, “You know, Indian, I feel like I might actually remember that little bitch?” Something dulled in Clay’s vision, cutting out whoever was behind him, Jam skulking around the edges. “She had the tightest little—”
“I’ll fucking kill you, you motherfu—”
“You know what happened to your sister, man?” Ape cut in, and Clay hardened himself to what was next.
Words, just words, he repeated in his head. Over and over again. But the words hurt worse than bullets. Those words tore him apart.
“What happened to that stupid fuckin’ whore is nothin’ compared to what I’m gonna do to this sweet, innocent, little bitch right here.” Ape smiled his rotten-toothed grin, and Clay felt it, that next jolt of fear or adrenaline or whatever it was he’d been waiting for. Through the fucker’s words, he let it fill his body, let it take him over, let it calm him and harden him and give him that dose of power he needed to do what he had to do. Because he was a cop, yes, but also a man—an honorable man—whose job it was to save the life of the only woman he’d ever loved. And that was exactly what he planned to do, even if he died in the process.
* * *
George heard the words, knew the man holding her by the hair was talking about her, but couldn’t quite connect the two. Cut her, he’d said. He wanted to cut her. And the things he was saying to Clay about his sister…
“I’m gonna fuck every hole in her body—maybe slice a couple new ones to stick my dick into. And then—”
He pulled her hair tighter, bringing tears to her eyes, then tighter still. With a twist of his wrist, he rubbed her face into his sweaty neck. She gagged and tried to pull back, which only made him laugh and grind her face in harder, the blade of that ax ever-present at her throat.
The man was talking, taunting Clay, pushing him, and throughout his filthy tirade, her fear multiplied tenfold. George, a victim to God and the fates. Standing here, letting it happen, just letting it all happen to her, the way it had happened with Tom. Because who was she to fight the inevitability of what was to come? She’d lost against God once, right? So…
Around her wrists, the zip tie cut into her skin.
The man loosened his grip, stupidly forgetting, maybe, that she was an actual person and not some blow-up doll. In those few seconds, where everything in her life came together—images, feelings, the memory of her impotence against the inevitability of death, George recognized something new. It wasn’t God she needed to look for in this moment. No doctors to beg, no miracle drugs to put her energy into. No faith to bank on.
She wasn’t helpless here, a tiny David battling a big and omnipotent Goliath. No, here, right now, in her home, on her turf, with her hands tied in front of her, George held the power.
She closed her eyes against the feel of this big, filthy man, shut her mind to the reality of Clay paralyzed in front of her, and remembered the way he’d slammed his hands to his hips while they’d made love, breaking the plastic at his wrists.
She reached inside, gathered every tiny cell of her being, every bit of her strength and her will to live. With a deep rush of breath, she opened her eyes, met Clay’s, let her gaze slide to the side to show him the pot boiling on the stove, and then, through a wash of tears, took the time to tell him how she felt, mouthing those words she hadn’t yet had the courage to say aloud.
I love you.
* * *
George loved him. The truth of it exploded into him. It was all Clay needed.
Big and frightened but whole, her eyes flicked down to the right, and though he wanted to follow their path, he held back, unwilling to give Ape a clue to whatever she was trying to show him.
The stove he understood, with a white-hot jolt of hope. A big pot of something, yellow flames licking at the bottom.
Her lips moved over the words again, and she smiled. Smiled.
With a single, calm blink of his lids and a slight tightening of his lips, Clay gave it right back to her.
I love you, he tried to say with his gaze. I love you and I’ll die for you.
And then she moved, his kamikaze girl. She became a dead weight and dropped, unexpectedly heavy in Ape’s arms. The asshole fumbled, his eyes following her for a second or two before flicking back to Clay, then back and forth, and while he vacillated, George made her move.
With a pull and a yell, she wrenched her arms back, and fuck if she didn’t bust through that flimsy little piece of plastic as if it were nothing. She darted for the water—his baby was fast—grabbed it and flung. The splash wasn’t as wide as Clay would have wished, but it got Ape in the face.
With a scream, the fucker staggered back as George scampered away, and Clay was on him. An elbow to the face jarred Ape, and Clay followed it with an uppercut that flung his chin up and sent an arc of blood through the air.
With a groan, Ape put his fist into Clay’s belly, full of brute strength, and fuck, the guy was huge. It took a beat for Clay to get his breath back, another for him to stand up again and get some space. He’d forgotten how powerful the fucker was. But he wasn’t fast. With a bellow, Ape came at him again, going for his face, but Clay sidestepped, part of him sucking in the near miss, letting it drive him back and then forward, his whole body in this one. A strike to the temple—surgical in its precision—and another to the monster’s kidney, and, oh yeah, that connected. He felt the man’s pain in the breath he spat out, the groan he couldn’t get enough air to put a voice to.
Fuck, yes, this was it. Taking advantage of Ape’s doubled-over position, Clay reached for the back of his head, gripped the greasy hair, and jerked him down to his knee. Ape’s nose broke. The crunch of bone was audible. From there, Clay’s inner beast took over, pummeling flesh and breaking bones like he’d never done in his life, his training a thin veneer over the savage animal inside.
Another strike, this one laying Ape flat out on the ground, where he rolled into a defensive little ball. But fuck, he deserved this. Deserved to be beaten into oblivion. Deserved a horrible, bloody, shattered death. He kicked the man, wanting to tear Ape apart, to make him suffer on the floor of this room. This house that had never seen violence before.
He paused, breathing hard, blinking past the sweat that poured down his face. Running a hand over his eyes, he was surprised to find blood there. Had Ape gotten a hit in?
He blinked again and focused back in on Ape.
You’re no better than him if you finish him off, came the voice that had led him to this place.
He shook his head, exhaled on a hard, painful puff of air, and took in the rest of the room. George was nowhere to be found. Good. He needed her gone, out of harm’s way.
Another swipe of Clay’s arm cleared the blood from his eyes and the confusion from his soul. Ape was still alive, but he was down for the count. It was better this way.
He listened for a split second, hoping to hear some kind of backup but getting only the not-so-distant roll of thunder instead. Then came a soft scuff of a boot. Clay whirled toward it, ready, only to come face-to-face with Jam. Jam. Fuck, in all the confusion, he’d almost forgotten he was here. Jam lifted his hands and backed away from whatever he saw in Clay’s face, a .38 pointed down between them.
Everything stopped.
“Got an offer to make, Indian. One-time deal,” Jam said, gun trained at the floor.
Clay waited, muscles tense.
“I clean this mess up, and you’ll never hear another thing from the Sultans. Nothing. Ever.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Never liked how the brotherhood was run. Never. But I need it, man. Can’t go back to being a civilian. Not after…” He swallowed. “Not since Afghanistan. Got a record now too, so…I need this. I need the life. You get that?”
“Fuck,” Clay said, because he understood, more than he could ever explain. “Yes.”
“I take care of this, and we’re gone. Done. You go to trial against Handles and the other assholes you got inside. You win your medal or whatever the hell it is you’re gettin’ outta this or… Oh, fuck. Right. Carly.” He shook his head, and Clay tightened up, ready for anything. “ I didn’t know she was your sister. I didn’t know.”
Clay pushed the image of his sister away and glanced around George’s home, this place they had desecrated with their stupid club filth. “How do I know you’re not coming back?”
“Don’t give a shit about you. Or your woman. You did me—did us all—a favor, gettin’ rid of the guys you put inside.” Jam’s eyes flicked down to Ape. “And him. I’ll clean this up.”
“I can’t let you do that, Jam.”
“Look, you fuckin’ asshole. Don’t you give me that holier-than-thou crap. I didn’t know she was your woman, okay? I thought she was just some snatch and—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Jam raised his gun and took a step back, pointing it toward Clay. “I was a sniper in Afghanistan. Did I ever tell you that, man?”
“Yeah, Jam. You told me.”
Jam’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Had more than fifty kills to my name. So what the hell’s one more, you know?”
“This is different.”
“Different? Ya think? I was one of the good guys back then. Here? Here, I’m just a one-percenter. Just a fuckin’ outlaw.”
“You could change that. You don’t want to do this, man.”
“No!” He shouted. “’Course I don’t wanna do this, but what choice are you givin’ me? I won’t go to prison, man. I can’t do it. I’ve killed before, and I’ll fuckin’ do it again if I have to.” He raised the weapon and aimed it straight at Clay’s head. A kill shot, especially this close.
Clay opened his mouth to say something, anything to stop the guy, but before he could get out the words, the shot rang out—deafening in the enclosed kitchen.
For a surreal instant, Clay thought he’d been shot again. But he knew how it felt, and this painless normality wasn’t it.
Slowly, things came into focus: Jam, propelled backward, but still holding on to the .38. By the door stood a woman, her weapon raised—a snub-nosed revolver—and behind her, George, white as a sheet, eyes only for him.
Everything was quiet. That hollow vacuum a gunshot left in its wake. He’d felt it last time, almost stronger than the impact initially.
“Don’t move,” she said in a no-nonsense tone of voice.
“You Jessie?” Clay said.
“Yeah.”
Jam moved, and she shot him again, in the arm this time. It sent his gun flying.
From the front door, behind the women, came the instantly recognizable shout of law enforcement arriving on the scene. Clay watched, ears ringing as Jessie threw her hands up. He shouted, “Back here.”
Suddenly, the room was swarming with Blackwood Sheriff’s Department deputies, their dark uniforms filling up the spaces. Taking over.
Taking over so Clay could let go.
Fuck, it was crazy how quickly the adrenaline drained away when you no longer needed it. Like the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz, Clay felt boneless, like he could slide to the floor, skeleton liquid. Just one thing kept him up. His gaze searched the controlled chaos and noise of the room.
George.
He met her eyes, and when she smiled, Clay’s bruised heart cracked wide open.
* * *
There was something desperate in Clay. George could tell as soon as he touched her. Those rough fighter’s hands grasped her face, hard, and he kissed her even harder.
And, oh Lord, that kiss, after all the certainty of death, was like getting a second chance. It was a second chance for him.
She leaned in to whisper, “You okay?”
He huffed a breath onto her lips but didn’t answer right away.
“Now that I got you, yeah.”
“Sorry to interrupt.” That was the sheriff, Steve Mullen, standing a couple of steps away. “I got quite the crime scene here. Just need a word, Special Agent Navarro.”
Clay nodded, gave George’s hand one last squeeze, and moved a few steps away.
She watched, not even tempted to help as EMTs arrived and took three men away. Outside, there was some kind of manhunt going on. The one outside had gotten away.
She watched as her home was ransacked—in an impressively orderly fashion and for only the best reasons—and caught snippets of conversations. They hadn’t called in the feds, apparently, although Clay stuck around. Watching him become official and totally in his element was really lovely to behold. And hot. Totally hot, the way he suddenly took charge and called out orders.
After an interview with one of the deputies, she retired to the screened porch and watched from a distance, a stranger in her own home.
Jessie stepped out to join her. “You okay?”
George thought about it. Was she okay?
“Yes. I think I am.” She raised the bottle she’d pulled from a kitchen cupboard. “Care for a glass of cooking sherry?”
“Hell yes. From the bottle is fine, if you don’t have an actual glass.”
“Here. Share mine.”
Jessie took a long swig, refilled the glass, and handed it to George.
“Seriously, though. You feeling all right? You’ve had quite a night.”
“I’m completely unfazed by this.” George threw back the sherry. She’d have a headache in the morning, but fuck it. “Which I’m sure means I’m in shock. It’ll hit soon.”
They passed the glass back and forth, refilled it, and did it again. “You can’t possibly be okay with all these people in your house?”
George stilled and looked inside, past Jessie.
“I’m alive. He’s alive.” She glanced at Jessie. “You and Gabe are safe. Does anything else really matter?” Pushing back a wave of hysteria, George went on. “What would I have done if you hadn’t shown up right then, Jessie?”
“Oh, no. Don’t you dare cry, or I’ll let loose and then we’ll never stop.”
“I’m not.” She sniffled and wiped her nose. “You saved his life. You were amazing. What would I have done—”
“Okay, stop it right now. First of all, I’m trained in firearms”—Jessie motioned inside—“and in how to deal with lunatics like that.” She leaned in and put a hand on George’s arm, squeezing just enough to be comforting. “George, you were restrained. Zip-tied, for God’s sake. And you got out.” On a huffed-out breath, Jessie shook her head. “Do you have any idea how big a deal that is?”
“I just—”
“You just nothing. You kicked ass. The rest of us… Clay? He’s trained for stuff like this.” Jessie wrapped an arm around her and squeezed. “You kicked ass.” Jessie turned to look into the kitchen. “You know, he’s gonna get pretty caught up in all of it.”
George watched Clay for a few long seconds. “I know.”
“So. The patient. The one you felt bad about feeling bad about. The guy I warned you against?”
George huffed out a half laugh. “Yeah.”
Jessie surprised her by saying, “I think you made the right choice.”
“Yeah?”
Jessie grabbed the glass from George and took hold of her hand. “You did good, George. You did good.”
George nodded and let the other woman pull her into a hug. She fought back tears that she’d rather cry on her own.
Later, after Jessie left and the crew in her house thinned out, the sheriff approached George at her spot on the porch. “Sounds like you had quite a night,” he said. “You tell my guys your side of things?”
“Yep.”
“Might need you to come down for a recorded interview.”
“Sure. Of course.”
“You doing all right?”
She smiled. “Oddly, yes.”
Clay chose that moment to step out, his eyes glued to her.
“Sheriff tells me I’m not welcome at the crime scene,” he said.
“No?” She looked between the two men. “Isn’t this a federal case?”
“Mr. Navarro is a witness in what happened tonight. Just like you. Anyway”—Steve stood up—“we’ll be here for at least twenty-four hours or so. Be a long night.” He glanced at the yard. “Or day. More likely. It’s gonna be a long day. You all should skedaddle.”
With a start, George turned to look out. A fresh pink light suffused the garden. She wished the air were fresh enough to go with that glow.
Steve asked, “What’s the plan, Agent Navarro?”
“Well, ATF’s gonna have to—”
“I talked to your SAC on the phone. I’ve heard all about the fed’s plan. I’m asking you about yours.”
It was when Clay swallowed and didn’t look at George that she felt the queasy weight settle in her stomach.
“What’s next, Clay?” she repeated—a whisper, just for him.
“Head back to Baltimore.”
George’s head started shaking before he’d finished the sentence, but Clay went on. “You’ve got the most to lose here, George. I can’t…I can’t keep putting you in danger like this. It’s my presence here that made this happen. It’s because of me that—”
“You’re leaving?” Her voice came out shrill and harsh.
He nodded.
“After all of this? You want to pack up and take off? Back to your…what? Undercover life? Your job?”
“My life’s in Baltimore. I need to get this as far away from you as possible. No matter what happens here, after tonight, it’ll never be safe and—”
“Fuck safe,” George spat, in a voice she’d never heard herself use. But damn it, she was tired and filthy and she’d been through a whole hell of a lot.
“George, you’re not—”
“No. No, I’m helping, because this is my problem now too. Not just yours. Don’t you see that?”
Clay’s face—his beautiful face—was hard and drawn, his brows lowered into a straight line, his jaw tight and rigid. He wanted to argue, she’d bet, but she’d argue him into the ground.
The sheriff said something, and George couldn’t even be bothered to throw a glance his way—she couldn’t pull her attention away from Clay.
“This is my house, Clay. These men attacked my house. And it’s my life.” She hesitated, and then, with a giant sigh and a fuck it of a prayer, went on. “You are mine. You’re mine, and I’m not letting you do this alone. What do you think happens when you leave? Huh? You think I just go back to what I had? To who I was? And you just go back there? To Baltimore? And whatever it is you do up there?” Another pause while she girded herself to go on. “No. No, you’re not leaving. I’m not letting you go.”
His brows lifted and then they settled, relaxed, his mouth loosened, his eyes lost a set of lines. “You’re not?”
“No.”
“I’ve got to go back. Got to testify and—”
“You think you could love me?” Lord, what was she doing? It was probably exhaustion.
But without hesitation he said, “Yes.”
“Do you want to be with me?” she went on.
“You know I do.”
“Then stay with me, Clay. Don’t give this up. Don’t give it up out of duty or a need to keep me safe. You’ve fulfilled your duties, Agent Navarro. And I understand the dangers. I’m okay with the risks. You go testify, do what you need to do to make things right, but come back to me. I won’t break if you stay.” With a hiccup of emotion, she went on. “But I might if you leave.”
“You see what I’m like, George. This is my fucked-up life.”
“I know.”
“You’re okay with this?”
“No. No, I’m not okay with that.” She pointed at the law enforcement’s orderly mayhem, examining every inch of her home. As if it were only natural, he sank into the empty space beside her, and she put a hand on the hot cotton covering his chest, patted her fingertips over his heart, and said, “But I’m good with this.”
She tilted her head back, so close his breath heated her skin as his eyes flicked over her face, seeking, she thought, some kind of confirmation, some sign of strength; she did her best to give it to him.
“Stay,” she whispered, finally wrapping her arms around him and begging with her body, her heat, her heart. “Stay with me.”